For everyone at Schnoogle, leave a review at the end, start your own threads at the message boards (I’m totally OK with that), rate this story, go crazy. I really enjoy finding out other people’s comments and suggestions about this story.

 

We’ll Always Have Paris

Chapter 5

 

“I still can’t believe you fell asleep during the play. Right next to McGonagall, too. And the way she jumped after you rested your head on her shoulder like it was a soft, fluffy pillow. Well, that was priceless, which means a lot coming from me, considering I have enough money to buy just about anything.” Draco was laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. It was amazing he didn’t laugh himself right out of his seat on the Academie Autobus. The last time he had laughed that hard, Longbottom had splashed a Fungus Potion all over himself and his partner for the day, which, to Draco’s delight, had happened to be Weasley. The sight of Ron growing moldy before his very eyes would forever be one of Draco’s most cherished memories of his Hogwarts days. This recent blunder of Phillippe’s would most certainly be filed away as well for a rainy day. Who would have thought such thunderous snores could come from such a chiseled nose?

 

They were on their way back from Valogne, which was a wizarding town similar to Hogsmeade, but with one big difference. Valogne had a theater, so one of their field trips was a visit to the town to have some fun and then catch a late showing of a famous French wizarding play. A large number of students had signed up for the trip, so Professor Lemieux arranged for the Beauxbatons school bus to provide transportation. The Academie Autobus was very large and spacious. It was more spacious inside than it appeared from the outside. Somehow over 100 students were able to fit on it, but no one appeared cramped. On the contrary, students and teachers were walking the aisles, stretched out across seats, and lounging about comfortably. The bus had seats like those on a train, so people could face each other instead of just facing the front of the bus.

 

Sitting with Phillippe in the seats across from Draco and Isabel, Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing along with Draco. Phillippe was so embarrassed over what had happened and so peeved at Draco for the incessant teasing, that Hermione didn’t have the heart to hurt his pride any further. She had tried jabbing Phillippe in the ribs during the play to wake him, but her attempts had been an exercise in futility. He’d had a very early Quidditch practice and being in a darkened theater for several hours had been just too tempting for his increasingly heavy eyelids. Hermione had managed to keep him awake for most of it, but as the play drew to its dramatic conclusion, she'd gotten so engrossed in what was happening onstage that she'd forgotten all about poor Phillippe. The actor playing Luc, an aristocratic, pompous wizard, had just delivered his gut-wrenching, emotional farewell to his dying love, Dominique, a poor, Muggle girl, when Phillippe let out a loud snort, followed closely by the Deputy Headmistress’ startled shriek. Just thinking about it forced Hermione to turn her head and look out the window to hide the smile creeping its way onto her lips. But after hearing Draco's continuing snickers, Hermione turned back to look sternly into his gray eyes, which were dancing with delight.

 

“That’s enough, Draco. It could have happened to anybody. Phillippe has a very important match in two weeks and he’s been training extra hard.”

 

Phillippe was too tired to get into a verbal argument with Hermione’s schoolmate, so he tried to ignore Draco, but he also knew Draco’s taunts worked to Phillippe’s advantage in winning Hermione over. He might not be the most perceptive person, but he wasn't blind, either. It was obvious to everyone at Beauxbatons that a drastic change had occurred between the two Hogwarts students after their trip to the Rosceaux Museum. Their first two weeks in France, Hermione and Draco barely seemed to tolerate each other; but since the museum trip two weeks ago, they were much too “chummy” for Phillippe’s taste. They had even begun calling each other by their first names. He had done some investigating and had learned from Isabel that Draco had received a mysterious letter, which had seemed to upset her British beau, but he had refused to discuss it with her. A few nights after their trip, while they were walking, Phillippe had casually hinted to Hermione that Isabel was worried about the letter Draco had received. He had told her Draco refused to discuss the matter with Isabel, and she was concerned. But Hermione had waved her hand nonchalantly, and answered, “Oh, that. He showed it to me already, and we’re dealing with it. Tell Isabel it’s nothing to worry about.” Upon hearing that, Phillippe could not help but wonder -- for someone she insisted was not even a friend, Draco seemed to have confided in her about something very personal.

