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Summary
“Votre nom est Louis, oui? Êtes-vous d'origine française ainsi?” Marcel asked, stepping forward and hugging him, too. A friend of Harry’s is a friend of his, and vise versa. When he felt the boy stay limp in his arms, he stepped back and gave him a confused look before turning to Harry. “Est-ce qu'il ne parlait pas français?”
Harry laughed at his best friends and shook his head. “Non, et je ne pense pas qu'il soit français, soit.”
Marcel blushed a furious red and turned back to Louis. “Sorry, mate.”
Louis’ eyes were wide and his eyebrows raised, confused as to what just happened. “Excuse me?"
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Or Harry's cousin from France comes to live with him.
