Morning arrived too quickly. Harry woke to the sound of Gabrielle in the shower, sunlight already streaming through the windows. A quick tempus charm showed it was just past seven—the final ICW session would begin at ten.
He was up and reviewing his notes when Gabrielle emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Her wet hair hung down her back, and her skin glowed in the morning light.
"Sleep well?" she asked, smiling as she moved to the wardrobe.
"Better than I have in a while," he admitted. "Though I'm not sure how much actual sleep was involved."
She laughed, dropping her towel unself-consciously and giving him an unrestricted view of her curves and softness as she began to dress. "A worthwhile trade, I think."
Harry watched her for a moment, then returned to his notes. "I've outlined the amendments I want to propose. Focused protections for three categories: magical children, elderly practitioners of rare forms of magic, and those with specialized knowledge like wandmaking or certain healing abilities."
Gabrielle nodded, fastening her robes. "Smart. Calderón can support that as protecting valuable magical resources and knowledge. I've sent him a message to meet us before the session begins."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Us?"
"Time to bring you officially into the fold," she said. "Unless you'd prefer to maintain plausible deniability?"
He shook his head. "No, I want to be directly involved. Though we should be careful about who knows about this... arrangement."
"The political one or the personal one?" she asked with a small smirk.
"Both," Harry replied with a smile of his own. "For now, at least."
They left the hotel separately, Harry remaining invisible again. They'd agreed to meet Calderón in a small café two blocks from the ICW chambers, neutral ground where they wouldn't attract undue attention.
The Spanish representative was already there when Harry arrived, seated at a corner table with a cup of espresso. His expression revealed nothing as Harry took the seat across from him.
"Potter," he greeted him, his accent more pronounced in the casual setting. "Miss Delacour tells me you've discovered our little operation."
"And that you've developed some interesting amendments to the proposal," Gabrielle added as she joined them, taking the seat beside the two men.
Calderón studied Harry's face. "Before we proceed, I need to know: Are you in this for the long term, Potter? This isn't a one-time collaboration. What we're building will take years."
Harry met his gaze steadily. "I'm in. For as long as it takes."
A slight smile tugged at Calderón's lips. "Good. Then let's hear these amendments of yours."
For the next thirty minutes, they refined Harry's proposals, adjusting language to appeal to different factions within the ICW. Calderón proved to be sharp and pragmatic, finding diplomatic workarounds that Harry would never have considered. It seemed even after years in the bureaucracy, there was still much he needed to learn.
"You'll introduce the amendments," Calderón decided finally. "Coming from Britain, they'll seem more idealistic, less calculating. I'll offer qualified support, suggesting minor adjustments that strengthen the security aspects while maintaining the protections."
"And France will enthusiastically endorse the compromise," Gabrielle added. "Creating the impression of a breakthrough in negotiations."
Harry shook his head, impressed despite himself. "You two have done this before."
"Politics is performance, Potter," Calderón said with a shrug. "Surely you've learned that by now."
The slight quirk of his lips was all the response Harry would give the man who merely smirked.
They parted ways outside the café, each heading to the chambers separately to avoid arousing suspicion.
The final session proceeded much as they had planned. Harry introduced his amendments, framing them as humanitarian measures that would simultaneously preserve valuable magical knowledge and traditions. Calderón offered measured support with strategic adjustments. France, through Dubois and with Gabrielle whispering in his ear, enthusiastically embraced the compromise.
Other nations fell in line as expected: Germany, the Nordic countries, and most of Eastern Europe supported the amended proposal, while Russia and a few others abstained. The United States, true to Beckett's earlier hint of flexibility, voted in favor after securing additional security provisions.
By the session's end, the compromise had passed with a comfortable majority. It wasn't perfect—refugees would still face registration and monitoring—but the most vulnerable would receive special protections, and the underground rescue network now had official cover to operate.
