LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Fifteen

"So," Itmana said, and sliced a lamb croquette in half.  "Any questions?"

Hermione, unsure of how to respond, tore off a piece of bread and took her time selecting a dipping sauce from the assortment on the table.  She had about a million questions, truth be told, but they weren't things she could easily inquire about without looking like she didn't know what she was doing.

Not that she hadn't managed fairly well, given the circumstances.  She'd had two more broken bones, and had improved upon her initial technique by healing the break but then also splinting the bone; superfluous, of course, but it seemed to reassure the patients.  Then, too, she supposed it probably did stretch the bounds of belief to come in with a shattered kneecap and walk out with not so much as a cast to show for it.

Let it not be said I couldn't learn from my mistakes.

The half-dozen sets of inoculations she'd given were more straightforward; Itmana's supplies were well-labelled, and while finding a vein wasn't always the easiest thing in the world, her patients had submitted with good grace to her fumbling attempts.  Luckily, she didn't have to deal with the impossible task of writing prescriptions; this clinic, Khaled had told her that morning, dispensed most of its drugs in-house, and employed local muscle - two gigantic Bluto-lookalikes named Ahmo and Maxim - to make sure that the neighbourhood's local suppliers didn't get any bright ideas.

So far, Hermione had made good use of surreptitious Summoning Charms, added to knowledge gleaned from her patients' files, to find what she needed to in the little closet-sized pharmacy.  This wouldn't always be her responsibility; once the clinic's in-house pharmacist got back from his vacation, Khaled had assured her that he'd take over that aspect of things.

Personally, Hermione thought it less nerve-wracking to puzzle it out and go find it for herself, than to be under the pressure of having to come up with a written name on the spot.  But she'd deal with that when the time came.

Less complicated but more frustrating had been the minor complaints:  bronchitis, ear infections, and a half-dozen children with headlice - luckily, no venereal diseases or abortion-seekers today, as Hermione hadn't a clue how to handle that, magic glove or no magic glove.  The lice had responded admirably to a Banishing Charm - she'd dispensed the shampoo and fine-tooth comb anyway as a followup, since the patients' mothers, clearly familiar with both diagnosis and treatment, seemed to expect it - but she'd had to fall back on Muggle remedies for the sinus-related issues, as she didn't have her own medipotions with her.

Aha.  Now there was a good question. 

"How do you feel about homeopathic treatment?" she queried from around her mouthful of bread.  Itmana looked surprised, then shrugged.

"My training didn't cover it in depth," she admitted.  "Why?  Are you a specialist?"

"After a fashion," Hermione said, thinking guiltily that if Poppy Pomfrey were listening in on this conversation, her eyebrows would have all but disappeared under her overstarched wimple.  "Do you think that's likely to be a problem?"

"Frankly," Itmana said, spearing another croquette, "you could practice voodoo and I wouldn't bat an eyelash, so long as it works and your patients get better."  She gestured expansively with her fork, an old habit of hers Hermione remembered fondly from Cairo, and grimaced.  "Nobody's exactly beating down the doors to offer us any competition, in case you hadn't noticed.  We're the only Arabic-speaking clinic in town, unless you count the ritzy little private hospital over next to the Institut de Monde Arabe that caters to the diplomats and the literati.  Which I don't.  And while socialized medicine is wonderful if you're a citizen of the European Union, you'd be surprised at the shoddy way the big hospitals treat immigrants - particularly if they're Arabs, and particularly if they're poor."

She leaned across the table, lowering her voice meaningfully.  "We exist to level the playing field a bit, and obviously we've got the money to do it; still, it's been very difficult to find qualified nurses who speak the language and who are willing to come all the way up here to work in this neighbourhood, instead of staying at one of the big hospitals nearer the center of town.  And until Uncle Farouk found you, I'd just about despaired of finding another doctor to take on some of my workload.  Under those circumstances, I'd say that homeopathy is the least of my concerns . . . and even if I did have an informed opinion about it, which I don't, I trust my uncle not to send me a nutcase.  If he says you're a good doctor, I'm not going to argue with him."

She popped the remainder of the croquette into her mouth, washed it down with a swallow of fruit juice, and spread her hands questioningly in Hermione's direction.  "Does that answer your question?"

"Perfectly," Hermione said, cheering inwardly, and sat back to enjoy the rest of her dinner.

Tomorrow was going to be a whole lot easier than today had been.  But before she went home tonight, she needed to stop and make things right with Neville.

**

"A wizarding marketplace in Paris?" Neville said.  "Of course there's one.  I'm surprised no one told you before you came."

Hermione had spent most of the subway ride back to the Latin Quarter trying to think of a plausible excuse for her behaviour the previous afternoon, and hadn't had much luck.  Fortunately, Neville hadn't demanded an explanation from her, but had merely accepted her fumbling apology and offer of a conciliatory drink with quiet equanimity, and then gone to change out of his gardening clothes and lock his office.

"Everyone gets a bit rattled now and then," he'd said.  "You don't owe me any explanations, Kate."

That had been earlier - much, much earlier.  Now, it was ten o' clock, and they were sitting at a scarred wooden bar, peering at each other through a choking cloud of smoke and drinking beer of dubious lineage that Neville assured her was superior to any wine on the list - or rather, Neville was drinking it.  Hermione had taken one tentative sip of hers, pushed her mug emphatically in his direction, and started ordering Cosmopolitans.

The name of the bar, amazingly enough for a pub in the heart of Paris, was 'Connelly's Corner'.  There was a game of darts going on in one corner and a game of dice in another.  The place was packed with college students - French and Not French in equal parts.  And the bartender spoke both French and English with a decided brogue.

