We'll Always Have Paris

We'll Always Have Paris

Chapter 6

Hermione woke up early on Thursday morning, because the butterflies in her stomach would not stay still. They were heading to Paris that morning to visit some important Muggle and wizarding places over the next two days then staying overnight at the posh Sorcerie Hotel. Their presentation to the British and French Ministry officials was the last item on the agenda for the Saturday meeting, which would be followed by a big dinner afterwards. As Hermione re-checked her overnight bag to make sure she'd packed everything, Hedwig came fluttering through her window.

Hermione,

I hope Hedwig catches you before you leave for Paris. I wanted to wish you good luck for Saturday, but I know you won't need it. Since Ron's dad was promoted to Deputy Minister of Magic, Mr. Weasley will be there, too, on Saturday. Just think, after this, only two more weeks before you come back to Hogwarts and only two more weeks of Draco Malfoy. Crookshanks misses you, and the rest of us do, too.

See you soon,

Harry

Six weeks ago, Hermione would have read Harry's last sentence over and over, searching for hidden meanings or unspoken romantic undertones. But not today. Hermione's eyes kept wandering back to “only two more weeks of Draco Malfoy” instead.

Hermione could not help worrying about him. For her, impressing the officials was just another feather in her cap, but for Draco the stakes were much higher. Draco had defied Lucius' order to squash Hermione and send her back to Hogwarts in shame. His only chance at redemption in his father's eyes was a flawless show for the officials, and Hermione could tell this had been weighing heavily on Draco's mind recently. This past week he had spent most of his waking hours preparing for classes or reviewing his notes for Saturday. He worked so much, it prompted Hermione, of all people, to suggest he ease off a bit and relax. But when he glared at her with eyes like the sea after a storm, Hermione knew he needed to keep busy to stop himself from dwelling on his father's reaction.

Part of her also feared things would go back to the way they were between them before Beauxbatons as soon as they returned to Hogwarts, and she did not look forward to that. Would he act the same around there as he did here, or was their odd friendship just temporary? More importantly, would she still get a thrill when she felt his eyes upon her? She was uncertain if she wanted that feeling to go away or not. Her sensible side reasoned that everything she was feeling about Draco was purely based on their current circumstances, and therefore not real. But she couldn't deny she would most certainly miss their evening studying and the warm, pleasing way her body reacted when Draco was near her.

Her mind occupied with thoughts and questions about Draco, Hermione failed to notice that she was rubbing her finger absentmindedly over his name on the piece of parchment in front of her. A soft rapping on her door startled her out of her daydreaming. She set the letter down on her desk, patted Hedwig on the head, and moved toward the door. As she reached for the handle, the door opened, forcing her to take a step back.

Draco's pale blond head stuck in her room so quickly, his head almost collided with hers. “Oh, sorry, Hermione,” he stammered. “I knocked a few times, but there was no answer. Professor McGonagall thought you might have overslept again, and she sent me to make sure you were up.”

“Oh, that's all right,” she stated, her hand rubbing her neck. “Nothing like a shock to my system to get my adrenalin pumping in the morning.” Finally catching her breath after the fright Draco had just served her, Hermione regained her sense and stepped back, allowing Draco to enter. She smiled slightly and welcomed him, “Come in.” But she regretted it almost immediately, for when Draco stepped into her room, her ability to speak magically vanished. Since they were touring Muggle Paris that day, they had decided to dress in Muggle clothes and change into their robes only when they headed into the wizard side of town for their trip to the Musee du Louvre. His appearance, in conjunction with the tender thoughts she had been having about him just moments before, transformed Hermione into the Jelly Legs poster child. Any hopes Hermione might have had that Draco had failed to notice her discomfort were swiftly dashed as his eyes warmed with concern, “Are you OK? You look flushed.”