As the delegates began to disperse, handshakes and congratulations being exchanged across the chamber, Harry caught Gabrielle's eye across the room. She offered him a small, private smile that conveyed more than words could have.
Later, as Harry packed his belongings in preparation for moving on to his other agenda in France, a knock came at his door. He opened it to find Gabrielle standing there, a sealed envelope in her hand.
"Official communication from the French Ministry," she said formally, aware they might be observed in the hallway. "Regarding implementation of the new protocols."
Harry accepted the envelope with a nod. "Thank you, Ms. Delacour. I'll review it promptly."
Once the door closed behind her, he broke the seal and found not a formal document, but a handwritten note:
Dinner tonight? My place. 9 PM. The address is below. We have much to discuss about our ongoing collaboration.
And just below that was a red lipstick mark.
Harry smirked, chuckling the note into the fireplace. He had planned to get to his other agenda in France immediately, but surely one more night in the company of a veela was justified for… diplomatic reasons.
As he resumed packing, Harry reflected on how quickly everything had changed. What had begun as a contentious political debate had transformed into something far more complex—a secret rescue operation, unexpected political interests, and a connection he hadn't anticipated.
Perhaps Gabrielle had been right: it wasn't about escaping responsibility but finding the right way to fulfill it.
With that thought in mind, Harry finished his packing and began composing a message to Susan. There was much work ahead, and the future remained uncertain, but uncertainty had never stopped Harry Potter before.
-Break-
The evening air in Paris carried the scent of fresh bread and blooming jasmine as Harry made his way through the narrow cobblestone streets of the 7th arrondissement.
Gabrielle's apartment was tucked away in a quiet residential area, far from the tourist crowds and ministerial buildings. He'd taken his time getting there, stopping at a small florist to pick up white roses—not romantic, he had made sure, merely diplomatic courtesy.
The building was elegant in that understated French way, with wrought iron balconies and cream-colored stone that glowed softly in the lamplight. Harry found the entrance and climbed three flights of stairs to apartment 3B, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts before knocking.
Gabrielle opened the door almost immediately, as if she'd been watching for him. She wore a simple black dress that fell just past her knees, her hair loose around her shoulders. The transformation from formal diplomat to this stunning woman was striking.
"You found it easily enough," she said, stepping aside to let him enter.
"Your directions were quite clear." Harry handed her the roses, watching her expression carefully. "I thought they might brighten the place."
"They're lovely." She accepted them with a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Come in. I hope you're hungry—I may have gone a bit overboard with dinner."
The apartment was smaller than Harry had expected but tastefully decorated. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a small balcony overlooking a tree-lined courtyard. Books were stacked on every available surface, and the walls displayed what looked like original artwork rather than reproductions.
"Wine?" Gabrielle asked, moving toward a sideboard where several bottles were arranged.
"Please." Harry wandered to the windows, taking in the view. "Remind me how long you've lived here?"
"Bought it when I transferred to the International Relations department." She uncorked a bottle of red wine with practiced ease. "It's quiet. I can actually think here."
Harry accepted the glass she offered, their fingers brushing momentarily. "It suits you. More personal than I expected from a diplomat's residence."
"What did you expect? Sterile government quarters filled with filing cabinets?"
"Something like that," he admitted with a small laugh. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been full of surprises."
Gabrielle tilted her head, studying him. "Have I? We barely knew each other during the tournament, and our interactions since have been largely professional."
Harry sipped his wine, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps. But you made an impression even then. Most people in your situation would have panicked underwater. You didn't."
"I was unconscious."
"Before that. During the second task preparations. You knew something was wrong but you still participated. That takes a particular kind of courage."
A shadow crossed Gabrielle's expression. "Or a particular kind of foolishness. I was a kid and convinced I was invincible."
"And now?"
"Now I know better." She moved to the kitchen, which was separated from the living area by a marble counter. "Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. I hope you like coq au vin."
"I'm sure it's excellent." Harry followed her, leaning against the counter. "You cook often?"
