Marie-Antoinette

From Chapter Four:

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 nervously my lip, I stood, pushed the garden door open and stepped into the hallway to meet him -- whoever he was.

Chapter Five: Two Elves

The late morning light filtered through the half-opened front door and outlined the man's figure as he slowly shrugged off his cloak. He stood in the middle of the sunlit hallway, a lonely shadow in the dazzling whiteness of the walls and tiles, and his darkened features were indistinct. But his slumped shoulders and his hesitant gestures, as if he was struggling to recognise his surroundings through a thick fog, didn't leave any doubt about his identity.

"Mr. Potter," I called.

He spun around at the sound of my voice, and though I still couldn't make out the details of his face, I was able to feel his eyes fixed on me -- as if his gaze was a thin thread joining us, and tensing a little more with every passing second.

"Yes," he said curtly. "What do you want?"

The sunlight reverberating on the white walls was still dazzling me, and I dimly felt I was in an inferior position: his face was hidden from me in the shadows, while mine was in full view and exposed to scrutinizing. I mechanically raised my wand and the front door closed with a brusque clatter, blocking out the light.

Now we stood in the cool, half-lit hallway, eyeing each other like a couple of cats preparing to fight -- and in the ensuing silence that Potter didn't break, I was able to study his face for as long as I pleased.

He looked tired; he was distinctly paler than the last time I had seen him, and there were greyish bags under his eyes. For one second I though that maybe his current state of weariness would make him more receptive to what I could only call my grievances; but this tiny hope was quickly stifled as we finally locked gazes. There was no pity in his eyes, or even defeat. He was as much on his guards as he had been on the first day.

"Unless you have something urgent to tell me," he brusquely said, "I'd rather you wouldn't keep me waiting here any longer; I need some rest."

I felt a blush creeping up my neck and cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I answered automatically, and my voice sounded horribly high-pitched to my own ears; inwardly cursing my childish reaction, I forced myself to speak more calmly. "I do have something important to tell you, but it can wait until you have had some rest. I have work to do in the garden anyway, so if you'd rather I would talk to you later..."

My voice trailed away as he nodded, visibly uninterested; he had shrugged off his cloak and held it in his hands, unsure where to put it, and several seconds of embarrassed silence came and went before I remembered there would be no servant hurrying to take his cloak from his hands.

"Let me take care of this," I offered, closing in a few steps the distance stretching between the pair of us.

He blinked, apparently not expecting me to come so close to him, and I even thought I caught a slight gesture of his free hand; a gesture that was not unlike those of priests of another era, trying to repel demons. I immediately slowed down and eyed him questioningly.

He seemed to change his mind and wordlessly handed me his cloak, which I took without touching him.

"Thank you," he said with visible effort.

"You're welcome," I answered just as stiffly.

I averted my eyes and wheeled around, experiencing a cowardly relief at the fact that I had a pretext for turning my back on him; I quickly made my way to the living room with the intention of dropping the cloak on the back of a chair, and as I walked away, I heard Potter turning on his heels as well and starting to ascend the stairs that led to the first floor. The wood banister creaked every time he grabbed it, as if he was leaning his full weight on it with every step...

The cloak had been designed to completely envelop a man of tall stature, and since the material was heavy with melted snow and mud, I found myself struggling to fold it; and my feeling of helplessness was growing with every second of that humiliating task. It was not my job to fold cloaks and put them away.

"Damned be that house-elf," I growled irritably.

I had grown to develop an inexpressible hatred towards the house-elf Pomy, and as days came and went I tended more and more to give her the full responsibility of nearly all my misfortunes. If only the wretched creature had been willing to help me, I wouldn't have most of my clothes soiled and torn, my stomach wouldn't be contracting painfully with hunger, and I could have started transforming the house into a place I would not be ashamed of calling my home.

She had to obey me. That was an absolute necessity: how could I ever hold my head high in this world, if I wasn't even able to command a miserable creature such as that old elf? I had given this problem a lot of thought, and I had finally come to elaborate a plan in order to bend her to my will. In fact, the key to all my domestic problems should be arriving shortly, as soon as my Uncle and former guardian remembered to send me the rest of my things; unfortunately, knowing the walking barrel of wine that was my last living relative, that could take a long time.