Dammit. Hermione turned her back and walked over to her bed to zip up her overnight bag and give her hands something to do as she steadied her breathing. Has he always looked this good? She took a deep breath and turned around to face the tall, undeniably attractive wizard, who was now standing right next to her bed, anxiety written all over his face. “I'm fine,” she assured him. “I was just a bit surprised, but it's passed. Thanks.” Her eyes roamed over his body, taking in the way his charcoal grey turtleneck fit snug enough to show off his toned chest while accentuating his muscular arms. She had always seen Malfoy in robes of some sort of other; she had never really gotten a good look at how drastically he had changed from a scrawny, pointy-faced little brat into a well built, graceful young man. As her eyes moved downwards to marvel at how Draco's jeans seemed magically tailored to fit only his body, she felt her face getting warmer with each breath and decided any further study of Draco's body was unwise.

Draco wasn't completely oblivious. The crimson-colored cheeks, the flustered expression and speech, the unconscious licking of her lips as her eyes moved over him ... whether she meant to do it or not, Hermione was checking him out. It was too perfect an opportunity. “What do you think?” he asked casually, holding his arms and spinning slowly in a circle so Hermione could get a good look. “Will I pass as a Muggle? I was assured by my personal shopper at Madam Malkin's that a person can never go wrong with jeans when trying to blend in with them.” He flashed his most stunning grin to add to the effect.

It took a few long embarrassing moments, but Hermione finally found her tongue. Trying to act nonchalant, she replied, “You look fine. You'll hardly stand out in a crowd. I've seen lots of Muggle boys wear stuff like that.” But even she had to admit no one wore them as well as Draco. What was the matter with her? She was getting all girly over Draco Malfoy. She finally knew what it was like to be in Lavender Brown's head, and she was disgusted at her lack of self-control. With a quick mental kick in the arse, she picked her bag up off her bed. “Why don't we get going? You said McGonagall was waiting for us.”

She moved toward the door, but Draco reached out his hand and touched her arm. “Here, let me get that for you,” he offered, relieving her of her bag and placing it in his own hand to carry. His hand brushed against hers as he grabbed the handle, but neither pulled back for a long moment. Her eyes flickered up at him, but he looked away quickly, the touch of their hands causing his face to color slightly. He cleared his throat and gestured at the door, “Shall we?”

Professor McGonagall was already waiting for them in the sitting room, when Hermione entered with Draco. She was speaking with Professor Lemieux, who was making the trip to Paris with them to oversee final preparations for Saturday and to meet up with the Beauxbatons students who had switched places with Draco and Hermione at Hogwarts. Another surprise awaited Hermione in the VIP sitting room -- Phillippe. She had barely registered his presence in the room before he swooped in, giving her a great big hug and planting a kiss on each cheek. “Oh, Hermione, I so much hoped I would be able to go with you to Paris. There are so many places in Abeille Ruelle, which I wanted to show you. We would have had such an amazing time together.”

Somehow Hermione managed to ease herself out of Phillippe's strong grip. “It's OK, Phillippe. I completely understand. You have a very important Quidditch match on Saturday. All those scouts are going to be there to watch you. Just play well and catch that Snitch quick, OK?” she smiled, secretly pleased he would not be accompanying them on their trip. Draco would only get tenser as Saturday approached, and Hermione did not want to act as a human shield again. “Besides, with how much Professor McGonagall has packed into two days of sight seeing in addition to our presentation, I doubt I would even have time to do anything fun.”

He leaned in again and gave her an even bigger hug and kissed her on the cheek. Draco rolled his eyes, but Professor McGonagall spoke up before Draco could voice any objections to Phillippe's overt displays of affection. With an impatient tone and a stern look, she said, “Come now, Mr. Hasley. Miss Granger will only be gone for a few days. I'm certain you will find some way to manage without her until she returns. It's not the end of the world.”

Finally Phillippe released Hermione entirely, and she walked him to the door. He gave her one final kiss on her forehead and whispered softly, “Good luck, Hermione. I'll be waiting for you when you get back.” As she watched him walk down the hall, Hermione felt mildly confused. She knew he liked her, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the fact that her feelings for Phillippe Hasley were purely platonic. His touch did not send shivers through her body, his eyes didn't make her heart skip a beat. They had no chemistry together at all, even though he tried valiantly to prove otherwise.