"When I can. It's relaxing after long days of negotiation and political maneuvering." She lifted the lid of a heavy pot, releasing a rich aroma of wine and herbs. "Plus, it's one of the few things I learned from Maman that doesn't involve charm work or beauty potions."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Your mother taught you beauty potions?"
"Veela, remember? There are certain... expectations." Gabrielle's tone was carefully neutral, but Harry caught the hint of irritation underneath. "Though I've always preferred more practical stuff."
"Like the coordination work you've been doing with Calderón."
She glanced at him sharply. "You're direct tonight."
"I find it saves time." Harry swirled his wine, watching the liquid catch the light. "How long have you been planning this rescue operation?"
"Almost two years. Since the refugee crisis began escalating." Gabrielle plated their dinner with efficiency. "We discovered we had similar concerns during a conference in Brussels. The cooperation grew from there."
"Just the two of you?"
"Initially. We've brought in others as needed—carefully vetted contacts who share our goals." She handed him a plate. "The dining table is there, by the window."
They settled across from each other, the small table creating an intimate atmosphere despite the serious nature of their conversation. The food was excellent, rich and flavorful, but Harry found himself more interested in watching Gabrielle than eating.
"Tell me about the others," he said after they'd eaten in comfortable silence for several minutes.
"What others?"
"The carefully vetted contacts. I assume you have people in various ministries, possibly some in law enforcement. A network this sophisticated doesn't run itself."
Gabrielle set down her fork, meeting his gaze directly. "Why does it matter? You agreed to help."
"Because I like to know who I'm working with. Call it an occupational hazard." Harry's tone remained conversational, but his eyes were sharp. "I've found that the most dangerous allies are the ones who keep secrets from their partners."
"Everyone keeps secrets, Harry. Even you, I'd wager."
"Some secrets. But not from people I'm trusting with sensitive operations that could end careers if they go wrong."
Gabrielle was quiet for a long moment, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. "There are twelve of us across six countries. Mid-level officials mostly, people with access but not enough visibility to attract attention. A few aurors, a couple of researchers, one person in the French archives department who's been invaluable for tracking refugee movements."
"Names?"
"Not tonight." Her voice carried a note of finality. "Trust has to be earned on both sides, don't you think?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Fair enough. What about funding? This kind of operation requires resources."
"Private donations mostly. There are wealthy families throughout Europe who remember what it was like to be hunted. They contribute quietly."
"And Calderón? He didn't strike me as the type to work on charity cases."
"He has his reasons. His sister was killed by Death Eaters during the war—she was visiting London on a student exchange." Gabrielle's expression softened slightly. "He blames himself for not bringing her home sooner."
That explained the Spanish representative's passion, Harry thought. Guilt was a powerful motivator. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Not many people do. Calderón doesn't discuss personal matters." She took a sip of wine. "What about you? What's driving your involvement in this?"
Harry considered how much to reveal. "I've seen what happens when good people do nothing. During the war, after the war. Sometimes the system isn't enough."
"Sometimes the system is the problem," Gabrielle agreed. "The ICW talks about international cooperation, but when it comes to actual crisis response, politics always takes precedence over humanitarian concerns."
"Is that why you agreed to work within Calderón's framework? Even though it requires treating refugees like potential criminals?"
"Progress requires compromise. You can't let perfect be the enemy of good." She leaned back in her chair, studying him. "Though I suspect you understand that better than most. The Boy Who Lived couldn't have survived by always choosing the moral high ground."
Harry felt a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you're still alive. Because you won. And because..." She hesitated, then continued. "Because you investigated me without hesitation when you suspected I might be working against you. That's not the action of someone who always assumes the best in people."
"Would you prefer I had assumed the best?"
"No," she said quietly. "I respect it. Too many people in our line of work are either naive or paranoid. You've found a middle ground."
They finished dinner as the conversation shifted to lighter topics—books, travel, the peculiarities of international magical law. But Harry found himself analyzing everything Gabrielle said, searching for inconsistencies or tells that might reveal more than she intended.
