Parisian Flames

Chapter 2

Harry hoped whoever controls the fates didn't screw him over for not getting the hell out of Dodge when he could because stepping into Mme. Deauxville's apartment while her body swayed gently in the warm afternoon sun was one of the stupiest things he had ever done in hindsight.

Okay, he admits it; he is a bit of a dunderhead, but he did leave the front door ajar because while he might be ignoring his Slytherin gut telling his brain to leave, he would still leave himself an easy escape route just in case he needed one, and knowing his luck he probably would.

It took what seemed to be hours to travel the seven steps needed to cross the short hall. Harry sidled around the ash circle, unwilling to disturb it, unwilling to touch the body. Surely she couldn't have survived being strung up like that? Surely the lack of movement was indicative of death? Harry had seen a lot of dead bodies by this point, so he felt pretty confident that she wasn't living anymore.

"Poop," Harry said, falling into his habit of censoring himself because of being around his godson Teddy so much. He set the case down carefully on a beautifully embroidered antique chair before he shuffled forward, careful not to touch anything as he stopped directly in front of the body, his toes just brushing the outer edge of the ash circle. He took a deep breath, pushed down the horrible feeling that he shouldn't be doing what he was about to do, and leaned forward to feel for a pulse on Mme. Deauxville's neck.

"Non!"

Startled by the man's voice behind him, Harry jumped just as he reached for Mme. Deauxville, sending him plummeting toward the body, his arms cartwheeling madly. He yelped even as he tried to twist away from her, but it was a hand on the back of his shirt yanking him backward that kept Harry from plunging into the circle.

"Ne la touchez pas!"

"Huh?" Harry blinked at the sudden appearance of a tall, dark, handsome man. "I'm . . . uh . . . sorry, non me parlez French."

"British?" the man asked, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled something.

"Yeah," Harry answered, he looked from him to the body, then back, the realization flashing through his head that he was alone in an apartment with a stranger and a dead body, which probably meant that he was . . .

"I didn't kill her," the stranger said quickly, evidently reading Harry's mind before turning away to look at the body.

Harry used this moment to examine him. He was not exactly an idiot—if he found himself in a room with a murder victim, the big, tall, dark-haired, extremely handsome guy dressed in black who positively reeked of danger and who mysteriously popped up out of nowhere is naturally going to be on the top of his Potential Murderer List. Which meant Harry had to get himself and the dragon statue out of there before Mr. Killer decided to enjoy a double-header.

Harry grimaced just as the man turned back to him. Something flashed deep in his dark green eyes. "Are you unwell? You aren't going to vomit on me, are you?"

"That wasn't on my list of planned activities for the afternoon, no, but if you really insist, I suppose I could try for a hairball or something." Harry sarcastically drawled, putting on his best Draco impression.

The man's head tipped to the side for a moment as he examined Harry from toes to nose. "I've never completely understood some people's humor. That was supposed to be a joke, yes?"

Again with the reminder that Harry would never be a comedian."Yes, it was." Oh, brilliant, Harry, just brilliant. Here he is trapped in a room with a murderer in a foreign country, and all he can do is make jokes when what he needed to be doing is running away as fast as he could. Draco would be yelling at Harry and his lack of self-preservation at this point.