Hermione hated traveling by floo powder. She never seemed to be able to do it with any grace. She always stumbled out of the fireplace or her hair got terribly mussed and filled with ashes, so she volunteered to go first. She thought she had suffered enough embarrassment in front of Malfoy for one morning. Hermione, Draco, and Professor McGonagall were traveling by floo to a magical bakery on the outskirts of the Muggle territory. From there they were heading straight to some famous Muggle landmarks: La Sorbonne, the Champs Elysses, and the Musee du Louvre. Hermione was most excited about the Louvre, because it was a magical building as well as a famous museum. Obviously the magical part was shielded from Muggles, but there were several additional floors, filled with paintings, photographs, and sculptures by famous witches and wizards. Hermione had been looking forward to that part of the visit more than anything else ever since Professor McGonagall had told them their itinerary. She felt like Ron did before his first trip to Honeydukes, filled with childlike glee.

She could tell she was getting close to her destination fireplace while she was still whizzing through the floo network; she could smell the magnificent cakes and bread from the bakery. Surprisingly, she landed in the fireplace with her feet firmly on the ground and with little soot on her clothes. She stepped out, smoothing her long skirt and brushing any unseen ash from her cinnamon-colored cashmere sweater. She looked around the quaint little shop as she waited for Draco and her teacher.

Draco came through next, and just as Hermione had expected, he stepped out of the fireplace without missing a beat, like he was taking nothing more than a leisurely stroll through the park instead of traveling miles through a series of fireplaces. However, he was a tad too tall for the opening, and lingering on his hair was a dash of soot, contrasting starkly with his platinum locks. She smiled; it was humanizing somehow to see him looking less than perfect. She pointed at his hair, “Er, you have something in your hair.”

He was drowning in the sensational aromas surrounding them like a blanket and wasn't paying attention. He saw her point at him and realized she had just said something. “What?”

She walked toward him, a soft smile curling around her mouth. “There's something in your hair. You must have brushed up against the fireplace when you stepped out.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said, running his fingers through his hair to brush it away. “Did I get all of it?”

Hermione shook her head. “Here. Lean over,” she suggested. He bowed his head a bit, so she could reach him better. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached up to brush the dirt from his hair. She'd always wondered if his hair felt as soft as it looked. As she moved her fingers through it, making sure she removed every last speck of dust, she was fascinated by how soft it really was. It reminded her of the smooth satin of her mother's wedding dress. Her mother had first showed it to her when she was a little girl. She had wanted to wrap herself up in the dress, feel its smoothness all around her, but of course her mother would never allow it. Instead she promised Hermione she could wear the dress on her own wedding day. But every once in a while, Hermione would steal up to her family's attic and take the dress out, captivated each time by its feel under her skin. Draco's hair felt just like that. She was startled back to the present as she felt his warm breath on her neck. She had leaned in so close to him, they were merely inches apart.

“Is it gone?” he asked, his voice lower than normal, a far cry from the drawling, sharp tongue she associated with Draco Malfoy for so many years.

She stepped back a few steps, wanting to place some distance between them, “Yes, it's all gone. You can't even tell there was anything there.”

A loud “Ahhhh!” drew their attention back to the fireplace. Professor McGonagall had just arrived and was stepping out, inhaling deeply. “I'd forgotten how delicious LaCouture's Boulangerie smelled this early in the morning.” She was smiling more broadly than her students had ever seen her. “Mr. Malfoy, how about fetching us some raspberry and cheese croissants before we go face all those Muggles? I know I could certainly use a little sugar boost.”

He didn't move immediately, as if his feet were planted to that spot. Finally, he brushed his fingers through his hair one last time, then moved his feet toward the counter, eying all the pastries on display. McGonagall looked back and forth between her two students with a knowing eye, but her lips stayed tightly locked.

They spent Thursday morning at La Sorbonne, because Professor McGonagall had an old Hogwarts school chum, Lionel Merriwether, who had married a Muggle and who now taught at the prestigious French university. McGonagall had arranged for her students to sit in on one of Mr. Merriwether's literature lectures. McGonagall smiled and Hermione chuckled softly when he announced with a wink that they would be discussing the evolving roles of witches in fiction from medieval times to the present. Hermione guessed it was not merely a coincidence Mr. Merriwether chose that day to begin a series of lectures on witches.

