Marie-Antoinette

Chapter Four: A Black Ray of Sunlight

I was early. None of them had arrived yet. A few grey-faced, shabby-looking wizards were sitting at the bar, taking long sips from their drinks. The barman was vigorously rubbing a glass with a cloth that had been white once, seemingly absorbed in his cleaning, but his small eyes kept darting nervously in all directions. It was seven in the evening; the miserable pub wasn't filled yet with its usual crowd of workers in search of a respite from the greyness, the hunger, and the unexplained disappearances.

I caught a few suspicious glances shot in my direction. Since the laws on purity of blood, wizards had developed a strange ability to spot pure-bloods stranded in shabby areas where only half-bloods dwelled, and all the disguises in the world couldn't dupe their newly-acquired instinct. I refused to meet their eyes and concentrated on the whisky I had ordered. The liquid was acrid and quite foul-tasting, but the other customers swallowed it without batting an eyelid. Alcohol was welcome in those days, even if it was to be found in an adulterated Firewhisky.

The bell hanging above the door rang as a portly silhouette rushed into the pub, bringing in with them a blast of icy cold wind and a few swirling snowflakes. The man lowered his hood to reveal the anxious face of my friend Peter Pettigrew. Voldemort's victory had brought a few nasty changes in his physical aspect: he was still quite chubby, but greyish bags had formed under his eyes, giving him the sad look of a beaten dog. His hair was already getting sparse, and his hands were often shaking uncontrollably, making me suspect he had gotten used to drinking.

Peter looked around and spotted me, sitting at a table in a distant corner of the pub, and a cheery smile illuminated his dirty features. He made his way to my table and sat opposite me.

"Padfoot," he said in a low voice. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," I agreed.

Oh yes, too long. Almost two months since the last Marauders meeting. Oh, how I missed the Marauders' time... Remus and Peter were confined to the shabbiest towns because of their origins, while James and I were forced to live with Voldemort's court. The reason why Voldemort had spared our lives, when he must have suspected our allegiance to the Order -- and how many had died because of a simple suspicion? -- was a mystery to me. His pure-blood obsession alone couldn't justify taking the risk of letting James and I walk free.

"You were able to leave Dark Town unnoticed?" asked Peter.

"Yes... They're preventing half-bloods coming into the town, but they're not preventing pure-bloods coming out of it. Not yet," I added, a little bitterly.

"Do be careful," said Peter softly. "A pure-blood was slaughtered not far from here last week. The murderers were never found, but the Death Eaters had ten people tortured and killed in reprisals."

I let out a low whistle. "Pure-bloods aren't loved in this area, are they?" I muttered.

"Put yourself in our position," said Peter, not unkindly. "Seeing well-fed and well-dressed pure-bloods strolling about, when we can barely manage to conjure enough food to forget about our hunger, is enough to make anyone lose their grip... We can't use as much magic as we'd like to; Remus said the magical energy is saturated by the Death Eaters. We're hungry, and cold, and we have to work hard in You-Know-Who's newly-built factories."

"Since when are you saying 'You-Know-Who'?" I asked sharply, startled by this sudden change of attitude. "Since when are you afraid of saying Voldemort's --"

"Shh!" said Peter frantically. "We could be heard! What are you thinking? There are spies everywhere, ready to turn you in to the Death Eaters! Saying You-Know-Who's name is enough to get me killed!"

Indeed, I caught an old witch staring at the pair of us suspiciously from behind her glass full of dark red liquid; the wizards sitting at the table next to ours had stopped talking, and I could tell they were listening intently.

"Okay," I whispered soothingly. "Sorry. By the way, I wanted to ask you... Have you seen James recently?"

Peter looked puzzled. "James? No. Why would I see him?"

"I haven't seen him in a week," I said. "I'm worried about him."

James had disappeared right after his wedding, and hadn't been seen ever since. He wasn't at the new house Lestrange had had built for him: I had checked... The image of a smooth and pale oval face, illuminated by two beautiful blue eyes, was lingering in a corner of my mind. 'No, Mr. Black, I'm sorry, but my husband isn't home. No, I haven't seen him...'