 

It was then Phillippe realized Draco was more of a threat for Hermione’s affections than he had originally thought. In the past two weeks, she had tried several times to cut their study dates or walks short with flimsy excuses, but Phillippe got the distinct impression that she just wanted to be around Draco more. He would point this out to her, which prompted emphatic denials, and she would end up staying longer with Phillippe, which is all he wanted anyway. He was much smarter than Draco ever gave him credit for, and there was a reason why he was the most sought-after wizard at his school. His talents were not limited to the Quidditch pitch; Phillippe also had excellent instincts when it came to the opposite sex.

 

Sensing Hermione’s growing agitation at Draco’s jibes, Phillippe took the opportunity to reach over and twine his fingers through hers. This simple gesture finally put an end to Draco’s laughing. Hermione looked nervously at both boys, but she did not pull her hand away. Phillippe also glanced at Draco, but with a look of triumph.

 

Isabel surveyed the scene before her with a keen eye. Since their arrival, Isabel had gotten the sense that there was much more to Draco and Hermione’s “relationship” than either would ever admit. They no longer attacked each other maliciously or needled each other. The looks that passed between them were too fiery to be rooted in disgust. She found herself envious of Hermione, plain, bookish, outspoken Hermione Granger. How many times had Isabel watched Draco and Hermione debating historical events, house elves’ rights, and the future of the wizarding society? Isabel knew she could turn heads wherever she went, but Hermione had the ability to make people listen to her. Even the professors were impressed with Hermione in class and singled her work out as a model of excellence for the other students to follow. She knew Hermione felt Isabel was just another pretty face, and Draco thought she was a flaky blonde, but Isabel was actually quite observant, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

 

After Draco had received that mysterious letter, he would barely say two words to her despite her enticements to distract him. She had never seen any boy as bitter and filled with ire as she had seen in Draco those few days.When she saw him the morning after the museum trip, she had barely recognized him. He'd been laughing and smiling and looking as if a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He still made time to see her and take walks or do some homework together, but she knew it was most likely because she was Isabel Dupris, daughter of the French Minister of Magic. Draco would not be the first boy who wanted to keep her company just for her beauty and family connections. But she wanted things to be different with Draco than with her past beaus. He was intelligent and ambitious, and she was aware of his family’s predicament in their native England. The minute she'd laid her eyes on him, she'd known he was worth the risk. But the last two weeks Draco had been acting differently. He would get these far-off looks in his eyes sometimes, like he was dreading something. When she’d ask him about it, he would assure her he was fine, just tired. Several of her friends had remarked to her how much Draco’s eyes kept roaming to Hermione whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. Isabel had noticed this as well, but told herself she was imagining it. She had even seen him flinch a few times when Phillippe would put his arm around Hermione’s waist or take hold of her hand like he'd done just a few moments ago. He had been teasing Phillippe mercilessly for the incident during “Luc et Dominique,” but his mirth had halted abruptly the moment Phillippe’s hand had brushed up against Hermione’s. You didn’t have to be a Mensa wizard to figure out what was going on…

 

