Chapter Text
When he had taken the job, he had done only the barest of research into the requirements. They seemed simple enough, doable for someone as ill-qualified as he was for anything else.
Knowing now what it was and how much it demanded of the person doing it, he would have compared it to a dozen cases of No. 4 Privet Drive. The only good part about it: He was paid regularly and could leave at any time he wished, unlike his childhood home.
The position mostly entailed being ignored by the tenants or being yelled at when something was amiss. He ran more than he walked, whispered orders to his colleagues more than he conversed normally, and spent more time with pets than he had ever spent with even a single one of their owners.
Yes, one could throw their hands up at him and ridicule his sense of patience. Nevertheless, he continued this not because he sought recognition and neither was he somebody keen on being verbally abused at every turn but he stayed for what it gave him.
The reason why he had decided to stay in the employ of the building’s tenants was he had decided to leave a world that he had learned to despise.
No, perhaps not quite despise. It had simply worn him down.
The fame, the attention, the overbearing and intense interest in him had ground away any desire he had of being alive. Having felt like a doll trapped in a body being pulled along by strings to feed the frenzy that was the public of the wizarding world of the British Isles, he had up and disappeared from it.
His decision to do so dated almost a decade, and still, his name was being uttered in wonder in most taverns and social circles, making waves all across the wizarding world. Posters with his face on it were probably still plastered on most ‘missing’ walls in Auror departments across the world with the steadily increasing rewards for any information that would lead to his discovery that still encouraged wizards, witches, creatures, and other magical beings to come searching for even a fragment of his magical signature.
Being a concierge was, therefore, the ultimate hiding spot.
It was under the radar even among muggles. A hard, mundane job, working in a building for the rich and famous of the muggle world that had kept the limelight away from him. However, as his luck had, more often than not, been rotten, he couldn’t help but cast a glamour charm just to be certain of his continued ‘missing’ status. So far, nobody had ever paid him any special attention that would be construed as more than a brief bored glance.
The high-pitched electronic bell of the phone next to him rang and pulled him back to reality.
“Mayfair Plaza Reception, Mr Batch speaking,” he announced to the mouthpiece, his voice an inviting, albeit rehearsed, song to the unknown.
“Batch! Is my car ready yet? I wish to leave as soon as possible. My wife has extended her stay in Paris by a week and I have no interest in wasting another blighted second within these walls.”
“Absolutely, Mr Collins. Will you be wanting to take the Rolls or Mercedes?”
“I’ll be taking the Benz,” the gruff voice replied.
“Very good, sir,” he replied, already calling one of his colleagues over to listen in. “The car shall be outside momentarily. Will you be taking any luggage? Shall I send Mr Randler up to help you?”
“No, no, keep that buffoon away from my things,” Mr Collins warned harshly.
Mr Collins was the equivalent of what Vernon had been like, only less fat and generally more aesthetically pleasing. He demanded excellence and absolute obedience from the staff working in the building. He was an extreme version of what one could expect of a tenant in this building.
People living in this building loved their privacy, and the loved silence of the staff, who attended them, even more. That was part of the job.
“No, I won’t be bringing any luggage with me. Just have the car ready when I’m down,” Mr Collins barked before the call ended without another breath wasted on pleasantries.
“Very good, sir,” he whispered to a dead phone line, the concierge’s face a mask of perfect politeness.
Checking the watch, he noticed that his first job of the day was upon him. One task of many left until he would be released to go home. A plenty dozen hours until the change of shift.
His ‘chores’, as he liked to call his tasks, were as varied as they were demanding. Dog walking, checking in with the maintenance department, and running the team meeting shortly before shift change. Other than that, he only had to make sure the tenants had everything they needed and didn’t set the building on fire. He didn’t envy his predecessors’ chaotic times during the wild ’60s and ‘70s where every tenant thought themself a rockstar or diva and life was a continuous drama.
As one would imagine by now, the job wasn’t great. But it was honest work, and aside from being a grown babysitter, he met people who were none the wiser about who he was. He could be anybody other than Harry Potter.
Checking his watch again, he nodded to himself as his first task was almost on and so he rushed for the door, walking through it with practised fluidity before coming to a halt at the curb of the drop-off. A long and piano black Bentley with tinted rear windows rolled up around the corner and came to a stop right next to him.
With the most graceful bow, his gloved hand palmed the handle and opened the door with an elegant ‘whoosh’, allowing the two short occupants to awkwardly slide across the beige leather seats and bumble down onto the pavement. The miniature humans waited for him to shut the door and send the car off with a discreet knock on the window.