I replayed in my mind, perhaps for the hundredth time today, the short conversation I had had with the young French girl; and I wondered what had driven me to talk to her the way I had: I didn't know her at all, and she was so much younger than me. So much younger than James.

I slightly shook my head to dissipate the memory of the new Mrs. Potter's frail silhouette, standing alone on the threshold of her imposing house, her eternal sweet smile on her young -- oh, so young -- face. Peter was watching me with wide, fearful eyes.

"Why would James disappear?" he whispered. "Shouldn't he be with Lily and Harry?"

I realised with a small shock that neither Peter nor Remus knew what had happened to the once happy Potter family; and James was probably going to show up any minute now -- he never missed Marauders meetings -- his wound still bleeding, to face their questions...

"Something happened to Lily," I said curtly. "When Moony arrives, I'll tell you."

"You can start now, then," said a hoarse voice on my left. I started and wheeled about, my right hand reflexively plunging into my pocket in search for my wand. But the man standing beside our table threw back his hood, revealing the marked face of Remus Lupin.

I was shocked to see how much his new life had affected him, too. His weary eyes glinted with the anxiety of a hunted beast, and two bitter lines marked the corners of his mouth, fixing his face in an expression of constant sorrow. Remus looked much older than twenty-four.

I resisted the urge to rise and hug my visibly exhausted friend; such warm behaviour could only be seen as suspicious in this new world Voldemort had given birth to, a world where there were no such things as friends -- only powerful wizards and their servants. Remus imperceptibly bowed his head as he saw me restrain my spontaneous gesture, a small smile illuminating his tired face.

He sat down next to Peter. "So, what were you saying about Lily?" he asked.

I summed up in a few sentences how James' life had been shattered in less than two hours -- how he had been forced to divorce, how Lily's wand had been snapped in front of him, thus depriving his wife of the magical protection she needed so badly, how Lily and Harry had been taken away from him, and lived now in a 'village for Mudbloods', somewhere in Great Britain...

When I fell quiet, none of them spoke up. And we were still enclosed in an appalled silence when one of the customers at the bar got to his feet and walked up to our table. A tired voice came from under the hood, which cast an impenetrable shadow upon the speaker's face:

"Padfoot, Moony, Wormtail... Good to see you all again."

And James, without waiting for an answer, sat down beside me.

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The morning after my wedding day was dull and grey, and the feeble light couldn't pierce the thick ceiling of dark leaves outstretched over my head as I walked into the Forest. The wind had ceased, leaving the trees bent and ruffled, and looking exhausted from their furious fight of the previous night. A few branches had been ripped off the tall trunks and blocked my way; I had to climb over them, and soon my old robes were torn and stained with dirt and wet humus.

I hadn't walked fifty feet into the wood before I met brambles: creeping all over the ground, rising in arcades and gathering in impenetrable bushes, they savagely defended the access to the depths of the forest. I knew it was pointless to try and force my way through the barrier of brambles; they would have held me captive in their minuscule but oddly solid claws, and I wouldn't have got out without reducing my robes to tatters.

Gardening is one of the few areas in which magic is sometimes helpless; Muggle and magical plants alike often show an impressive resistance to spells and charms, or have an unexpected reaction to them. In my garden, the brambles were so strong that most of my Weeding Spells merely bounced off them, only succeeding in arousing their anger. After receiving a particularly strong spell, a long branch pulled itself out of the thick bushes and lashed in my direction like a thorny tentacle, forcing me to perform a Shielding Charm that froze it in mid-air.

I was patient; after a few minutes of relentless struggling, as the forest was filled with sparks and beams of clear green light in front of which the dark plants angrily recoiled, the brambles finally parted, reluctantly clearing a small, narrow path which allowed me to walk through them and go further into the forest.

My crossing the field of brambles was almost eventless; almost, because as I was already far into the thick jumble of dark green leaves and thorny branches, one of them slyly went round my ankle and bit into the hem of my robes. I had to stop.

"Enough," I said annoyingly, shaking my foot to extricate it from the bramble's grip.

