La Vie en Rose

Chapter I: At the Sacré-Coeur

Quand il me prend dans ses bras,

Qu'il me parle tout bas,

Je vois la Vie en Ros

Il me dit des mots d'amour

Des mots de tous les jours

Et ça m'fait quelque chose

Il est entré dans mon coeur

Une part de bonheur

Dont je connais la cause

C'est toi pour moi,

Moi pour toi

Dans la vie

Tu me l'as dit, l'as juré pour la vie

Et dès que je t'aperçois,

Alors je sens en moi

Mon coeur qui bat

Hermione Granger was sitting on a park bench in Paris. The Sacré-Coeur was towering in front of her. She could hear the familiar routine of the place. Tourists were taking pictures of the famous church, laughing. They were happy.

Hermione sighed and looked at a mime who was standing, straight as an I and not making the slightest move, a few feet away. He was dressed as a nineteenth century French gentleman. She could not help but smile. The mime, who was facing her, slightly winked at her. She took a deep breath and turned her head to look in the direction of the Place du Tertre, famous for its street-painters.

Hermione loved the district of Montmartre, with its little streets, its painters, its history. She was completely fascinated. When she walked in the streets, she often thought of Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh, Picasso an other great painters she had seen the paintings of in the Musée d'Orsay, having fun at the Lapin Agile, or at the Moulin Rouge, flirting with Nini-legs-in-the-air or La Goulue.

Hermione was living in a flat in one of the little streets of Montmartre. She had moved in a year or two before. She had stopped counting the days. She did not want to think about the reasons why she had left England five years before, anyway. She had lived in Italy for one year, and had then moved to Greece, before deciding to come live in Paris. She had let her life as a witch behind her. Or so she tried to convince herself, for she still continued to carry her wand with her wherever she was going. Even if she hadn't used it in four years and a half.

What would her old friends and teachers think, knowing that the little bookworm and very promising student she once was, was now a waitress in Paris, living like a Muggle?

She felt the wind caress her hair. She looked up at the sky. Though it was still blue, she could tell a storm was brewing. She could not explain it, but she always knew when a storm was brewing, even when the sky was of the purest blue. Or even when people on the radio or on TV told everyone crazy enough to believe them that the sun would be shining all day long.

She shook her head, got up and headed for the church. She often went inside, not because she wanted to pray, but because whenever she was in this building, she felt more secure.

She entered the church, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness inside the building. She blinked once or twice, and walked to the bench she usually sat on. It was always empty, because it was in a corner. But today, it wasn't empty.

Someone was sitting on the bench. Someone she would recognize anywhere. Someone she had tried to forget without ever managing to. The one man she had ever loved. The one man she would ever love.

The very person she had wanted to forget. The person because of whom she had left England. No, she reminded herself, she had left England because she had wanted to. And even if she had wanted to leave the country because of something that had happened between him and herself, it wasn't his fault. She had chosen to leave, out of guilt. He had never asked her to. In fact, she had never told him she was going to leave. She had been there one day, and the next, she was gone. Without an explanation. Without even letting a letter for people to understand why she had chosen to leave. But he knew why she had left. He would not have told anyone, not even his sister Ginny, or their friend Harry, but Ronald Weasley knew why she had left England. How could he not?

She knew she had been cruel. She knew she had hurt people. The people she loved the most. Her family. Her friends. Maybe even Ronald Weasley.

The candles were creating a halo around his head, and his hair appeared redder than ever. From where she was standing, it looked like five years hadn't changed him at all. He still looked young. Of course, he looked young, Hermione told herself. She always felt so old inside, almost close to death, that she had forgotten that he was only twenty-five years old. That she was only twenty-five years old.

He hadn't seen her. If she left the church right now, he would never know she had been standing a few metres away. He would never know she was living in France. He would go back to England never knowing Hermione Granger was living in Paris. Never knowing that she had seen him and had walked away without even saying a word to him. Not even 'hello', after 5 years of absence.

But she could not walk away. She wanted to, though, but she was like mesmerized by him. By this vision. This vision of a ghost of her past. Memories were flooding her head right now, sad and happy ones mixed together. Her feet were like glued to the ground. She wanted to run away, very, very far away and she could not. She felt trapped. Trapped in a cage she had forged herself. As for Disapparating, it was out of the question. The church was crowded. But it surprised her that for the first time in four years she had thought of using magic just because she had seen him.

Like in a bad movie-sequence shot in slow motion, she saw him turn his head towards her, probably feeling he was being watched. Their eyes locked for a second, surprise filling his. She could feel her lower lip shake. She slowly began to step back. She saw him mouth her name, as if not really believing she was there and trying to convince himself that she was not some kind of trick his mind was playing on him. Soon, she wasn't only stepping back. Soon, she found herself running away, out of the church, knocking over tourists. Once outside the building, she slowed down.

"Hermione!"

She turned round and saw him run to her. The wind was slapping her face. She looked up, breathing raggedly. She swallowed hard, almost scared. The blue sky was gone. Dark clouds were now menacing. The storm. Strangely enough, though she had only been in the church a minute or two, the storm wasn't brewing any longer. It was now ready to hit full force. She could feel its power within herself.

Her hair, whipping in the wind, blinded her for a second. Once she had pushed it away from her face, she noticed he was standing a few metres away from her, looking at her intently. The tourists were running away, trying to find some shelter, scared of the storm.

Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger were now the only persons standing on the Parvis of the Sacred-Heart Church.

Rain started to pour, slowly at first, then more violently. But neither Ron nor Hermione moved. Their eyes were locked together, speaking for them. But both thought that no words could ever describe what was going on between them at that very moment. They had never felt anything that intense in their entire lives.

The rain was hitting them hard, the wind was whirling around them, bolts of lightning were flashing in the dark sky above them, yet they did not seem to be aware of anything but each other.

The rain was streaming down both their faces. Hermione's hair was sticking to her face. They were drenched to the bones.

They had not seen one another in five years. It was surreal. It felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. Hermione could not really make up her mind. Too many emotions were turning everything upside down in her head. She felt like she was going crazy. She wasn't prepared for such a bustle of emotions. She had never imagined she would see him again. But there he was, standing in front of her, looking as if she had just left him the day before.

Hermione shivered and closed her eyes, breaking eye contact with Ron. When she opened them, he was right in front of her, almost invading her private space. Feeling him stand so close to her made her remember the night they had spent together. The one night she had allowed herself to be a woman. The one night they had ever shared.

She saw him make a move to touch her. Too scared to let that happen, fearing she would be hurt once again, she reached for her wand inside her jacket pocket. Ron's hand never touched her arm, for she disapparated when it was only an inch away from her.

Ronald Weasley only realized what had happened a minute later. A tear rolled down his cheek, and mingled with the rain.