“Ready for your newest riddle?” He asked the two children.
As he had practised that morning, Harry let his face go white and grimace in horror.
“Harold?” the voice of the young boy asked worriedly. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
Schooling his features immediately, he drew a knowing smile onto his lips, rubbing his hands in exaggeration.
“I’m not sure,” he replied in trepidation. “It’s just this riddle that I’ve prepared. It’s frighteningly difficult. Horrendously so, actually.”
“I don’t believe you!” The twin sister insisted with an admirable attempt at bravado, yet a frown on her face underlined her confusion and exposed her clumsy attempt to hide her fear.
“It’s a challenging one. You’ll never solve it,” Harry cackled confidently.
Looking at him with a shit-eating grin, the boy, Timmy, puffed his chest and began walking toward the building, urging his sister to come along and run for the elevator.
Following them while he watched the sidewalk for strangers, he quickly bounced up the stairs to the entrance and once inside, joined the children at the elevator. He nodded at his colleague Peter, who had returned from bringing Mr Collins’ car up to the back entrance, and silently instructed him to watch the reception while he accompanied the twins to the flat where their family lived.
Although it was unusual for a concierge to accompany the children of tenants, he had made an exception for the twins’ parents. They were a merry pair that he had grown fond of and was certain they would grow up to be good people.
“C’mon then, I want to get right on it,” Timmy called impatiently, already waiting inside the elevator and his small hand holding the metal door open.
Harry could only snicker in amusement.
As soon as he’d joined them in the elevator, Timmy fished for his key and unlocked the panel that would engage the numbered buttons. Rosalie, the twin sister, pushed the button to their destination with practised ease that would lead to their floor.
It was a routine of the two. One of them turned the key, the other pushed the button. Every time, always in the same way.
As soon as the doors of the elevator shut, the time for the riddle began.
“You can touch me, but I can’t touch you back. You can see me, but I only reflect you and can never reject you. What am I?”
As soon as he finished reciting the memorized lines, he smiled knowingly at the twins who were already deep in thought, mulling about possible answers.
Timmy would rub his nose while Rosalie would play with her earlobe. It was a tick they had picked up after a previously successfully solved riddle. Since then it has featured every riddle-in-the-elevator session without fail.
After what seemed like mere moments, Timmy’s face lit up.
“A dream!”
Harry smiled with pity and shook his head. “No, I'm afraid that is not the correct answer.”
Defeated, the little boy let his shoulders sag, pouting in disappointment.
“A teacher, a teacher!” Rosalie chirped excitedly, hoping to beat her brother to the punch.
“Regretfully, while a good attempt, is not the correct answer either,” Harry said with a clap.
“Hey, why is she getting a compliment and I do not,” Timmy moaned angrily.
Harry could only grin at the boy’s fervour. “Because, technically, a teacher can be touched but they can’t touch you, they reflect what you should achieve in learning but alas, they do reject you when you are wrong.
Not that Snape had ever made it easy.
Moments later, the elevator’s arrival bell announced the end of the game, reminding the twins that they’d have to continue trying to find the answer to the riddle on the ride up with Harry, tomorrow.
“Why do you always have to give us difficult riddles? Why can’t you give us an easy one?” Timmy whined dejectedly as they disembarked the metal box.
Holding the door open, Harry gave them the same answer he always had when frustration threatened to boil over.
“Because then it wouldn’t be as fun,” he explained. “It’s all about the challenge that makes it a rewarding game.”
“Now, be on your way,” he instructed, watching them turn to leave before dangling a figurative carrot behind them. “I’ll be waiting to hear your final answer tomorrow and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a reward for you.”
“You will?” Rosalie suddenly asked, her ears perked at the mention of a ‘reward’.
“No backsies,” Timmy warned next to her, his finger pointing (non)threateningly at him.
“Solve the riddle and find out,” he dared them, giving them a wink as they disappeared into their flat and the door closed behind them.
(Break)
After what seemed like an eternity of watching the cars pass by the glass door, though reinforced by several layers to deaden the sound of traffic, he heard the dull ring of the phone next to him. Dazed and unsure of how long it had been trying to draw his attention, Harry lurched for the handle and almost smacked himself in the side of the head.
“Mayfair Plaza Reception, Mr Batch speaking.”
“Harry,” a familiar voice replied. “How are you doing, my boy?”