The cloak was now hanging, limp and wet, on the back of a low armchair. I knew it wouldn't fail to leave a damp and muddy spot on the grey velvet -- but then again, I didn't care; I hated that furniture. Rubbing my hands together in an attempt to regain some warmth in my fingers, which had grown cold and numb from handling the damp garment, I quickly walked out of the sinister living room and automatically turned right towards the garden door. I was, once again, postponing the moment when I would have to face my husband again.

The scrolls of parchment on which I had been working in the morning, before the arrival of Aimée's owl, were still piled up in a corner of the terrace, in the shadow of a low stone wall that shielded them from the occasional gusts of wind. I swooped down and gathered the scrolls in my hands, pressing them against my chest as they threatened to spill out of my arms and fall to the ground, and sat on the low wall. The wind was slightly stronger and it blew in my back, playing with my hair and with the folds of my garden robes, and causing the most slender trees to swing slightly while their last leaves rustled in worried whispers. The light was slowly decreasing as heavy clouds rolled once again in the November sky, mercilessly stifling the last pale beams of timid sunlight.

The parchments gathered against my chest quivered as the wind bit at their edges and threatened to tear them away from the shield of my folded arms. A droplet of rain fell, causing the words written in black ink to show through the small ring of damp parchment.

Then the rain started to pour.

I felt my lips stretching into a strange, bitter smirk, as I leant back to allow the shower to drench the scrolls of parchment on which I had been working tirelessly for the last few days. I threw my head back, my eyes closed, and the cold water ran down my temples, cheeks and chin, trickling down my throat before stopping as it met the material of my robes. On my lap, the parchments were quickly reduced to a shapeless mass of soaked and greyish paper under the relentless pounding of the autumnal rain.

I stood up again, causing the damp parchments to roll off my lap and fall to the ground with a dull thud. I headed for the door without the slightest haste in spite of the rain, leaving my notes behind. Soon the parchment would be torn in small bits by the violence of the shower, the ink would leak out of it in lazy streams, and tomorrow the wind would have vanished the last remains of my sterile fancies.

The time of dreams and vague projects was over. I knew what I had to do, and I didn't need wasting more time scribbling away on parchments while deluding myself in thinking such an activity was productive.

***

The rain was angrily pounding on the roof and slapping the windowpanes while I was enjoying a long hot shower, a few minutes after I had come back from the terrace. The house around me was as silent as usual, no sound betraying the presence of another human being; yet I knew Potter had entered our bedroom at some point -- the glaring absence of the huge 'Godric's Hollow' trunk was enough of an indication.

I had been relieved to see he had moved to another room; he had probably settled in the room adjoining the small office in the north corridor. Those were the only rooms that were decently furnished on this floor, the conjugal bedroom aside. We could lead separate lives, barely seeing each other while living in the same house, and that suited me perfectly; I hardly needed a brooding husband on my hands.

A last glance in the mirror left me quite satisfied with my appearance. My last set of blue silk robes had a certain elegance, especially after I had cut off the Beauxbâtons crest and widened the collar a little to lessen their schoolish look. Tucking my wand in my thin leather belt, I turned my back on my reflection and walked out of the bedroom.

Someone had lit the torches of the north corridor; the usually bare walls were alive with dancing shadows, cast there by the flickering flames that attempted, without much success, to give some cheerfulness to the white and bare loneliness of the corridor. I was soon in sight of the double door that led to the small office, and upon catching a high-pitched voice filtering through this door, I slowed down and paused to listen.

"...saved some tea from the kitchen, Master James," squealed the voice. "Strange girl made tea only twice since she arrived. She come from a barbaric country. Her voice is weird. Pomy don't like her."

I shook my head in annoyance. Pomy was there; this wasn't going to make my task any easier. Deciding I had heard enough, I pushed the right side of the door open and it swung soundlessly on its hinges, just in time for me to hear Potter's voice answering the elf.

"Thank you, but I don't want tea. Can you just leave me alone for a second?"

I took in the scene in front of me. The room was small, and since the window was boarded it was drowned in a darkness that hid the details of the walls and furniture from me. In the chimney a fire was roaring, creating an island of golden light in that sea of damp blackness, and the high flames threw a sporadic light illuminating Potter's sharp profile. He was sitting into a low armchair that looked every bit as uncomfortable as the furniture of the living room, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. His eyes were masked by the golden gleams dancing on the lenses of his glasses. Pomy was standing in front of the fireplace, a long black poker in her tiny hands, and the look on her ugly wrinkled face was half-concerned, half-disapproving. As I looked, unseen by any of them, she snorted disbelievingly.