…unless you were Hermione. Although one day she would most likely be the president of Mensa, for the time being Hermione was just like many other 16 year old witches: utterly and completely confused.She couldn’t help it; ever since their big blow-up two weeks ago in Draco’s bedroom, Hermione’s feelings for Draco had changed. He had revealed a side of himself she knew other people rarely saw, if ever. Draco was usually so cool and calculated, but that night he had been emotional and open. When she had felt his shoulders relax at her touch, her pulse sped up. And when he had spoken her name, Hermione had to force herself to not smile as broadly as her mouth wanted. She hadn't anticipated this. In fact, she wished it had never happened, but every time her eyes passed over him, she knew it was too late. Perhaps it was because she had been separated from her friends and her life at Hogwarts for over a month now. She had always heard that people often acted out of character when they went to foreign countries, but she had figured she would have become addicted to cheese or started collecting miniature statues of the Eiffel Tower. That was the only logical explanation. She figured if she focused on her work and spent more time with Phillippe, this new fascination with Draco would pass. It had to. Phillippe is cute and funny and he likes me for me. Once we get back to Hogwarts, I can put all this stuff about Draco behind me and get back to my normal routine with Harry and Ron.But then she looked over at Draco as he stared out the bus window, mesmerized by the shapes of the French countryside whizzing past him like a thousand fairies, and all thoughts of Harry, Ron, and Hogwarts faded away.

 

Draco was relieved when the bus finally came to a halt in front of the school. The trip had been going well until Phillippe had starting pawing at Hermione again. Then there was that smirk he had flashed across to Draco. It was the same grin Potter got whenever he grabbed the snitch right from under Draco’s nose. But the purpose of that afternoon was to maintain the peace between them, not find more reasons to dislike their French friends.

 

Draco was still surprised at how skillfully Hermione had “tricked” him into this tortuous double date. They had been working on a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem a few nights ago, and Draco’s frustration had been steadily increasing, when Hermione suggested, “Why don’t we ask Phillippe for a hint on how to solve this? He had this class last year, and I am certain he would help if I just … “

 

Draco had been leaning back in his chair, but he brought it crashing forward at Hermione’s proposition, thus effectively halting her train of thought. “There’s no way I’m asking for anything from that daft git.”

 

Closing her book with a sigh, Hermione peered disbelievingly at Draco, “For someone so desperate to do well in his classes, you are awful quick to dismiss someone who’s offered help.”

 

“That’s not true. I agreed to help from you, didn’t I?” he responded matter-of-factly, and then added in a rush, “and I am not desperate.”

 

“All I’m saying is don’t let your irrational dislike for Phillippe get in the way of acing this class.” She started doodling on her parchment and added, “You may even like him if you got to know him. He’s smart and funny, and he really listens to people when they talk. If you’d stop being so stubborn, you’d realize how much you and Phillippe have in common.”

 

With a doubtful shake of his head, Draco laughed. “I have absolutely nothing in common with that bubble-headed, four-eyed, excuse for a wizard. He’s a little too squeaky clean for my taste. At least Potter has a rule-breaking streak in him to keep him from becoming a human sugar cube.” Hermione raised her eyebrows; Draco just gave Harry a compliment, in a bizarre, twisted sort of way - but for Draco, it was definitely a compliment. “The way the teachers and students talk about Hasley, you’d think he could walk on water without using any magic at all. He just seems a little too perfect to be true. Nobody is that good.”

 

“Of course he isn’t perfect, but he is pretty terrific, and it isn’t fair of you to always condemn him and belittle him when you don’t know the first thing about him. You’re both excellent Quidditch players, you’re both from old wizarding families, and you both think Isabel Durpis is a charming witch.” She failed to hide her disdain, “Although that last point is beyond any logical reasoning for me.”

 

With smug satisfaction, Draco crossed his arms across his chest and commented, “Now who’s doing the condemning? For someone who’s so quick to jump to Hasley’s defense, you are awfully judgmental of a girl you haven’t taken the time the time to get to know.” He teased, “You keep going on about how I never say anything nice to Phillippe, but all the while you make snide comments about Isabel behind her back. At least I have the decency to insult him to his face.” Then he added as an aside, “Not that he’s bright enough to recognize sarcasm when he hears it, but at least I’m not as catty as you.” He laughed as Hermione’s cheeks got pink with frustration.

 

“I am not catty,” Hermione denied vehemently. “She started it all with her rude little comments behind my back about my hair and my accent. You always pick on Phillippe first. He would never try to lure you into an argument. That’s just not his style. He is too sweet.” She felt compelled to defend Phillippe since he was not here to do it himself. Then that mischievous grin found its way to Hermione’s lips again, “In fact, I’ll bet you couldn’t make it through one afternoon without teasing him about something.”