Mr. Merriwether was a lovely gentleman. After the lecture, he showed them around the campus a bit, then took them to his favorite lunch spot in the Champs Elysees. Hermione was surprised at Draco's interest in learning more about Muggle fairy tales and folklore from Mr. Merriwether. For obvious reasons, Draco had never heard so many of the stories Hermione had learned while she was growing up. So to Draco, they were brand new, and he asked Mr. Merriwether to tell him the whole stories the lecture was about, such as Hansel and Gretel, the Shoemaker and the Elves, Sleeping Beauty, etc. It was refreshing to see the usually cool and aloof 16-year old wizard react to the very first fairy tale he'd ever heard like a little boy, completely enthralled by the entertaining stories.

However, Draco did make everyone chuckle when he announced the queen witch from Snow White was a Gryffindor. He appeared genuinely surprised at everyone's astonishment and reasoned, “Not only was she outsmarted several times by a Muggle girl and her seven little munchkin friends, but she also believed the lumber jack when he told her he'd killed Snow White. The queen was too gullible. A real Slytherin would never give an important job like that to a man, who probably cleaned his teeth with his shoestring. Blind trust like that is more of a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff trait, but I'd place my galleons on Gryffindor. She probably even tried to pass herself off at soirees as a Slytherin, but our cunning instincts can't be learned. She was obviously suffering from a serious case of Slytherin-envy.” With an over exaggerated sigh he finished, “Alas, only the best can wear the green and silver with pride.”

“Ah yes, the glorious Slythernins -- the few, the proud, the certifiably insane. Who wouldn't be envious of that house?” Hermione answered sarcastically.

While walking off their sumptuous lunch, Hermione and Draco took the opportunity to get a taste for the city, pausing periodically to look in shop windows or Muggle objects on the famous Paris street which were ordinary to Hermione but mind-boggling to Draco. Professor McGonagall and her old school friend lagged a little behind them, reminiscing about their youth and catching up on each other's lives. When they had almost reached the end of the block, Mr. Merriwether called up to them, “Are you children ready for your presentation on Saturday?”

They turned their heads to look back around but continued walking forward. Draco started to answer, “Yes, but we still have ...” -- SMACK! He had walked straight into something short and very hard and banged his shin against it with a painful thud. He had to bite his tongue to stop the stream of highly undignified words from spilling forth. “What is that monstrosity? What idiots would place a such an ugly little statue on a street corner?” He rubbed his shin, where he could already feel a large bruise forming. Instead of receiving the sympathy he felt was highly warranted from the rest of group, they just laughed at him. “What?” he asked, not hiding his annoyance.

Mr. Merriwether contained his laughter and explained, “My dear boy, that's not a statue. It's a fire hydrant. Haven't you ever seen one before?”

Draco stared at them incredulously. “A fire hydrant? The things filled with water Muggles use to put out fires? How could there possibly be enough water in one of those to put out a fire if they don't use magic?”

Professor McGonagall explained, “Mr. Malfoy, the water is not actually inside the hydrant. There are water pipes, which run under the street, and the hydrant is the connection point, where firefighters can attach hoses to get the water to spray.”

Hermione was more than a little dumbfounded that Draco could know so much about Muggle fairy tales but have no idea how fire hydrants worked, until she reminded herself that understanding how ordinary Muggle objects like fire hydrants worked would be of little value to the son of a Death Eater. However, knowing how Muggles perceived the magical world would be of great importance to studying their “enemy.” Thinking of Draco in terms of a Death Eater was too odd for Hermione now. He had seated himself on a nearby bench so he could soothe his aching leg better, and as he winced in pain, Hermione had difficulty finding the cold-hearted, lifeless demeanor of a follower of the Dark Lord.

After stopping for a quick bite to eat in a little café, they headed to the Louvre. Hermione was so excited, even Draco, with his long legs, had to walk briskly to keep up. She would have been content to spend the whole day in just the Muggle half of it. The paintings and sculptures were all magnificent and filled her with an immense awe at the power of art. Seeing Draco's and Professor McGonagall's reactions to everything was a unique experience in itself. The exhibits had changed drastically since McGonagall's last visit and, of course, Draco had never been to a Muggle museum.

