Tainted Love

Paris, I

IRIS

Iris didn't understand French. A man was playing violin on the street corner, standing beneath a stone building that looked like it had been built in Merlin's time. The street was cobbled here, stone, and she felt like looking everybody in the eye as she passed them.

The people of Paris seemed so cultured, like they understood all of life's little sadnesses but still chose to be lively. She smiled at a group of children running down the street. A little girl waved at her.

Draco told her that the French would hate her on principle for being American. Perhaps that was true - she hadn't actually spoken to anyone yet - but even if they did hate her, Iris doubted she could hate them.

Two minutes off the Portkey and she already felt like she was expanding, like she should be stopping after every square of pavement and memorizing every detail around her.

Draco walked ahead of her, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure that she didn't fall too far behind.

He looked so nice. Black trousers with a white button down. It was a standard outfit for him, but his hair was a little longer than usual. His rings could make anything look high-brow. Everything about him in general made everything look high-brow.

He engaged less with their surroundings than Iris did, but they engaged more with him. People on the street tracked his shoulders with their eyes, taking in the sculpting of his face then letting their gaze fall to Iris. She felt a little bit of pride at being associated with him.

Weeds sprung up beneath the cobblestones in the street and a flower sat in a vase outside of an empty restaurant. Maybe it opened late or maybe it wouldn't open at all and they had just left it there for sentimental value.

Some people keep broken things around them because they remind them of good times, times before the things were broken at all. Other people dispose of them immediately, no use anymore.

Therein lay the difference between Draco and Iris. But he never complained about her flimsy wooden boxes and newspaper clippings. Maybe he was more sentimental than she gave him credit for.

Their room overlooked a small river, a balcony with green shutters and a flower box. Across the water there were other stone buildings in various states of disrepair and one building that looked quite modern and thus quite out of place.

"I thought you were going to choose some penthouse," Iris mused, walking out onto the balcony without bothering to drop her bags in the room. The air smelled nice here even though it was supposed to smell terrible in cities. Perhaps it was the flowers.

"I thought you would like this better."

Iris turned to see Draco leaning against the wall inside, self-satisfied. He had set his bag on the bed already.

She walked back into the room, intending to wander around a bit. There wasn't a lot to see, just a bed and a dresser and a couple of bedside tables. A door to the bathroom. She didn't get to look at any of it, anyway, because Draco stretched his arm out as she walked by him and stopped her in her tracks.

His hand curled around her waist and drew her into him, her shoulder against his chest.

"Not even a thank you?" He asked calmly.

Iris looked up, twisting her body to face him. She used to hate it when he was smug but now he wore the emotion on behalf of her, on the basis of her happiness.

Thanks, she mouthed.

"I don't even get to hear it out loud." Draco shook his head.

He leaned into her with the same ease that his tone had inhabited. There was no inner turmoil for her to feel in him anymore. His lips were just as insistent, his hand just as sharp on her neck, her jaw - but all that was left was passion. He wasn't angry at her anymore.