"Pomy know Master James," she said. Her shrill voice was starting to grate on my nerves. "Pomy helped raise him. Pomy know when he needs tea and when he don't, and I is going to get some for him."

Pomy resolutely turned away from her master and she caught sight of me at once, standing on the doorstep with a hand still pressed to the wooden pane of the door. Her enormous eyes immediately widened in outrage before narrowing again in aversion. Gripping her poker in both hands, she brandished it like a weapon, as if daring me to take a step closer to her beloved master.

"What you are doing here, sneaking around?" she squeaked, nearly spitting in disgust.

Potter's head jerked up and he half turned in his seat to see whom Pomy was talking to. Not even glancing at the seething house-elf, I slightly bowed my head at him and took two steps in the room, thus entering the pool of light.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you. I'd like to talk to you now."

I was almost startled at hearing the newfound confidence, bordering haughtiness, dripping from each of my words. Perhaps it was due to the desire to humble and put in her place the miserable creature threatening me with a poker -- I didn't know, and I didn't waste time in wondering. Potter rose to his feet, his former lassitude vanishing from his face as his eyes met mine; his clenched jaw and thinning lips were enough to show he was readying himself for a verbal duel. I could have sworn I had caught a repressed gesture of his hand towards the wand tucked in his belt.

"You get out of my Master's room, you--"

"Pomy," Potter interrupted, averting his eyes to look down at the crouching house-elf. "Please go to the kitchen and make some tea for Miss de Syrnac and me."

I slightly bit my lip as I acknowledged the use of my maiden name. Fine; it wasn't as if I was keen on being called Potter, after all. As soon as it stayed between us...

The elf couldn't disobey a direct order from her master. She put back the poker against one of the stone pillars flanking the fireplace, and she did so with such brutality that it swayed and fell with a loud chiming as it hit the stone slab that replaced wooden boards in front of the hearth. Not bothering to stand it up again, she stormed out of the room, and we heard her cursing the 'strange girl' in the corridor before she disappeared with a crack.

"Why don't you sit down?"

My attention was brought back to the task at hand by Potter's voice. He had stepped back behind the low armchair he had been sitting in and, his hand resting on the back of it, was watching me enquiringly. I nodded.

"Thank you."

I took place in the armchair, as Potter walked round me and went to lean against the stone pillar on the right side of the fireplace. There was another seat in the room but he obviously preferred to be standing.

"So," he said curtly. "What is so important for me to hear?"

I ensconced myself in my armchair and gave him my long-prepared answer.

"I thought it was necessary to consult you," I said, enunciating every syllable carefully, "before I put into practice the plans I have for this house and its garden."

"There was absolutely no need to consult me for that," he immediately retorted. "Do whatever you want with the house or the garden. I'd rather stay out of it."

I clasped my hands together in my lap. He really could not have been clearer about not wanting to have anything to do with -- us. Our house, our garden, everything that made of us a married couple. Did he really think I cared about that myself? Or was he so self-centred that he could not see I wasn't able to 'do whatever I wanted' on my own?

"I understand that you don't want to be bothered by domestic problems," I smoothly answered, careful not to let any of my annoyance appear on my face. "I am glad that you would trust me with the management of the house; but I'm afraid I cannot hire the needed workers without your help."

He looked at me blankly, clearly not understanding what I was talking about. I had to refrain from rolling my eyes.

"I will need a budget for that," I insisted. I really couldn't make myself clearer without being openly rude.

He blinked.

"You want money?" he asked in an even voice.

I felt a shameful blush creep up my neck and cheeks. Three words, and I was reduced to a beggar whining at him.

"To be crude, yes, I want money," I snapped as I reached the limit of my reserve of patience. "I'm not going to furnish this house or clear up the forest in the garden without having to pay people to do it."

"I got it," he said impatiently. "How much do you want?"

I was now boiling with anger; he might as well have asked what was the price for which I would agree to leave him alone. Abruptly rising from my armchair, I closed in three quick steps the short distance separating me from him. I caught again the repressed gesture of his right hand towards his wand as I halted to stand in front of him.

"You have no right to talk to me like that," I hissed in rage. The anger made my accent stronger than ever and the English words sounded unnaturally hard in my mouth.