“Everything as it should be, sir,” he replied to his boss, the actual owner of the building. Or the owner of the company that leased the flats, to be more specific. Actually, he wasn’t quite sure how real estate economics worked and who paid his monthly salary. He just knew that Phileas Blomkvist was the name on the other side of his employment contract. As such, the buck stopped with him.
“Harold,” the older man’s voice huffed with disappointment. “How many times have I told you to call me Phileas?”
“More times than I can bear to count, sir. However, it just wouldn't do, if I am to do my job properly,” Harry reminded the man with a sigh. “The others among the staff would take that as favouritism and would hold a grudge. I can’t have any dissent among the ranks.”
“But it’s the truth,” Phileas scoffs with feigned hurt. “You are my favourite employee. It’s a testament to your work ethic. Since your arrival, the Plaza has become the shining example of an excellent standard of living. The envy of all of London.”
“Nobody likes a show-off,” he huffed into the phone. “Least of all, myself.”
“Good work ethics and dedication to their profession is to be, at least, commended, don’t you think?”
“Must I remind you that your wife has me keeping tabs on you?”
A whistle could be heard coming through the speaker of the phone followed by a sad sigh.
“I liked you more when you had less of a backbone, Harry.”
Blomkvist had an affinity for getting under people’s skin which allowed the man to peer inside their innermost self and gauge whether they were a valuable addition to the building. The man didn’t only do that to the staff. He also tended to unknowingly do so to prospective tenants.
Harry had to remain vigilant at all times to keep the inquisitive nature of the man at bay. So far he had been successful at resisting the urge to snap at the man’s unusual prodding nature.
“When we first met, you seemed so impressionable,” he tried again, putting weight on Harry’s staunch insistence to keep his past secret. ”You agreed to everything I said when we penned the contract. Where has that boy disappeared to, eh?”
“Impressionable lads often become astute men, sir,” Harry replied flatly, his lips forming a smirk on the speaker of the phone.” Such is nature, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, well, enough of that then-”
“Very good of you, sir,” Harry added, making his relief all too known.
“Quite,” Phileas muttered, surely shaking his head and spending a sliver of thought on why he had hired him, despite his excellent performance thus far.
“Pleasantries aside, “Blomkvist announced finally, “About why I’m actually calling you. Is the flat on the fourth floor of the west wing, 4B, presentable? The three and a half room with the nice corner balcony that lets in the sun in the late evening?”
Raising an eyebrow at the unusual nature of the sudden inquiry, Harry opened a drawer and pulled out his logbook. Opening it and letting his fingers page through dozens of sheets of bound papers, his eyes landed on the aforementioned small but expensive piece of real estate.
“It can be by tomorrow afternoon,” he replied after checking, noting that it hadn’t been in use for quite some time. New tenants preferred the light of the sunrise as opposed to the setting sun. Something about morning motivational energy or such. He didn’t know what to make of it. To him, the light was light and not a subject for philosophical deliberation.
“Is your inquiry purely for your information or are we to expect a new tenant soon?” “
“It is indeed for a new tenant, you’ve guessed right,” Phileas agreed happily. “The newcomer has already agreed to take the flat as is. She has even decided that the pictures we keep in the brochure did it enough justice to convince her to come and move in right away.”
That hadn’t happened before. Not to his knowledge. “When would the new tenant be arriving?”
“Ah, I believe her plane from France arrives tomorrow at two in the afternoon...and given traffic during the week, I reckon she would be at the door at around four. Will that be fine with the preparations?”
Re-checking the status of the intended flat, Harry went through his mental checklist before he could answer that question.
“Is there anything else I should know about the new tenant? Does she have any pets, phobias, or any mentions that could be important for security?”
Hearing only the shuffle of paper come through the phone, he waited with a ballpoint pen in hand, ready to flourish his notepad with important facts, hungry to immediately come up with a variety of ideas to blow the new tenant’s mind on arrival.
“Her application profile is quite barren, except that she’s French, tends to do a lot of shopping, and that she seems to work for a private bank. Based on the fact that she comes well recommended by her previous landlord in France, and that she has already paid a substantial deposit and down payment, it was considered a moot point to ask her for more information. The young woman cherishes her privacy and was unafraid to stuff our mouths with money at the head office,” Phileas finally admitted. “I’m afraid you'll have to go and find out about her hobbies all on your own.”
Harry groaned inwardly but also recognized his similarity in preferences with the new tenant. All he could hope to do is not make the wrong first impression. It would make all future encounters with her all the more troublesome.