Next stop, Brigadoon, Hermione thought, and stared muzzily into the depths of her third martini.  "There are a lot of things no one bothered to tell me," she said meaningfully.  "I mean, you'd be shocked."  She took a none-too-ladylike gulp of her drink.  "And besides, you never know, do you?  I mean, take Cairo for instance.  You'd have thought that out of all the other cities in Egypt, it would have had wizarding shops, and instead everything was in poky little Alexandria.  For all I know, the Frogs might have decided to put their Diagon Alley in the middle of the royal sheep-paddock at Versailles.  Underneath a fountain or something.  You know."

Neville laughed.  The beer didn't seem to be affecting him much; obviously, Hermione thought, he'd learned more than mulching techniques during his internships.  "Oh, it's much more poetic than that," he said.  "It's at Les Halles."

"Les Halles?"  Hermione frowned at him.  "But they moved the market at Les Halles to the suburbs," she said.  "Didn't they?  I read about it in the guidebook.  Some urban-planning nightmare or other.  Mum and I got off the Métro by mistake and got lost there, when we vacationed here a few years back, and there's nothing in that part of town except for this awful glass-and-steel shopping mall and some ugly overpriced apartments from the 1980s -"

Neville was grinning.

"They moved the Muggle market, sure," he said.  "The magical Les Halles is still alive and well, believe me.  You just have to know how to get in."  He checked his watch.  "All closed for the day by now, of course.  We stock an herb-shop there with cuttings from the Museum greenhouses, and that's open from six to two - my friend Jean-Jacques takes over a shipment of plants before the sun comes up, just large enough to fill the day's needs, and most everything sells out by ten a.m.  You can still find what you need after that, but things tend to be picked over."  He sipped his beer.  "Some of the other shops stay open until seven or eight, though.  Depending."

"Makes sense," Hermione said, and mentally resigned herself to another day spent dispensing amoxicillin for colds until she could get her hands on some Pepper-Up.  A bit depressed by this, intending just to finish her drink and go, she was distracted from the dregs of her Cosmopolitan - and from Neville's continuing commentary on Parisian tastes in magical greenery - by a bright curl of flirtatious laughter coming from the direction of the door.  Curious, she looked round to see what had caused it, and saw a young couple at a table by the pub's open front windows.

Tourists, most definitely.  Probably American, from the accent, and their backpacks and casual clothes pegged them as students.  Hermione figured they were probably staying in one of the two nearby youth hostels - lovers without a private room to go back to, stealing kisses in a café over a shared bottle of cheap wine - and sighed with a touch of wistfulness, and more than a little envy.

She remembered that look of shared confidences, of jokes held in common.  She'd once leaned across a restaurant table just that very way, thrown back her head in laughter and curled one hand affectionately over her lover's.

Her husband's.

She'd looked that young.  She'd felt that happy.

Her grip tightened on the stem of the martini glass.  Neville was still talking, but she'd stopped listening.

That was Angst Girl, whimpering her familiar refrain.  And chiming in with her weary rebuttal was the Voice of Caution, who these days had taken to calling herself the Voice of Reason:  Stop that.  Where's a wish going to get you?  You'd be just about as likely to dream him back into existence.  And we all know how likely that is.

You'd be just about as likely to dream him back.  At that, an image from last night's dream, unremembered until now, rose up from Hermione's subconscious, vivid as a clip of film:  You're snoring in my ear, she'd murmured, and had jostled his arm lightly to wake him.

Not the most romantic vignette in the world, granted.  But it had been familiar and reassuring nonetheless, at the time - Bill had always wrapped his arm around her waist like that, had always started snorting in her ear at the height of her beneficial REM cycle, and had always woken just enough, when she shook him, to yawn, grunt an apology, and turn over to spend the rest of the night on his other side.

Funny that she didn't remember getting that reaction from him in her dream.  As a matter of fact, if she recalled it correctly, last night's phantom-Bill had said 'Ouch!' - in response to that gentlest of love-taps! - and had grumbled something about how she'd wanted his arm there in the first place, on her own head be it, and who was she to talk about making noise in her sleep, anyway?

But he hadn't turned away from her.

It was odd, Hermione thought, but at that instant, as seen through the admittedly fuzzy lens of lapsed time and partial inebriation, her dream lover hadn't sounded very much like Bill at all.

Ridiculous, said the Voice of Reason - and for once, her voice sounded less tight, more sympathetic.  He sounded exactly the same.  You're just starting to forget, that's all.

Forget?  Hermione bridled.  How could I ever forget?  How could I possibly?

People do, you know.

Not me.  I remember everything.  Everything!

Liar, said the Voice calmly.  Even as you sit here, you're losing information.  How could you not?  Who can keep six years inside their head inviolate?  Memories get fuzzy; that's why we love them so much.  And the longer you go on, the more they blur.  That's life.

No.  No, you're wrong!  Hermione shuddered, and felt the stem of her glass crack under the desperate crush of her fingers.  Whether she was cut or not, she couldn't say; her whole body felt numb.

I won't forget.  Never, never, never.

"Kate, are you all right?" 

Neville, looking worried.  Hermione swallowed hard and forced her head to move in the semblance of a nod.

"Fine," she lied.  "Just tired, that's all.  I'm going to call it a night."

"Sounds like a good idea," he agreed.  "Want me to walk you home?"

Hermione shook her head.  "I'll Apparate.  Thanks anyway."

"Oh - okay."  Neville shrugged.  "Well, then, I'll see you around.  Sweet dreams."

"See you," Hermione echoed, and carefully set down her broken glass on the bar, avoiding the bartender's reproachful look and biting back bitter-tasting laughter as she rose to go.

Fat chance.

**