"Don't I?" he replied coolly before I had the time to continue. "You come here and ask me for money; am I wrong? Or are you just angered because I don't use the proper words?"

I bit my lip hard, furious at myself for losing my grip on the situation. With a slight smirk, Potter turned away from me and idly dusted his shoulder that had been in contact with the mantelpiece.

"If you have nothing else to tell me, I suggest you get back to your room," he added, with a glance over his shoulder in my direction. "I don't have the time or energy to deal with adolescent existential crisis."

"How do you think I survived this week, Mr. Potter?" I shot at him. His comment had stung, and I was determined to bite back.

At my question, he turned again to face me, confusion visible on his features.

"Excuse me?" he slowly asked.

"How do you think I lived in your absence," I repeated, my voice trembling slightly with controlled fury. "Do you know how much food there was in the kitchen when you left me here?"

I was pleased to see him stiffening again. My last question seemed to make him a tad uncomfortable.

"You had a wand," he pointed out.

"But I never graduated," I completed in a low voice. "You do know that Conjuration and Advanced Transfiguration aren't taught before the middle of seventh year, don't you?"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his cool confidence visibly melting at my words; and I caught a glint of something like shame in his eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Pomy was here," he objected; but even he sounded thoroughly unconvinced by this argument.

I smirked at the uncertainty in his voice.

"I'll take your word for it," I said coldly. "I haven't seen much of her."

He cast his eyes downwards and slightly shook his head, as if attempting to shake off a persisting nightmare, and yet again his features were tense with exhaustion. Leaning forward to rest his hand on the armrest of the armchair, he let himself collapse in the low seat, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I'm listening," he said at last.

I remained silent for a few seconds, hardly daring to believe that I had won, that he was now going to listen without interrupting or trying to ridicule me. Then I shook myself -- the hardest part was done but I hadn't finished yet.

"I don't like this situation anymore than you do," I said more calmly. "But since there is nothing we can do about it, here is what I wanted to suggest."

He raised his head, silent and attentive.

"I am not going to get in your way," I enounced slowly. "You won't see or hear me, even when you are in the house, except when we have guests of course."

At this point, the ghost of a smirk came to brush his lips; however he didn't say anything, contenting himself with a curt nod to invite me to continue.

"I won't even talk to you unless it's necessary," I went on. "As long as I can rule this house as I please."

He nodded again.

"You have a deal," he said.

"I'm not done," I objected. "Not yet. As you have probably guessed, I don't have any money of my own. I need a budget for the house and the garden, aside from the indispensable money I need for my clothes and food."

"How much?" he asked automatically, with a look suggesting that he just wanted this conversation to be over. He just wanted me to go away.

Just as I was about to answer, a crack sounded in the corridor and a second later a tray loaded with a steaming teapot and a pair of cups entered the room, supported by a pair of skinny legs wrapped in a frayed cloth. I stepped backward, using my foot to push a square stool between Potter and me, and sat on a kind of pouf.

Pomy put the tray on the stool and poured the tea inside the cups, her face set in a grim and sulky mask. She handed me a cup, which I took without looking at her. I heard her snarling in anger at my ignoring her, and when her master dismissed her, she strode out of the room as noisily as possible. I had never seen such a disrespectful servant.

We observed each other over our cups of tea for a few seconds, Potter taking occasional sips from his -- it was still too hot for me.

"You were saying?" Potter said at last.

"I have a good idea of how much I'll need for the garden," I immediately went on. "However, I don't know exactly for the house, or for my own -- ah -- maintenance, since it's likely to change with the circumstances. The simplest solution would be to give me access to your bank account."

He stared at me, obviously shocked by this answer. I could understand that -- in France, it was called wanting the butter, the money that paid for it and the dairywoman all at once. I spoke up again as he opened his mouth to reply.

"I give you my word that I won't misuse it."

"Your word?" he repeated in a faint voice, and this time his tone was laced with pity. "You expect me to trust you?"

"You'll receive monthly receipts," I pointed out. "You can take back from me the access of your vaults anytime."

He stared down at his cup for a few seconds, thoughtfully turning the porcelain object in his fingers.

"Are you aware," he said at least in a low voice, "that I can't use my money without telling the Minister for Magic about it?"