She was good, he had to admit. Her answers were consistent, her explanations logical. But there was something about the timing that still bothered him. The rescue operation was elegant and well-planned, but it also provided perfect cover for someone with different objectives.
"You're thinking very hard about something," Gabrielle observed as she cleared their plates.
"Just wondering how this all fits together. The timing, the relationships, the way everything came together so neatly."
"You don't trust neat solutions."
"I don't trust coincidences." Harry stood, helping her carry dishes to the kitchen. "And there have been quite a few coincidences lately."
"Such as?"
"Such as meeting you that first night. Such as you being assigned to refugee affairs right when this crisis is escalating. Such as Calderón having a sister killed by Death Eaters, giving him the perfect emotional motivation for this kind of work."
Gabrielle set the dishes in the sink and turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Are you suggesting I'm lying?"
"I'm suggesting that in our line of work, stories that fit together too perfectly are usually constructed rather than natural."
"And what would be the purpose of such construction?"
Harry moved closer, close enough to see the slight tension around her eyes. "That depends on what you're really trying to accomplish."
"I told you what we're trying to accomplish."
"You told me what you want me to believe you're trying to accomplish. There's a difference."
For a moment, they stood there in the small kitchen, the air between them charged with tension that was part suspicion, part attraction. Then Gabrielle smiled—not the diplomatic smile she wore in meetings, but something more genuine and slightly predatory.
"You know," she said softly, "I was attracted to you during the tournament partly because you were dangerous. All that power, that willingness to do whatever was necessary. Most students would have died in that tournament."
"I'm not a student anymore."
"No. You're not." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume, could see the slight flush on her cheeks. "You're much more dangerous now. More experienced. More ruthless when you need to be."
"Is that what you want? Someone dangerous?"
"I want someone who understands that sometimes the right choice isn't the clean choice. Someone who won't judge me for the compromises I've had to make." Her hand came up to rest on his chest, fingers splaying against the fabric of his shirt. "The question is, what do you want?"
Harry looked down at her, aware of the warmth of her hand, the way her breathing had quickened slightly. This was a decision point. He could step back, finally establish some professional distance, and keep his suspicions and his attraction for this woman separate. Or he could lean into both, use the connection to learn more about her real agenda while satisfying the desire that burned hotly between them.
"I want the truth," he said finally. "All of it. Eventually."
"Eventually," she agreed. "But not tonight."
"What about tonight?"
"Tonight, I want to forget about politics and refugees and international incidents." Her other hand joined the first, fingers beginning to work at the buttons of his shirt. "Tonight, I want to concentrate on more immediate concerns."
Harry caught her hands, stilling them. "This doesn't change anything. I still have questions."
"I know." She looked up at him, her eyes dark with want. "I still have secrets. But right now, I don't care about either of those things. Do you?"
He held her gaze for a long moment, weighing options and consequences. Then he released her hands and brought his own up to frame her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones.
"No," he said, and kissed her.
This time, there was no pretense of discovery or surprise. They both knew exactly what they were doing, what they wanted. Gabrielle's response was immediate and hungry, her mouth opening under his as her hands resumed their work on his shirt buttons.
They moved through the apartment like dancers following familiar choreography, pausing to kiss against walls, hands roaming and exploring as clothing began to disappear. By the time they reached her bedroom, Harry's shirt was gone and Gabrielle's dress was unzipped, hanging loose on her shoulders.
"You're still thinking," she murmured against his neck as they tumbled onto her bed.
"Am I?"
"You get this little line right here when you're analyzing something." She pressed a kiss to the spot between his eyebrows. "Even now, you're trying to figure me out."
"Maybe I like puzzles."
"Maybe I like being mysterious." She sat up, straddling his hips, and let her dress fall away completely. "But some things are exactly what they appear to be."