As the plant wouldn't budge, I swooped down and gave it a sharp tap.

"Enough," I hissed through clenched teeth.

The branch slowly uncoiled itself from my ankle and retreated; and I wasn't interrupted again in my walk.

As soon as I reached the end of the brambles' territory, I heard the vicious plants rustling behind me as they quickly re-conquered the passageway I had forced them to open for me. I spun around, with the intention of hexing them -- they would have to learn who was in command here -- but froze halfway through the gesture of pulling out my wand when I felt a sudden burning sensation on the bare skin of my ankle.

I looked down: the ground, here, was covered in nettles. One of them was lazily caressing my skin, as if oblivious to the sharp pain it was causing me. I lowered my wand and with the tip of it lifted the head of the nettle, making the ungraceful cluster of greyish blossom swing like the beard of an old man.

"Deracinis", I said softly. The nettle quivered slightly as the green spell ran down its thin body, and then it fell down to the ground, uprooted.

I spent what felt like hours deracinating nettles; some of them were taller than me, and I couldn't make a move without brushing against one of the ugly plants. Soon the skin of my hands, neck and face burnt with scorching stings.

As I weeded, I progressed further into the forest. I could tell it used to be a neatly kept garden: a few wild bushes of flowers still stood here and there -- oleanders, rhododendrons and azaleas -- most of them half-suffocated by the brambles and the bindweed that slyly coiled itself up their exhausted bodies, before innocently presenting its white cones among the faded leaves of the dying bush. Holly and young ash trees were proliferating.

The light gradually increased into the clearing I was working in, giving me a faint idea of the time passing by. It had started raining dully when I finally straightened up, my back aching and sweat rolling in burning beads into my eyes. The clearing looked barely neater than when I had first stepped in: the nettles were still covering most of the damp ground, though many uprooted plants lay in heaps here and there. Looking around, I noticed for the first time that the ground dropped ahead of me, into a pond covered in aquatic weed. A young oak tree had fallen in the pond, probably brought down by the furious wind, and was rotting in the stagnant water.

I felt a great fatigue creep up my body at the mere thought of trying to pull the tree out of the pond. It must have been past midday now, and I was hungry. I had only eaten for breakfast the two apples Mélanie had stolen for me in the Beauxbâtons kitchen, three days ago -- was it only three days? It felt like an eternity...

Giving in to my hunger, my exhaustion and my discouragement, I turned my back on the sinister pond with its tree rotting in it, like the corpse of a drowned man, and prepared to fight the brambles again in order to get out of the gloomy wood.

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Even the wildest of woods can be transformed into a decent garden; all I had to do was have to trees cut down, the weeds uprooted, and new plants settled here and there. Only I couldn't do it myself: it required a magical power I would never have, or a physical strength I certainly did not possess. I needed to hire professional gardeners. As I couldn't do anything of the sort since I was poorer than the spiteful house-elf who was the only other inhabitant of the house, I was reduced to weeding as much as I could--all day long. When Potter came back, I would be able to ask him the money I needed.

But a week went by without any sign of life from him. At first I couldn't help being relieved by this, as I didn't think I could take much more of cold hatred and scornful glares; and there was also, lingering in a corner of my mind, the fear of what Potter may do when he was finally alone with me. We were, after all, husband and wife. If he wanted to take his anger out on me at being forced to marry me, if he wanted to humiliate me a little further -- hadn't Lestrange said, 'She's likely to do anything you want her to'? -- there would be nobody to stop him. Why would anybody stop him? It was normal he should act that way...

The mere thought sent chills up my spine, and I caught myself thanking the heavens he had been away during what should have been our wedding night. But after a few days, his absence became a real problem: the food I had found in the kitchen had run out, and nearly all my clothes were torn and dirty from my gardening. And I was knutless, unable to even buy the food I needed to survive, for it was quite advanced magic to conjure up food, and we had not covered that subject yet in Transfiguration. I started to consider bringing handfuls of nettles to the house and making soup with it.

At least, I thought quite bitterly, my supply of nettles was infinite.