I remained speechless for a while; this was a revelation to me. The idea of Lestrange controlling our expense was anything but appealing. Strangely enough, and even though I didn't know why I felt that way, I wanted him to be left in the dark about my actions; as if my struggle to find my place in that harsh and cold world I had been thrown into was my own resistance to Lestrange's domination. However, there was clearly nothing I could do about it.

"Do you think Mr. Lestrange would object to my furnishing my new home?" I asked. It may have sounded like a rhetorical question, but now that I was beginning to understand the world Lestrange was ruling, I would not have been so surprised if Potter had answered in the affirmative.

"No, I don't think so," he said scathingly, although this time his anger wasn't directed to me. "He can't expect anyone to accept to live in that empty rat hole. But he'll keep a close watch on the amount of money you will be spending. And I hope you won't give me any reasons to act the same."

He stared at me so intently at those last words that I felt as if I was shrinking on the spot, even if we were both sitting.

"I won't misuse your money," I repeated, somewhat feebly. He was now making me feel like a teenager asking her parents for a permission.

"I'm not sure that you even know what misusing my money would look like," he said dryly. "You have never got out of this house. You don't know anything about the real world; you have no idea what people less privileged than you are going through. I am not going to pay for fancy pieces of furniture, or a hundred dresses or jewels or Merlin knows what other nonsense."

"I didn't choose to be in this position," I murmured in a very low voice. I was fiddling with my cup again, unable to look at him in the eyes. I wasn't even sure I wanted him to hear me -- but he did.

"I know," he said in a calmer and softer tone. "I know it would be... unfair... from me to blame you for the situation."

I had a bitter remark on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. This was as close to a nice word as I had ever heard from him, and I didn't want to ruin it all -- no matter how dry and emotionless Potter still sounded.

"I'm just asking you not to make it worse, for the pair of us," he added. He had dropped the hostile and resentful tone he had been using through the whole conversation, but only to pick up the infuriatingly patient voice grown-ups use when talking to children. I sighed in exasperation.

"What do you suggest then?" I snapped. "If my word isn't enough for you?"

"I suggest another kind of agreement," he answered with ease. "I am going to create a separate account in Gringotts, that will be entirely yours. I'll make monthly deposits according to an evaluation of your needs. If, exceptionally, you need more, you can drop a written note on my desk. I don't care what you do with that money, and I won't interfere in your spending it -- Pomy will tell me if you're being unreasonable, and then I'll just stop the deposits. On the other hand, I'd be grateful if, as you suggested yourself, you could stay out of my way. Do I make myself clear?"

The idea of Pomy looking into my books was not exactly delighting me, but Potter's tone was final and I knew there would be no use in trying to argue this point. This agreement, while humiliating for me, still was the best I could get at the moment.

"Perfectly clear."

He then had a small smile, the first one I had ever seen on his face.

"You seem pretty eager to be rid of me yourself," he noted, gently mocking. "So I don't think we'll tread on each other's toes very often."

With those words he stood up, putting back his cup on the tray in front of him, and I imitated him. The conversation I had been dreading for days was over, leaving me inexpressibly relieved. My stomach unfortunately chose that moment to grumble loudly and I instantly felt my cheeks burn in embarrassment as Potter's eyes flickered back to me for a second. Thankfully, he was too polite to make a comment, and merely held the door open for me. I quickly walked out with a mumbled thanks and almost tripped on the elf Pomy, who was waiting outside and had clearly heard our entire exchange. The smug smirk on the creature's face didn't bode well for me.

As I walked away, eager to put some distance between me and the sinister little office, I heard Potter giving instructions to his elf to buy some food. Just as I turned round a corner, Potter lowered his voice and I reflexively halted, forgetting that he probably didn't want me to hear what he was about to say.

And because days of listening to the silent heartbeat of the empty house had already sharpened my ears, I caught his words.

"...Tell me you didn't let her starve, Pomy."

I didn't wait to hear more. I slowly let out the breath I had been holding and resumed my walking, a small grin playing on my lips. The rain was singing merrily on the tiles of the roof.

***

"You has enough dresses. You don't need more."

I bit back a curse. The shrill voice of the house-elf Pomy was sounding far too often in my bedroom to my liking, and the condescending note in her tone was becoming more marked every day as she took a visible pleasure in supervising my activities. The sooner I would be rid of that elf, the better.

"I thought I had made myself clear," I snapped, without even spinning my chair around to face the old servant. She wasn't worth it. "I need at least one elegant outfit. I never mentioned anything extravagant."