Harry's hands settled on her waist, thumbs stroking over the curve of her hips. "Such as?"
"Such as the fact that I've wanted you since I was a little girl. Such as the fact that you make me feel things I haven't felt in my life." She leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain around them. "Such as the fact that whatever games we might be playing, this isn't one of them."
Her kiss was softer this time, more intimate, and Harry felt some of his analytical distance slip away. His hands moved up her back, feeling the warmth of her skin and the slight tremor that ran through her as he touched her.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with desire but also something more vulnerable. "I need you to know," she said quietly, "that regardless of everything else, this is real for me. Whatever you might think about my motives or my agenda, what's happening between us is real."
Harry studied her face, a pulse of magic surrounding them for a moment as he kept looking for deception and found none. "I believe you," he said, and he knew he meant it.
The admission seemed to break something open between them. Gabrielle's next kiss was desperate, almost frantic, and Harry responded in kind, rolling them over so she was beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist as they pressed together.
They made love with an intensity that surprised them both—hungry and almost competitive, as if each was trying to prove something to the other. Gabrielle was vocal in her pleasure, her moans and gasps filling the room as Harry's mouth and hands explored every inch of her body. When he took her breast into his mouth, sucking gently while his fingers worked between her legs, she arched against him with a cry that was part pleasure, part frustration.
"Harry, please," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I need—"
"I know what you need," he murmured against her skin, adding a second finger to join the first inside her. She was incredibly wet, her body responding eagerly to his touch, and the knowledge sent a surge of desire through him.
Gabrielle's breath hitched, her hips bucking against his hand. Her skin felt electric, every nerve sparking under his touch. She clutched at him, desperate for more, her voice breaking into a low moan as he curled his fingers just right. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air heavy with heat and want. Harry's lips grazed her collarbone, then her neck, leaving a trail of warmth that made her shiver. He was relentless, his focus entirely on her, watching every twitch and gasp as if decoding a secret language written across her body.
She came with a sharp cry, her body tensing beneath him as waves of pleasure rolled through her. Harry watched her face as she climaxed, memorizing the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her lips parted on breathless moans. Her chest heaved, her breaths ragged, and for a moment, she looked almost vulnerable—like she'd given him something she hadn't meant to. He didn't pull away, though. He stayed close, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out the aftershocks until she was trembling.
Gabrielle's eyes opened, hazy but filled with need. "You're too good at that," she said, her voice rough, a half-laugh breaking through. She reached for him, pulling him closer, her lips crashing against his in a kiss that was all teeth and urgency. Her hands roamed his chest, fingers tangling in the dusting of hair there, then sliding lower to grip his hips. She wasn't done—not even close.
Harry groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating between them. Her touch was bold, unhesitating, and it set him on edge in the best way. He shifted, positioning himself between her thighs, but he didn't rush. Leaning back, he took in the vision that she was as he slapped his cock against her pulsing snatch, coating the bulbous head with her vaginal juices.
"Stop teasing already!"
Her cry of complaint made him smirk and he took the time to tease her some more, pressing the head against her wet entrance but not quite entering her. Gabrielle glared at him even though sharp gasps escaped her until finally, Harry decided he'd teased her enough.
Lining himself against her welcoming entrance, Harry entered her slowly, savoring the way she stretched around him, the way her body welcomed him. Gabrielle's eyes locked with his, wide and fierce, as if daring him to look away. He didn't. Holding her gaze, he pulled back until only the tip remained inside before he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her.
"Oh, yes," she breathed, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. "Just like that."
Harry braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her while fucking her with deep, steady rhythm she seemed to crave. Her hands roamed his back, alternately gripping and stroking, her legs tight around his waist. Every movement felt like a conversation—push and pull, give and take. Her nails raked lightly down his spine, and he hissed, the sensation sharp but not unwelcome. She smirked up at him, clearly pleased with herself, and he couldn't help but grin back.