Residents didn’t take interest in him anyway but giving them a wrong first impression would make his job far more difficult than it needed to be. Being a concierge is a socially demanding job, and a neutral, if not friendly relationship, was key here.
The notes on his paper pad were far less in number and detail than he was used to but he could still work with what he had written down.
“I’ll try my best, sir,” he announced to his employer, his voice not betraying any doubt that he’d succeed in his task. “Given what you’ve told me, I should have the space ready just two hours shy of her arrival.
“Excellent,” the older man marvelled. “I knew I could count on you. Well, then I best leave you to do your work without further interruption.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No, Harry. Thank you .”
(Break)
Standing at the baggage claim, Fleur could hardly wait to get out from under the watchful eyes of the muggle onlookers ogling her now for the better part of an hour since she had disembarked the Air France jet. Despite having paid top-dollar for a first-class seat, the luxury didn’t quite extend until the end of the arrival procedure. Getting your luggage seemed to be beyond the responsibility of the airline.
That didn’t change much after her baggage came and she made her way to the limousine service at the exit out of Heathrow Airport. The stares continued but luckily, her aloof alter-ego helped keep the more courageous people at bay. If it was one thing she really didn’t like doing, it was having to resort to verbal abuse to make them go away.
She wasn’t a horrible person by any measure of the imagination, just worn out and a bit of peace was more valuable to her than any jewellery or wealth that hung from her body.
Coming to London had been a long and well thought out plan of hers, despite her family’s best attempts to dissuade her from her decision.
What is it in England that France wouldn’t be able to satisfy? They had asked. Honesty would have hurt them so she simply settled on opportunities .
Gabrielle hadn’t been informed of Fleur’s decision and couldn’t intervene in time to stop her from leaving. Not that she could have done much from where she was, having long ago moved in with her long-time boyfriend and busied herself with her work. They had however agreed to keep in touch and should the need have arisen, Fleur could stay with them.
Getting in her hired car and finally catching a breath of respite, she nodded at the driver and they set off to her destination.
Viktor had recommended the place when he’d been on holiday here and promised her that it would serve her needs, if not also any want she’d develop. It was well situated, in walking distance of high-end shopping districts, so-called highstreets as the English called it. Specially developed roads designed for commercial use. A remnant of a past age before shopping malls robbed the romance of window shopping in the city centre. Paris was full of them and she much preferred it.
“I’m David, by the way,” the driver suddenly introduced, much to her chagrin. She wished for silence but groaned internally as he launched into a monologue of all the reasons he was the best hire car in London.
“Uhuh,” she merely offered, hoping he’d catch on to her lack of enthusiasm and decide to cease his attempts at conversation.
He remained unperturbed by her curt response, instead, he doubled down on his efforts to convince her of his attractive services.
“Anytime, anyplace, and to any destination of your choosing.”
“Does this quality service include silence?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“You’re not very quiet now,” she pointed out while her gaze was focussed on the outside of her window. “Are you?”
“My apologies, ma’am.”
The drive continued in silence since and he stopped looking at her in the mirror altogether. He hadn’t been used to being rebuffed by women. Or maybe never at all. There’s a first time for everything.
Her jaw grew tense for a moment before she let her discomfort take flight and leave her. Snapping at people was second nature to her, a skill she’d acquired over years and years of putting other people in their place. She was so used to punishing others for their attempts to get close to her that she’d appear like a mean-spirited bitch around the clock. Sometimes she’d catch herself giving her own face an angry stare in the mirror.
Who was she kidding, she had outright frozen anyone out of her life who was not bound to her by experience or blood. Only her family, her husband William, and her few friends.
Only then would she show her vulnerable self. Her kind and caring nature. The real Fleur Delacour.
Again, she had never liked being harsh but if she gave an inch, others would always rip out a mile. It was something she had to learn the hard way, and she had given many miles before. Except for one time.
There had been a time she would have given every single part of herself that she owned but it was not up to her. The one time she had risked humiliation, she had suffered it.
Thinking about it, her jaw became tense again and her eyes squeezed shut at the memory of the dance.
It was a relatively beautiful memory of her youth when her worries were much less stressful and her hopes shined far brighter than her regrets that dulled them now.
She had made the acquaintance that would change her life forever.
The allure hadn’t affected him in the least which allowed her to spend time with him without having to worry about his intentions. Smiling at the memory, she couldn’t help but bite her lip at his sheepish face whenever he would get flustered at her proximity to him.