 

“Is that a dare?”

 

“You bet your pompous, elitist arse it is.” She stared directly into his cool gray eyes, not blinking once. “That is, if you’re man enough to accept it.” She knew she had him when he cocked his eyebrow at her, a playful smile lighting up his face.

 

He leaned across the table towards her, a thrilling feeling coursing through his veins. Her audaciousness drew him to her like gold to a kniffler. Her cheekiness was irresistible. “Oooooh, bring it on, Granger. Bring it on.”

 

Before they headed down to the entrance hall on Saturday morning, Draco made sure it was just going to be the four of them in their little group that day. “I don’t want any of Hasley’s ‘flunkies’ hanging around us all day,” he snapped. Hermione assumed Draco was talking about Phillippe’s flock of friends. While Draco preferred to surround himself with big, burly associates, Phillippe chose friends who were smaller than he, but just as devoted as Crabbe and Goyle were to Draco. “They serve no purpose other than to inflate his already over-sized ego.” Hermione tried half-heartedly to stifle her laughter, but the irony overtook her. Draco failed to see anything funny. “What?”

 

“Nothing. You just mentioned another thing you have in common with Phillippe.” She tried to answer nonchalantly, but her smile was as broad as ever.

 

At first Draco seemed to miss her meaning, but then it dawned on him. “My friends are completely different from those little, mindless groupies, who hang on his every move day in and day out.”

 

Hermione seemed to be rethinking the matter, nodding her head in agreement, and replied in a serious tone, “You’re right, Draco. Crabbe and Goyle are different. They’re not very small, are they?” She started laughing out loud and took off through the door before Draco could reply. He shook his head resignedly, knowing he’d walked right into that one.

* * * * *

And so that Saturday, Draco spent his day with Isabel, Hermione, and Phillippe.All four of them cavorting around town, trying to be on their best behavior. They shopped in the bookstore, they visited the Quidditch supply store, they ate pastries and drank coffee at a cute little café. It was the longest afternoon of Draco’s life, and that included the time his father made him weed the garden without the use of magic as a punishment for embarrassing him at a party.

 

Hermione and Isabel had very little in common. Isabel was a “blue blood” witch, used to the finest things galleons could buy – expensive robes, extravagant vacations, society dinners, and a steady stream of boyfriends. Hermione was more interested in books than fashion, stubborn, highly intelligent, uneasy in crowds, and still uncomfortable with her late-blooming beauty. In spite of their biases against each other, Isabel and Hermione managed to have several nice conversations and dispel some of the prejudgments they originally held about each other. On the other hand, a friendship between Draco and Phillippe seemed inevitable. On paper. In reality, however, they spent all day trying to prove their superiority over the other. When Draco said he had a Firebolt Ultra, Phillippe said he had a Firebolt Ultra Zoom. When Phillippe said he was a 4^th generation wizard in a pure-blood family, Draco had to announce he was a 6^th generation wizard in one of the oldest and wealthiest families in England. What had started out as a friendly date erupted in a full-fledged game of one-upmanship, the likes of which Hermione had never seen. Inheriting her father’s diplomatic nature, Isabel intervened, suggesting they separate for dinner, for which Hermione was eternally grateful. Phillippe dragged Hermione back into the Quidditch store, and made them late for the play, which was why he ended up having to sit next to Professor McGonagall. Even though Draco had generally been on his best behavior for most of the day, the snoring incident was too precious to resist. Hermione was astonished it had taken him that long to crack. She was quite impressed.