I awoke at five a.m. on Toussaint Day. All week, I had been hoping Aimée would write back and bring me news from the outside world in my island of loneliness, and perhaps the hope of a near visit. I found myself straining my ears for the sound of a flapping of wings as I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, to eat the last bit of stale bread I had left. As I was afraid an owl would fail to find me if I was in the forest, I didn't go weeding that day, and I spent the morning going round the house and visiting every room, which took me a surprisingly long time.

I skipped lunch, preferring to keep the bowl of nettle soup I had left for my dinner. The soup was absolutely foul, as I was no cook and no one had ever taught me how to make a soup. But still, it was better than nothing at all.

Still hoping to receive an owl from Aimée, I went down to the terrace and quickly rid it of the weeds growing between the paving stones, before settling there with my back to the wall of the house, a book in my hands.

I had only brought the book down to distract myself from the constant worries plaguing my mind; I had never been a great reader. Therefore I was surprised to find that, imperceptibly, the book was dragging me further and further away from my grey reality... It was Marcel Pagnol's complete works; stories smelling of Provençal hills and scrubland heated by the summer sun, that took me far away from the sullen sky of Great Britain to a country where the sky was blue. A country that used to be mine.

The doorbell suddenly rang, sending a low-pitched note reverberating in the empty house. I started in surprise and annoyance as I was brutally pulled out of my book, but I didn't move at first; I must have been unconsciously expecting the sharp tapping noise of an elf's small feet hurrying towards the front door. But when the bell rang a second time, even more sinister than before, I came to my senses: I hadn't seen Pomy the house-elf since our tumultuous first encounter, and it wasn't likely that she would run to open a door in the absence of her Master. I got to my feet and regretfully crossed the threshold into the black and white hallway.

The bell rang a third time and I quickened my pace, smoothing my dress in a mechanical gesture as I went; I didn't run, because I didn't want to be red and out of breath when I would open the door -- or at least that's the reason I gave myself. Actually I was half-hoping whoever was waiting outside would leave before I had the time to open the door. I was torn between my revulsion of loneliness and my fear of what other misfortune the future would bring me.

I finally reached the door and opened it, just in time to see a man cloaked in dark purple walking down the stone steps, probably tired of waiting. However, doubtlessly alerted by the slight creaking noise of the door opening, he paused and turned around to face me again.

He was Sirius Black.

"Well, hello, Mrs. Potter!" he called joyously, as he climbed the steps two at a time to join me under the porch. "I thought nobody was home."

"I'm sorry, I was in the garden," I said apologetically.

Strangely enough, my apprehension had disappeared as soon as I had recognised him. I was glad to see him; he was the only human being who had been kind to me since my arrival in Great Britain. Even now, he was smiling warmly down at me; I smiled back. A real smile, this time.

"I was wondering if I could see James," he said, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his robes in a rather nonchalant stance. "Is he here?"

"No, Mr. Black, I'm sorry," I said again, trying with all my might to conceal the bitterness that had filled my mouth at the mention of Potter's name. "My husband isn't home."

A worried glint came into his grey eyes, and I saw him cast a quick -- very quick -- look behind me, into the darkening hallway. I pulled the door until it was barely ajar, hiding the bareness of my home as I would have hidden a hideous scar.

"Can you please tell me where he is?" Black went on in the same warm, friendly tone. "I really need to see him."

I shook my head. "I haven't seen him in a long time," I said with a contrite smile. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I would like to invite you in, but the house isn't ready yet to receive visitors."

"That's all right, I don't mind," he said with a short laugh. "But if it suits you, I'd like to have you and James at dinner sometime. No, to hell with James, just you. That'll teach him not to leave you alone without telling you where he goes."

His smile had grown somewhat mischievous, and a joyful spark was now dancing in his eyes, reminding me irresistibly of the look on the face of my old dog when I used to play with him, back at the Syrnac manor. I couldn't hold back the grin that crept up my face at his words.

"Come on, say yes," he insisted, looking delighted by my reaction. "I'm bored stiff in the Most Ancient and Respectable House of Black, I could use a little company."