His hair had been wild and untamed, and his vivid green eyes honest as they’d sometimes regard her when she told him about being Veela. He had listened for hours on end and not interrupted her once, except for when he didn’t understand a French word she had used when the English language had failed her.
How nobody had taken him as their lover, had been beyond her.
Had everything gone according to how she had pictured it, she wouldn’t be where she was now.
Instead, when she least expected it, when her heart was hiding in her throat and she bet everything on one card, he had rejected her.
Only months later, when she had the time and the will to contemplate his actions, had she considered that it hadn’t been out of malice toward her.
Harry Potter didn’t have a mean bone in his body. His eyes hadn’t carried a speck of ill will toward her at any point in time. He had simply never realized what he had grown to mean to her. How much she wanted to be with him, despite their age difference and despite everything that was going on in their lives.
But, she had wanted too much at once. Something that required years to dawn on her. A long time after she had let the pain in her heart relent and soften for someone else instead.
Her eyes still closed, she shook her head at the sting of regret stabbing at her chest.
It was a teenage romance. A dramatized version of what one would usually read in a light novel. It was nobody’s fault. Not his, nor hers.
A knock on the window pulled her from her musings into the past, a portier standing expectantly next to the car.
Through the tinted window, she could make out a uniform and a gloved hand. His demeanour was welcoming and his smile honest. She could tell a fake smile when saw one. She wore one right now.
Focussing on keeping her allure down as much as she could, she gathered her belongings and thanked David for the pleasant drive.
Opening the door, the portier offered his hand for support, which she reluctantly took. They were strong, his hands. Not dropping an inch from her weight on them. They were also warm.
“Welcome to Mayfair Plaza,” he said before a very brief look of shock travelled across his face. The moment was fleeting, though, and his face morphed back to the warm smile he’d held just before.
Once she’d gotten to her feet, he had ushered her up the stairs to the revolving door before he nodded at another young man who then moved to gather her bags and load them on the baggage car.
Inside the reception hall, the portier who’d helped her strode confidently around the desk and fiddled with some paperwork. He wasn’t a portier at all it seemed. Perhaps the receptionist?
“As per your instructions,” the receptionist began, his hands busy with gathering items from the shelves on the wall behind the reception desk, “we have done the best we can to make your stay as discreet as possible and made no announcements of your arrival to your neighbours. Furthermore, I would like to inform you that, should you be expecting mail or deliveries, you must arrange it to be addressed accordingly.”
Nodding at his thoughtful information, she made a mental note not to make any orders via muggle mail.
“These are the keys to your flat and the access card to the garage,” he continued quickly without looking at her, which she found odd but appreciated dearly.
“Sounds perfect, thank you,” she replied, appreciating his helpful nature more and more.
“Splendid.” His enthusiasm radiated and the honest smile grew even more. How could someone working to please other people be so nice?
Not giving her much time to think further on it, the man she had yet to know his name, came back around the reception desk, inviting her to follow him to the elevator. Once inside, he had gone on to explain to her how housekeeping and maintenance were organized and what to do in case of an emergency and which numbers to call, should everything else fail.
They reached her room on the western side of the building, the side that received most of the sunset, where he swiftly opened and went in first, letting his gaze fly across the space. A move that seemed well-rehearsed by professionality. His face had finally become serious, letting go of the infectious smile he had been giving her since she had arrived.
Once she had joined him inside, he’d explained how the flat was organized and that if she required anything to be moved, be it now or much later of her lease, she only need inform him.
“If there is anything else you need, you may call the reception on #1 of the telephone. There is always somebody on duty. Currently and any time from 3 PM to 3 AM, it will be me, Mr Batch. Otherwise, it will be my colleague Mr Hawthorne.”
He waited for her to acknowledge the information which she did once the silence between them grew awkward.
Before he turned to leave, she remembered that it was customary to tip the staff. But before she could find the wad of pounds tucked into the corner of her handbag, he cleared his throat and offered another benign smile.
“It’s alright,” he assured her, a hand placed on his chest with a slight bow. “Our staff at the Mayfair Plaza do not accept any tips, even if well-intended.”
“I’m sorry,” she uttered, her cheeks growing pink.
“Think nothing of it,” he bowed once more. “If that will be all, I’ll be taking my leave. I hope you enjoy your time at the Mayfair Plaza and I wish you a pleasant evening.”
Without another glance, he turned and closed the door behind him with a careful thud, leaving her to the quiet of the flat.