"You is a girl, you don't need to look like a lady," was the elf's disdainful answer.

"Mr. Potter and I are invited to Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange's for dinner, the day after tomorrow," I said loudly, cutting across her. "Say that to your master."

Silence fell again in the bedroom. I knew Pomy was still there, standing in the middle of the room behind my back, while I worked at the overly large desk. Expecting another snide comment, I was slightly taken aback at the elf's persisting silence and I had to resist the urge to turn around and see the look on her face. Ignoring her was, sadly, the only harm I could do to her; otherwise I would have made great use of the stinging spell in the last three days since my conversation with Potter.

"Lestrange?" whispered the elf at last.

I finally gave in to temptation and glanced at her over my shoulder; her eyes were wider than ever and her mouth was open in speechless indignation.

"Yes," I answered coldly, returning to my writing. "Therefore I will need my dress tomorrow at the latest. You don't expect me to meet the Minister and his wife in everyday robes, do you?"

I glanced again at the still silent elf and added lightly, "It may damage your master's reputation."

I knew I had used the ultimate argument -- Pomy was a wretched and filthy creature, but she obviously belonged to an old wizarding family and her master's reputation meant the world to her. And indeed, it was not long before she gave in to my reasons.

"I is getting your new dress," she snarled, her spite so audible that I couldn't suppress a smirk. In the never-ending war I led against the house-elf, this was one of the few victories.

"Good," I commented, satisfied. "The dress is at Arletto's, on Diagon Alley. It's reserved under the name Potter, but it's not paid for. There is a small bag of gold waiting for you at Gringotts; just give a Goblin this message with my signature on it -- it's on the bed next to you, I think."

I heard Pomy mutter furiously under her breath as she snatched the small parchment I had indicated. Right before she left the room, she threw at me a last shaft, loathing dripping from every word.

"Pomy was right. You is a Death Eater."

I remained bent over the parchment I was working on until I was sure the room was deserted. I soon heard, one floor below, the distant crack telling me Pomy had left the house, and only then did I allow myself to slump back in my chair and close my eyes for a moment.

The last three days had been both exciting and exhausting. I had never stopped walking up and down that commercial street called Diagon Alley, where apparently were reunited the best magical stores in Britain, Pomy trotting along beside me -- her stance and expression reminding me of Beauxbâtons' old caretaker as she inspected my purchase. The priority being the transformation of the house, I had concentrated on finding a good architect and a couple of decent decorators.

The old man specialising in magical architecture and decoration that I had finally hired was grumpy, resentful and for some reason hated the French with a passion, and if I had been able to find anyone else willing to work for me I would have got rid of him within an hour of discussing his plans for the house; however, at the mere mention of the name Potter, all Diagon Alley shopkeepers except him had shrunk behind their counters before muttering they couldn't do anything for me. All I could do now was enduring the old architect's constant whining as he worked in the house... He complained about the wages, the laziness of his two assistants, the fact that he had to deal with a 'young and clueless female' rather than Mr. Potter himself, and of course the fact that, being French, I could not understand half of the technical words he was using...

The bright side of the situation was that he was quick and talented; the living room was now entirely transformed, from the grey and sinister place it used to be, into a comfortable room full of red and saffron furniture. My choice of colours had been directly inspired from the fifth-years study room at Beauxbâtons palace; curiously enough, it had elicited a disbelieving snort from the architect.

"You want gold and red for your living room?" he had sniggered, in that grating voice that I had grown to hate as much as Pomy's shrill one. "What, tryin' to get on the Dark Lord's bad side?"

"Do you really think the Dark Lord would ever come to my house? Besides, I don't see why he would object to the colours of my living room, of all things."

"Let's say green and silver would be more of his liking," the architect had cryptically answered.

I had no idea what he was talking about, and thus I had settled in pointing out that silver and green were very cold colours for a living room. He had made no further comment -- although his persisting sneer was eloquent enough as to what he thought of my ideas.

I had been shocked at the amount of money the furnishing of the living room had required. At this rate, I would have to wait until next month before hoping to have a decent dining room. This didn't suit me at all, if I had invitations to make; I was not exactly the most sociable person in the world, but how could I avoid returning the favour when I was invited to dinner by the Minister for Magic himself?