The room filled with the sounds of their fucking—skin slapping against skin, breathless moans, and whispered encouragements. Gabrielle's voice was a constant, a mix of soft curses and his name, each sound spurring him on. She was louder than the two times they'd been together, entirely unapologetic, and it drove him wild. He quickened his pace, just enough to make her gasp, her head tipping back against the pillow. Her hair fanned out, silvery-blonde strands sticking to her sweat-dampened skin, and he thought she'd never looked more beautiful.
"Harry," she said, her voice tight, almost a warning. Her hands found his shoulders again, nails biting into his skin as she arched into him. He could feel her getting close, her body tightening around him, and it pushed him closer to his own edge. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.
"Let go," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "I've got you."
That was all it took. Gabrielle came again, her inner walls clenching around him, her cry sharp and unrestrained. Her body shuddered beneath him, her legs trembling as she rode out the wave. Harry watched her, captivated, his own control slipping. Her pleasure was his undoing. He buried himself deep, his release crashing over him with a force that left him breathless. He groaned her name, his voice lost in the haze of it all, his body shaking as he spilled into her.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths. Gabrielle's head rested on Harry's chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his ribs. The room was quiet now, save for their breathing and the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
"That was..." she began, then trailed off.
"Intense," Harry finished for her.
"I was going to say 'necessary,' but intense works too." She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. "You're very good at that."
"Thank you. So are you."
She laughed softly. "Such proper manners, even in bed."
"Would you prefer something else?"
"I prefer honesty. In all things." Her expression grew more serious. "Which brings us back to our earlier conversation."
Harry brushed a strand of hair from her face. "The one about trust and secrets?"
"That's the one. I meant what I said before—trust has to be earned. But I also meant what I said just now. This is real for me, Harry. Whatever else is happening, whatever other agendas might be in play, what I feel for you isn't strategic."
"But there are other agendas in play."
"There always are. The question is whether we can navigate them without destroying what we've got between us here. I'm not dumb to think we're in or will be in a relationship, but even then, this is real for me."
Harry considered her words, his fingers combing through her hair. "The rescue operation—how many people have you extracted so far?"
"Seventeen families. Forty-three individuals total." Her answer came without hesitation, which was either a sign of honesty or very good preparation. "Why?"
"Just wondering about the scope. Seventeen families seems like a good start, but hardly enough to justify a two-year operation."
"We've been careful. Moving too quickly would attract attention." She shifted, settling more comfortably against his side. "Plus, we're still building our network. The goal is to be able to handle much larger numbers as the situation deteriorates."
"You think it will deteriorate?"
"Don't you? The ICW vote today was a step in the right direction, but it's not going to solve the underlying problems. If anything, it might make some countries less willing to accept refugees voluntarily, knowing they'll be subject to registration and monitoring."
Harry had to admit she had a point. The compromise they'd reached was better than Calderón's original proposal, but it was still far from ideal. "So the rescue operation becomes more important."
"Exactly. Which is why we need your help. Britain has resources and connections that could make a real difference."
"And what exactly would you need from me?"
"Access to your network, for one thing. We need reliable people in various countries who can help with transportation and documentation." She paused, seeming to weigh her words. "Also, we could use someone with your reputation to help secure funding from British sources."
"My reputation?"
"Harry Potter, the Man Who Won, asking for help on behalf of war refugees? Most people wouldn't be able to say no." She smiled slightly. "It's not the most subtle approach, but it's effective."
Harry felt a familiar mixture of irritation and resignation. His fame was a tool he'd learned to use when necessary, but he'd never felt entirely comfortable with it. "You've thought this through."
"I've had a while to think it through. The question is whether you're willing to be that public about your involvement."
"That depends on what else is involved. You mentioned seventeen families so far—do you have a list of who they were, where they came from?"
"Of course. Though I don't carry that information with me for obvious reasons."
"Obvious reasons being that if you were compromised, the list could be used to track down the refugees you've helped."