 

Now that they were back on the bus and headed for Beauxbatons, Draco had time to ruminate on the day’s events and came to a conclusion about Phillippe. After spending the whole day with the other boy, Draco decided he no longer wished to hex Phillippe on sight – now he wanted to smash Phillippe’s perfectly chiseled nose with his bare hands, and then break both of his arms so that flying a broomstick would be out of the question. Draco hadn’t even realized he was smiling until Isabel asked, “Draco, why do you have such a big grin on your face? Are you still thinking about our walk last night?” Draco reached around her shoulders, happily noting Hermione’s disapproving stare, and leaned over to kiss Isabel lightly on the forehead. Isabel started prattling on again about how much fun she’d had that day, and Draco continued to smile, but his thoughts were not filled with flowers and romance. They were filled with crushed bones and fat lips.

* * * * *

It was late when they got back to the school, but Phillippe insisted on walking Hermione to her door, like a proper gentleman. This essentially meant Draco had to respond in kind to Isabel. With a parting glance, Draco, looking somewhat forlorn as Phillippe slid his strong arm about Hermione’s narrow waist, left with Isabel as she took his hand in hers and led him in the opposite direction.

 

After a quick and distracted kiss goodnight to Isabel, Draco bid her adieu at her door and hurried off to the VIP wing hoping to shoo Phillippe out the door. But when he entered the VIP common room, he didn't see any sign of the French boy. He spied Hermione through the French doors leading to the terrace; she was alone. Reflexively he started towards the door; he hadn’t spent any time alone with her that entire day. It felt strange. They had spent so much time together in the past few weeks, he hadn’t realized how much he valued their evening study sessions until he’d had to share her with others for the entire day. He turned the knob slowly, so it would make no sound.

 

As soon as he walked onto the terrace, a wave of sweet-smelling fragrance greeted him; the enchanted flowers always smelled their sweetest at night. Hermione was sitting on one of the benches with her back to the door, staring up at the stars, and for some inexplicable reason, Draco did not want to disturb her. As Draco approached from behind, he stepped softly. Finally he was so close he could reach out and stroke her long, soft hair and curl it around his fingers. Hermione sat as still as a gargoyle statue, but he stopped when her voice broke the still, night air.

 

“I’m surprised Isabel let you out of her sight so fast. It must have been a quick goodnight.”

 

“How did you know it was me?’ he asked, still standing behind her bench.

 

“I could smell your cologne the minute you stepped outside. It’s spicier than any of the flowers out here.” She still continued staring heavenward, but she could feel him staring at her in the moonlight. Talking about school-related subjects usually calmed her nerves, so she remarked, “I think they must have some kind of aroma enchantment on this garden.The smells are always much stronger out here when the sun sets. Perhaps a Fragrance Charm or an Aroma Charm.” During her little recitation, Draco walked around and stood in front of her. He motioned for her to scoot over, so he could sit next to her and she complied. Draco seated himself next to her with a sigh, then he joined her in staring up at the stars as if looking for answers to life’s deepest questions. Neither of them spoke, preferring the comfort of silence instead.

 

These past two weeks had been such a success, Hermione thought. She had gotten along so well with Draco, it was as if they had been friends for years. Sometimes she even felt as comfortable with him as she did with Harry or Ron, although she would never voice those feelings to another living soul. Somewhere along the way, they had entered an unspoken agreement not to mention Lucius or Harry or Ron or anything else which might remind them of the lives they would return to in a few short weeks. Hermione knew Draco got several more owls from his father. He would become quiet and snappish whenever Midas made an appearance, but he ceased to lash out at her, for which she was grateful. Hermione also sent letters to and received them from Harry and Co. with continued regularity, and, aside from a few rude comments about Pigwidgeon, Draco had also eased off on his Harry and Ron bashing diatribes. To keep the peace, they set these differences aside and found that being in each other’s company was not the pit of despair each had imagined.