An icy feeling of dread swelled in my chest at this thought; and in spite of myself, I opened my eyes again and pushed aside the parchment I had been writing on when Pomy had disturbed me, thus uncovering a letter covered in a dry, narrow handwriting. The message was brief and curt.

Mrs. Potter,

My wife Bellatrix and myself would be glad to have you and your husband at dinner, at eight on Thursday night. Please send your answer before tonight.

Regards,

Rodolphus Lestrange, Minister for Magic.

My fingers brushed against the signature, and I shivered slightly as the mocking, disdainful but eerily suave voice of Rodolphus Lestrange seemed to echo at my ears, like a ghostly memory. I didn't know if I wanted to see him again or not. The man undoubtedly terrified me, yet I had this nagging feeling that he and I belonged to the same kind; to this dying breed using words and smiles as weapons, living with ease in pretence and valuing reputation and dignity more than life itself. I knew perfectly well the rules of the game he was playing, even though he had been until now the incontestable winner...

Oh yes, we were of the same kind; a kind that was entirely strange to people like Bellatrix Lestrange or James Potter.

I pulled back towards me the parchment I had been working on and, picking up a quill that was negligently thrown across the desk, I started writing again.

Potter Residence

November the 5^th, 1983

Minister,

It is with great pleasure that my husband and I accept your kind invitation on next Thursday. We would be honoured of seeing you and Mrs. Lestrange again...

And as the quill scratched on the rough parchment, covering the yellowing surface in shining ink that traced elegant cursive letters, another voice was ringing inside my head, speaking a language much harsher than the insipid and proper sentences that I dutifully wrote down.

Never speak your mind. Never let anyone suspect that you're taking decisions. Officially, your husband decides and you obey. You must be the only one to know just how different the reality is.

The quill slowed down at it drew the curve of an f, to finally halt on an excrescence of parchment.

But how different was my reality?

***

"The dining room simply doesn't exist at all," grumbled Howard Rumfold, my old architect, an hour after Potter's owl had flown away with my reply to the Lestranges' letter. His eyes, narrowed and gleaming in disapproval in his old face, were sweeping the bare walls of my empty dining room. "That's going to cost you as much as the living room, if not more."

"Can you give me an estimation?" I asked, resigned to the worst.

He sniffed disdainfully, his frown deepening as he eyed the too small window and the empty brackets fixed on the white, terribly impersonal walls.

"No less then a hundred and fifty Galleons," he said at last.

I swallowed with some difficulty. "Thank you," I managed to stammer out. "I'll see you tomorrow so that I can finish to pay you for the living room, is that fine with you?"

"I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" he retorted, his voice grating on the words like an old door on its rusty hinges.

We crossed the new living room on our way back to the hall, the old man pouring out the usual flow of complaints and dark predictions -- although he deigned favour the newly furnished room with a grudging 'I did well with that one, pity you didn't have the money for a Persian rug'. I distractedly listened to him, punctuating his whining with an occasional monosyllable; he didn't seem to mind my blatant lack of interest as he went on, now grumbling against the new Minister's policy on taxes.

"...will ruin me, he will, and then he'll have his carnivorous horses eat the flesh from my bones... Did you know the Minister had those man-eating beasts?"

He shot at me an inquiring look as he extended his wrinkled, spotted-skinned hand towards the new coat rack where his cloak hung, limp and grey with dust that seemed embedded in the worn material.

"No, I didn't," I answered dully.

"Of course you wouldn't," he said with a grim satisfaction while he grabbed the cloak and flung it across his shoulders. "What would a French kid know about those things?"

He gathered the hems of the cloak in his claw-like hands and wrapped the garment tighter around his skinny body. I idly noticed the strange resemblance existing between that old man cramped in his cloak and an aged vulture as I walked him to the door and opened it for him.

"And didn't you notice how cold it is?" Rumfold added on the doorstep. "Dark Magic, I bet."

"I'm sure it's only because winter is coming earlier this year, Mr. Rumfold," I replied, unable to mask the impatience in my voice. Would that man ever leave?

"Of course, what would you know about those things?" he muttered crossly. "Not even English..."

He walked down the three stone steps, stiff as a board as he went on grumbling to himself. I waited until I had seen him pull a Portkey out of his pocket -- he had whined more than once about how his rheumatisms made Apparition extremely painful to him -- and disappear in a swirl of his cloak, before I closed the door with a sigh of relief and leant against it. A dull ache was developing above my right eye, making me dread the beginning of a migraine.

