moi je joue | will

june 2004

A warm breeze ruffled through the fresh green leaves of the trees that lined Rue Claudel, the hidden wizarding avenue in central Paris. Bérénice had fallen out of love with her home city for a while, she realised, but living in the small coastal town of Chatoeil, and then the grand and beautiful—but lonely—Palace of Beauxbatons had left her homesick for the French capital — and while the moldu streets of the city were noisy and busy, it was still a calmer, more familiar sort of noisy and busy compared to that of the countries she’d been visiting back and forth over the last couple of months. It was so nice to be home.

Speaking of noisy, there was a loud bartering at a bookstand on the side of the cobbled street, and it was only when she turned to look at the men arguing she realised why her ears had pricked up at that voice in particular. Twenty Bezant? The spine is cracked! complained Will — her Will. Nice stopped in her tracks, so caught off guard by seeing him here, in Paris. He seemed to sense her presence at that moment and turned to look at her, staring.

She had seen him a few weeks ago, from a distance, at the British Ministry’s book-gala-thing. She hadn’t made a point of saying bonsoir then because the time before that she’d stormed off in a huff after he’d accused her of not knowing what cheating meant — the rest of his accusations had been more vague (she was sure he thought she’d been sleeping with Harlan long before actually breaking up with him).

The heel of her shoe slipped into the gap between cobbles and it jolted her into saying “Hi,” in English. Her skin was tanned against the crisp white linen of her sundress, and her freckles had risen to the surface after on-and-off weeks in sunnier climates. Will looked equally well-suited to the balmy temperature Paris had been blessed with today; Nice’s eyes drifted down over the pale blue button-down shirt and light chinos — it was like he was a different man. Bérénice adjusted her market bag on her shoulder. “What are you doing here?” She flicked her eyes back up to meet his.


@William Dasher

Will blinked at the stallholder, a look of shock and disgust clear on his face. Will would pay good money for  books - any book, really - but he was getting fleeced by a pensioner. The book wasn't even in good kip. The leather of the book was mottled, the spine was cracked and Will almost threw up when he'd seen that the previous owner had recklessly folded over the corner of the pages instead of using a bookmark. He needed to sit down. He was getting lightheaded.

"Tu es fou," the Englishman announced with a scoff, his arms folded across his chest as the wind blew through his dark hair. It needed a trim by now, the curls making an appearance as the ends just kissed the back of his collar. His dark eyes slid past the old man's shoulder to the sea of books behind him, some spines facing out, some not, all in higgedly-piggeldy stacks that looked inches away from crashing down on the man's head. Shame, Will thought with the hint of a smirk.

This was meant to be relaxing. He loved this, visiting secondhand bookshops in the hope of adding to his already vast amount at home. Frustratingly, the shopkeeper (his name was Denis, apparently) seemed unmoved by Will's outburst. Rather, the older man simply leaned against the crooked door frame and lit up a cigarette, rudely flicking the ash in Will's direction. "Just because I'm English, doesn't mean I'm stupid," he went on with narrowed eyes, only for Denis to smile sweetly and mime that he didn't understand the language. What a little sneak.

Irritated, Will spun around, only to freeze as a familiar face greeted him. It had been quite a while since they'd last seen each other and he'd rather forget the encounter all together. Bérénice's dress stood out to him, a sharp white against the backdrop, before his brain kicked back into gear as she faltered.

"Hi," Will echoed her greeting, just managing to fix his face in time to go from surprise to some semblance of neutrality. "Just getting ripped off," he told Bérénice  with a game smile, turning his head to glare at Denis who shrugged and continued to smoke. The man owned a bookshop. One false move and the entire place would go up in flames. As though the event might happen, he took a step towards the Healer and side-stepped away from prying eyes.

"What are you --?" Will paused. "Oh." Bérénice lived in Paris now, he'd answered his own question. He gave her a quick smile as he noticed her shopping bag. "I'm not staying long," he assured her and there was a faint bon from behind him Will swiftly decided to ignore.

Nice smiled, glad that Will’s immediate reaction hadn’t been to start flinging more accusations at her. He stepped closer and she didn’t step back, despite a desire to get away from the bookseller standing in his doorway watching them with interest. She brought her attention back to the Englishman in front of her as she folded her hands together.

He started to ask (presumably) what she was doing (here), then stopped as he apparently caught up with the fact she was from here. Bérénice supposed it didn’t make sense for him to know where she lived now; they hadn’t been on speaking terms when she’d quit teaching, and he hadn’t known her prior to living in Chatoeil — the most he knew was that she’d resided here once, that her parents still did. She felt an urge to clarify she hadn’t needed to move back in with them at thirty-five.

Nice glanced at the man behind Will and a soft smirk tugged at her lips as she focused on her ex again. It would be easy for that to be it, to say hello, wish each other well, and be on their way — but something held her back. A not insignificant part of her missed him and his stupid jokes and his clumsy manner, and she wouldn’t be opposed to being friendly if he could resist insulting her again.

“I was at the market,” she explained, as if the stick of baguette poking out the top of the bag wasn’t obvious. She rolled her lips and looked at the book in Will’s hand. “Business or pleasure?” she inquired with another twitch of her lips.

Will was shell shocked. He hadn't been expecting to see  Bérénice again, or at all, if he was going to be honest. That horrible twisting of guilt knotted his stomach and made him shift his weight to his left foot, trying his hardest to keep his expression neutral. He wasn't angry at her any more. He hadn't thought of her in weeks. He was mostly disappointed, in both her actions and how he'd reacted in return.

She'd been to the market and his eyes slid to the baguette in her bag. Very provincial, he thought but he wasn't an intrusive one. What Will wouldn't give to be able to get fresh produce from a local market instead of the stodgy, tasteless supermarket bread. Even the organic loaves at Waitrose were claggy. All Bérénice was missing was a beret and a bouquet of fresh flowers and she'd be picture perfect. The thought made him smile.

The question made him glance up at her quickly. "Pleasure," he answered Bérénice with a quick smile. "Or rather, it was," he added darkly, meaning the run in with the shopkeeper, not his ex's reappearance.

"I wanted some more books," big surprise, "and Paris is the best place for them," he began, placing a hand very gently at the small of Bérénice's back in an effort to distance them from Denis and his beady eyed stare and overpriced tat. Will's love of secondhand books was threefold. One, it was better for the environment. Two, they were cheaper and three, they doubled up as interesting decor and conversation starters. Providing he could convince Tara to spend some time in his flat.

"It's a bit extreme, I know," Will laughed as he let go of her back and held his hands up, palms outwards, in the universal symbol of surrender. "And I had a day off, so," he shrugged casually, his eyes straying over to Nice's face. She was heartbreakingly beautiful. There was a pinch of something in his chest at seeing her again. It wasn't loss, it didn't feel like sadness, perhaps it was nostalgia creeping in around the edges.

He cleared his throat. "Can I walk you somewhere?" Will asked her, a hand extended out in an offer to carry her bag.