"Among other things, yes."
Harry nodded, filing away the information. "What about the other members of your network? How much do they know about each other?"
"As little as possible. Compartmentalization is essential for operations like this." Gabrielle's tone was becoming more cautious. "Why all the operational questions?"
"Because if I'm going to be involved, I need to understand how things work. What the risks are, what the safeguards are." He met her gaze directly. "And because I'm trying to decide how much I can trust you."
"And what's your conclusion so far?"
"That you're very good at this. Almost too good." Harry's hand stilled in her hair. "The operation is well-planned, your explanations are consistent, and your emotional appeals are perfectly calibrated. It's either genuine or very sophisticated manipulation."
Gabrielle was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "And which do you think it is?"
"I think you're telling me mostly the truth. But I also think there are things you're not telling me, things that might change my perspective if I knew them."
"Such as?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Harry sat up slightly, forcing her to adjust her position. "For instance, how did you know I'd be at that gallery opening the first time we met after all those years?"
"I didn't. It was a coincidence."
"Was it? Because that would be quite a coincidence—you happening to be there the night before I was scheduled to speak at the ICW."
Gabrielle's eyes flashed with something that might have been annoyance. "Not everything is a conspiracy, Harry. Sometimes events really are random."
"In my experience, when something seems too convenient to be true, it usually is."
"Then perhaps your experience has made you paranoid."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's kept me alive." Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his discarded trousers. "I should go."
"Wait." Gabrielle caught his arm. "Don't leave. Not like this."
"Like what?"
"Angry and suspicious and believing I'm lying to you."
Harry paused, looking down at her. She made a striking picture—naked, her hair tousled, her eyes bright with frustration and something that looked like genuine hurt.
"I'm not angry," he said finally. "But I am suspicious. And until I can figure out why, it's probably better if I maintain some distance."
"Distance won't give you the answers you're looking for."
"Maybe not. But it might prevent me from making decisions based on the wrong information."
Gabrielle released his arm, sitting back against the headboard. "You're going to investigate me. Properly this time."
"Yes."
"And if you find something you don't like?"
"Then I'll deal with it accordingly."
She nodded slowly. "I understand. I don't like it, but I understand."
Harry finished dressing in silence, aware of her watching him but not sure what else to say. The evening had been a mixture of revelation and confusion, of growing trust and persistent doubt.
At the bedroom door, he turned back. "For what it's worth, I believe you when you say this is real for you. What's between us, I mean. That's the only reason I was there with you."
"But you don't believe the rest of it."
"I believe some of it. Maybe most of it. But there's something else going on, something you're not telling me, and until I know what that is..."
"You can't trust me."
"I can't trust the situation," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
Gabrielle pulled the sheet up to cover herself, suddenly looking very reserved despite her obvious sophistication. "What happens now?"
"Now I go back to do my job. I'll honor the agreement we made regarding the ICW proposal, and I'll consider your request for help with the rescue operation. But any personal involvement will have to wait until I'm satisfied that I understand what I'm getting into."
"And if you decide you don't like what you find?"
Harry considered the question seriously. "Then I'll make sure you know where I stand. You deserve that much honesty, at least."
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I think."
Harry didn't look back again as he let himself out of the apartment, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities. The evening had raised more questions than it had answered, but it had also given him a clearer sense of what he was dealing with.
Gabrielle Delacour was intelligent, passionate, and almost certainly hiding something important. Whether that something was dangerous remained to be seen. But Harry had learned long ago that when it came to matters of trust, it was better to verify than to assume.
Walking through the quiet Paris streets, Harry found himself thinking not about the refugee crisis or international politics, but about the look in Gabrielle's eyes when she'd told him this was real for her.
He hoped, for both their sakes, that she was telling the truth about that at least. Because despite his suspicions and his professional caution, Harry was beginning to consider the prospect of marking her as his as well.
And that, perhaps more than anything else, was what had him undecided about it all.
TBC.
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