My eyes flew open again in alarm when the doorbell suddenly rang on the other side of the door.

"Not again," I muttered through clenched teeth. The day before Rumfold had forgotten something and had come back to retrieve it; and unfortunately for me, his return had been accompanied with a fresh stream of grievances. I doubted I had the courage to bear those for one more minute.

I tiredly turned around and, seizing the huge metallic handle, pulled the heavy door open just enough for me to peer outside.

"Who is --"

The words died on my lips as I stared at empty space. Nobody was here.

Then --

"Mademoiselle! Lali est ici!"

The high-pitched, achingly familiar voice had the effect of a punch in the stomach. I stood breathless with a mixture of astonishment and wild incredulity, as my eyes travelled down -- on their own volition, it seemed -- to meet the enormous and tear-filled eyes of a tiny creature standing on my doorstep.

"Doesn't you recognise your old Lali, Mistress?" the creature squeaked again in French, her voice trembling with emotion. She was wrapped in a wide midnight blue napkin, speckled with tiny silver roses -- the colours of Syrnac house. Behind her stood a huge trunk that I recognised as mine.

My old servant. My old trunk.

Giving in to a sudden impulse, I wrenched the door wide open and, dropping on my knees, wrapped my arms tightly around the startled house-elf. I was vaguely aware that I was laughing hysterically, that salty tears stung my eyes as I desperately clung to the ugly, wrinkled and beloved little creature who was bringing back to me, in the folds of her blue napkin, all the colourful memories of my life as a little princess.

***

Oh, it felt so good to sit on the hearthrug in the living room, in front of a roaring fire, my old house-elf expertly doing my hair like in the old days. My trunk had been safely put away in my bedroom and Lali's bed had been placed in a cupboard of the kitchen. Our duties accomplished, we were now enjoying our reunion.

"You look underfed, mademoiselle Marie," Lali critically said as she plaited my hair. "And you look sad. Lali don't like that."

"I've had a few rough days, yes," I answered lightly. "But now that you're here, I'm not worrying about anything anymore."

"And you is right, mademoiselle Marie," agreed the elf. "Lali is taking care of everything. Just tell Lali what I has to do."

I smirked, my fingers idly playing with the hem of my robes.

"Well," I began, "you see, there is another house-elf in this house. Her name is Pomy, and she is my husband's elf."

I was interrupted by an angry sniff as Lali tugged on my hair a little too vigorously.

"When I think Mademoiselle was married to an Englishman, I is furious," she said vehemently, almost spitting out the word 'Englishman'. "I said to Mademoiselle's Uncle, I told him, 'Your brother would have never accepted to sell Mademoiselle to an English! What did Saint Joan of Arc fight for, I is asking you?'"

"I know, Lali, but I am married now," I said patiently. "And he isn't a problem. Don't worry about him. His elf, on the other hand, is an insolent little beast."

Lali carefully wrapped the long plait around my head and started drawing pins from the folds of her napkin, planting them in my hair with an expert hand.

"Lali wasn't expecting anything else, Mademoiselle," she said disdainfully. "And English house-elf? Pouah! Do you want Lali to hit her with a bit of good continental magic, Mademoiselle? Lali would love to."

"No," I said in a low voice. "No, I want something else from you. I want you to do all the work in this house. I want everything to be clean before she gets up. I want all the cooking to be done before she sets foot in the kitchen. I want her to have nothing to do."

The small wrinkled hand had frozen on my hair. I slightly turned my head to glance at Lali, and my eyes met her wide, astonished ones.

"Mademoiselle hates the elf so much?" she said in a hushed voice.

I tilted my head to one side and smiled innocently at her, retrieving automatically in Lali's presence the manners of spoiled little girl that were mine years ago.

"Will you do it?" I asked.

A nearly evil smile stretched Lali's lips and her huge dark blue eyes started gleaming with a fierce joy.

"Trust Lali, Mademoiselle," she whispered. "The elf won't be able to do anything. Even if Lali has to stay up all night!"

*********************

A/N: Well I, for one, had to stay up for a good number of nights in order to get that chapter done. I'm very sorry for the delay, and I'm sure you'll understand that my studies keep me really busy; hence my current pathetic update rate. It's a miracle that I managed to update each of my three stories in the last three months actually...

Thank you all for your patience, that I hope is rewarded. Until next time!