 

Then there were moments, just like this one on the terrace, when Hermione wanted nothing more than to be reminded of the fact she was a muggle-born Gryffindor and he was a Mudblood-hating Slytherin. The heightened scents of the flowers, the picture-perfect, romantic sky, the gentle pressure of his arm leaning against hers were all reminders of the complications Hermione did not want to consider. She noticed it most when they were alone and close together like this. Her face and palms would get warmer and warmer and her toes would get tingly. Then her stomach would start fluttering until she felt like all the butterflies from the garden had taken up residence there. She had no idea if Draco felt anything out of the ordinary in these moments or if he even noticed anything odd about Hermione’s behavior, but it did not escape her notice that one of them would usually mention a person or subject pertaining to Hogwarts, thus lifting the veil of “What If’s” promptly from her confused mind. This time it was Draco.

 

“What happened to Prince Charming? Did Potter’s owl come swooping in and peck him until he finally detached himself from your hip?” Draco stood and walked over to one of the low walls so he could look out over the garden. “Potter has that way of spoiling other people’s fun.”

 

Now that Draco had moved to the other side of the terrace, Hermione's pulse slowed to normal and her head felt clearer. “Phillippe left just a few minutes before you got back. He said he had an early Quidditch practice again tomorrow.” She lowered her voice, “But I think he just wanted to avoid any more of your teasing tonight.”

 

As Draco looked over his shoulder at her, she saw his lips curl into a half-smile. “You can thank me later.”

 

“You should be thanking me for making sure Phillippe didn’t hex you for all that juvenile teasing you subjected him to after what happened at the end of the play,” she countered, looking sternly at him. “I convinced him that hexing you would do no good; that it would just fan the flames even more.”

 

Draco turned around fully to face her, but then leaned back against the wall, resting his hands on it behind him. “You have to admit the whole snoring thing was pretty funny, though.”

 

A short smile escaped her lips, and she tried to conceal it with her hand, but it was no use. Soon she was laughing and Draco joined her. “OK, it did have a certain degree of humor,” she admitted. “But with all the commotion after it, I didn’t pay attention to how the play ended. It was so close to the end, and between all the laughter and rude comments, by you, I never heard what the actors said.”

 

“That play is one of Mother’s favorites. She used to drag me to it all the time when it played in London.” Hermione looked at him expectantly, listening keenly to him. He took a deep breath, “Dominique was poisoned by Luc’s vicious mother, because Dominique was just a poor Muggle, and his mother feared Dominique would take Luc away from the wizarding world. So his mother poisoned the girl, and, as she lay dying in his arms, he cried and kissed her and all that lovey-dovey stuff.Then he says to her, and this is one of the most famous lines from a wizard play, ‘Je peux être sorcier, mais je n'ai jamais su que vraie magie était jusqu'à ce que je suis tombé dans l'amour avec vous,’ which, loosely translated, means ‘I may be a wizard, but I never knew what real magic was until I fell in love with you.’ As he spoke, Draco looked at Hermione with a steady gaze, letting the words linger in the cool night air. She rose from the bench and stepped closer to him, closing the distance between them, so he could see her eyes glistening in the bright moonlight. He shook his head as if trying to clear away some cobwebs and continued his summation, “Dominique kisses him softly on the lips, and dies in his arms. The End.”

 

“That was really beautiful,” Hermione whispered. “Their love mattered more to them than anything else.”

 

Draco stepped forward abruptly, appearing anxious, “Yeah, well, the dialogue was somewhat cheesy, but I guess it sounds better in French. Then again the ingredients from a Potions list would probably sound better if you read them in French, too.”

 

Hermione shook her head slightly, too, as if trying to rid herself of the same cobwebs afflicting Draco. “It’s been a long day. How about we just call it a night?” she suggested. “We should get up early tomorrow, though. We have to really start preparing for our presentation in Paris. Can you believe it’s only two weeks away?”

 

He remembered back to that day in Professor McGonagall’s office, when he had found out Hermione would be going on the exchange program with him. At that time he had envisioned them to be the eight most horrific weeks of his life. But now the thought that Draco would only have four more weeks with Hermione in France sent a dull ache through his body, which he could not push away, no matter how hard he tried. Suddenly only four more weeks didn’t seem long enough.