"I can't accept, Mr. Black," I said, unable to stop smiling, in spite of all my efforts to hide again behind my serious mask -- it was dangerous for me to be seen smiling at a man's jokes in my husband's absence, so soon after my wedding. "I'm sorry," I added, and I meant it. "I'm really sorry, but it's not possible at the moment."

He heaved an exaggerated sigh and said dismissively, in such an overdramatic tone that I almost laughed aloud:

"Fine, as you wish, milady. Let me rot all alone in my empty house, with a bunch of portraits and an old elf-house as sole company. I won't insist."

He grinned down at me again.

"Well, I'm not going to disturb you any longer," he said lightly. "As much as I'd like to continue talking with you, I have an appointment in a few minutes' time. Thank you, Mrs. Potter."

"You are welcome, Mr. Black."

He bowed his head and took a few steps backwards, turning up the collar of his cloak against the biting wind as he did so.

"I will see you soon, Mrs. Potter."

I smiled as an answer, and he took it as the signal to leave; walking down the stone steps leading to the front door, he Disapparated in a swirl of his dark purple cloak.

I said in a hushed voice to the empty street, "I hope so..."

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Sirius Black's visit had been the first real ray of sunlight in the days following my wedding; curiously enough, it filled me with a boiling energy I had never known before: I had always had a tendency to let myself being carried away by the coming events, as a fish would let itself being carried by violent currents. Even in the past days, my constant gardening had only been a half-hearted attempt to distract myself from my loneliness. But Sirius Black, I had yet to learn, had a knack for bursting in the most well-established routines and putting them upside-down in a snap of his fingers. We had only exchanged a few words -- he had barely wrung a couple of smiles out of me -- and already he had made the fish want to swim against the current...

Still cruelly lacking in money, I could only dream of what I wanted to do with the house and the garden. But dream I did: until the early hours of the morning, I covered rolls of parchment of my cursive handwriting. A thousand projects were forming in my head, fragile and quivering in the maze of my imagination, but still bearing a hope I hadn't felt in a long time.

Flashes of what the Syrnac manor used to be, before we had to abandon it, were coming back to my memory. I began to draw; I wasn't a good artist, but I had had lessons during my childhood and I knew the rules of proportions and perspective, and it was enough for the practical mind I had. The Syrnac gardens in particular were coming back to life under my hesitant fingers.

On November the 2nd, Day of the Dead, I was to be found on the terrace again, as I took a little break from my planning and writing. I had found a chalky stone at the feet of the tall trees bordering the terrace, and I was idly sketching on the dark red paving stones. For the first time since I had set foot in Great Britain, a shy, wet sun was shining in the pale blue sky; therefore I was all the more annoyed when a small shadow was cast upon the paving stones I was drawing on, blocking out the pale and fresh sunlight.

"Qu'est-ce que --"

But my question was answered even before being asked, for the thing that had momentarily obstructed the light came into view immediately: an owl landed heavily on the chalk-covered stone in front of me, looking tired and thoroughly disgruntled, and extended its leg so that I could untie the letter it was carrying.

As I unrolled the scroll of parchment, I automatically glanced at the signature and my heart leapt in my chest: it was, finally, Aimée's response.

Marie-Antoinette,

I have to admit you almost got me with your "this is normal, it happens every day" rubbish. Now, this is the stupidest thing I have ever had the misfortune to read. First, because it's not that frequent, especially when the bride-to-be is seventeen. SEVENTEEN for crying out loud! Second, because anyway, arranged marriages did happen quite often... TWO CENTURIES AGO. Even the oldest and rustiest noble families DON'T do that anymore. And third - because you tried to make me believe that Lestrange character was just a random Rosbif (1), in search of a good bride for a young friend of his. Well, Missy, I just read the NEWSPAPERS in which our beloved Minister, Dunderhead Draconnier, was rambling on about how proud he was that a young lady from one of the most ancient French wizarding families had been chosen to, I quote, "build an alliance with Mr. Rodolphus Lestrange, Minister for Magic in Great Britain, and powerful among the Dark Lord's followers." HA! 'Some guy called Lestrange', my foot!

All right. Now I got mad at you, it's time I should start crying, right? Toine, this is the saddest thing ever! If you had seen the look on Olivier's face when he read that article in the newspaper! He was livid; the poor bloke is still head over heels about you, you know. And now all those asses who have never talked to you in their lives start saying things like, 'Oh yes, Syrnac, she was a nice girl, she was, she lent me a quill once!' INCLUDING that idiotic bulldog face, Alice Brocard, the one who kept spitting on your nobility particle, remember? I almost cursed her.

Anyway, without Maxime, everything's going to the dogs. No surprise, eh? Tinville doesn't even know where the kitchens are (though he should've asked Mélanie, since she's spending half of her life in there). He forbade me to go to Great Britain during the Toussaint holidays, of course - stupid mean excuse for a human being! Well, he can't prevent me from going to see you at Christmas. You-Know-Who himself won't stop me! And when I get there, your 'husband' had better watch his backside if he doesn't want it to be kicked.

Okay, now I've ranted over two pages, let's say the most important -- I miss you horribly, and the thought that you're all alone in that wretched country makes my blood boil. Hold on, my Toine, I'm coming as soon as possible and I won't leave you ever. In the meantime, if you are feeling sad or discouraged or abandoned, owl me at ONCE. Maybe we can try to arrange a conversation by Floo network some day. I know you're braver than all those pompous English penguins. Show them that. Show them you're not the little French girl they can boss around. And if your so-called husband bothers you, hit him on the top of his head with the frying pan.

With love,

Aimée

P.S: Here's a message from Olivier. I had to glue the quill to his hand and tie him up to the armchair to force him to add a few lines; I hope you appreciate my efforts! A.

I laughed aloud as I reached the end of the letter, inwardly thanking the heavens for giving me a friend like Aimée. This letter was brimming over with ardour and kindness in such a way that I could almost hear her raging, promising and comforting. I still had a smile on my face when I proceeded to Olivier's message, written in a taller and narrower handwriting.

Dear Marie-Antoinette,

I suspect Aimée told you many things about me -- maybe that I was planning to go to England and kill that Potter character in a breathtaking duel, as she tried to convince me I should for the past three days. I was tempted to follow her advice, if truth must be told. The idea that you're at the mercy of a man you don't know at all drives me crazy; but I know you. I know you're an extraordinary girl. You're a born queen, Marie-Antoinette. You can conquer them all, I trust you. I also trust you for keeping me a small place in your affections, and as soon as I'm free to come over, I will, because I won't stand not being able to talk to you and listen to you very long. You're one of a kind, and I really miss you.

With all my love,

Olivier.

I stared at the parchment for a long time, the smile gone from my face. What could have possibly given him these ideas about me? A born queen... An extraordinary girl... I allowed a smirk to distort my lips. What a queen, dressed in a school uniform because she didn't have any better outfit, and eating nettle soup she was forced to make it herself...

I reread the last line, and this time I felt my eyes water. I shut them tightly, not wanting the tears to fall. He asked me to keep him a place in my affections, when he already had all my heart.

As I sat there, my head bent and my thumb softly stroking the letter coming from the two people I cared for the most -- the only two people who really cared for me -- I heard the front door opening with a creaking sound.

I slowly raised my head and turned around; heavy footsteps were now echoing dully on the tiled floor of the hallway. I knew only two people who would have entered the house without ringing the bell first.

One was Lestrange.

The other was Potter.

In either case, I could only expect another verbal fight.

I quickly rolled the letter back into a tight scroll and stuffed it in a pocket of my robes, then, biting my lip nervously, I stood, pushed the garden door open and stepped into the hallway to meet him -- whoever hewas.

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(1)Rosbif: Just as the French are called 'Frogs' by the British, the British are called 'Roast beefs' (in French, Rosbifs) by the French. When talking about cute little nicknames...

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A/N: Sorry for the gardening lesson:) I had to illustrate the "I would start with the garden" of the previous chapter.