Part of Hermione waited anxiously for Draco's first impression of the famous museum. She wanted him to be as impressed and awed by museum as she had been after her first visit to it, as if acknowledging the worth of Muggle artists and their contribution to culture. She couldn't understand it, but somehow his reaction to the Louvre was important to her. She was not disappointed. Though the pictures didn't move or speak, though the sculptures stayed still, Hermione could sense Draco's wonder at the beauty of everything he saw. He did not just glance at the exhibits like so many other boys she saw there that day, yawning disinterestedly, checking their watches every five minutes until it was time to leave. He would get as close as he could to the paintings, staring at them unblinking, as if trying to memorize the colors and brush strokes. Then he would close his eyes like he was burning an imprint on his mind, so he could recall the memory vividly when the mood struck him.

Friday was another early start for the Hogwarts students and their teacher. Since they needed to add the information from their Paris visit for the Saturday presentation, time only allowed stops at two magical hot spots: LeMaire's Wand Shop and the Larouche Zoo. When McGonagall had announced their itinerary, he had rolled his eyes at the thought of going to the zoo again. His mother had dragged him there every several times as a boy. Though he did think the wand shop was an excellent choice.

LeMaire's Wand Shop was nothing like Ollivander's back in England, because LeMaire's not only sold wands -- they made them there, too. Wand-making was more than just a job; it was an art. And there were very few people trained in this highly specialized skill. Draco had been on a tour of the shop once with his parents, when he was a boy. At the end of the tour, Draco had announced he wanted to be a wand maker when he grew up, but his father had told him that, just like the wands themselves, wizards don't choose to be wand makers, the wizards are the chosen ones.

They used floo powder to get to the wand shop since it was in the middle of a high traffic Muggle area. “I still can't believe that LeMaire's Wand Shop is actually in La Cathedral de Notre Dame,” Hermione said for about the twentieth time that day. “How could they hide such an important wizarding shop in such a conspicuous place?”

“It is not easy, for obvious reasons, but the French Ministry gets help from the French government. The two groups have shared responsibility for keeping it hidden ever since the construction for Notre Dame was completed 1345. They really had no choice,” Professor McGonagall explained. Hermione was wearing her most inquisitive expression and even Mr. Malfoy seemed deeply interested in hearing this bit of history. She wondered if Professor Binns had ever witnessed such curiosity in the faces of his students during his History of Magic classes. She highly doubted it. “The wand makers blew up their first shop in a Christian basilica in 528 and their second in a Roman church in 1163, because the proper precautions were not taken to shield the Muggles from danger. People started wondering why destruction seemed to befall any building in “the island” in the middle of the Seine River. Many curious Muggles started poking around and found wizards making magic wands. They ended up spending most of their time doing Memory Charms on Muggles instead of making wands, so it was determined that the Muggles in charge needed to be told about the existence of wizards. In 1163, Maurice de Sully -- a bishop of Paris - wanted to dedicate a church to Jesus' mother Mary, and the wizards wanted a place where they could work relatively undisturbed to make their wands. It was a perfect fit. The wizards helped the Muggles construct the cathedral. How else would 12^th and 13^th century craftsmen be able to move giant boulders and construct an edifice so strong and mammoth in size? The Muggles knew it only as a place of worship and showed it the reverence it deserved. Although it has many visitors, people primarily respect it for being a holy building and do not run amuck about the place, making it easier to hide LeMaire's from them. They placed all sorts of 'off limits' and 'do not enter' signs in front of doors which lead to areas Muggles cannot see. Of course there are wards and things of that nature to hinder any security breeches, but if a Muggle does happen to slip by or enter without authorization, wizard guards are on hand to swiftly administer memory charms and send them away thinking they've just been to the loo. Plus the gargoyles atop the cathedral help with night security.

“The wand-making itself is a painstaking process. Very few people have been given The Touch. It's actually a bit ironic that in order to make a wand, the creator cannot use a wand to do it. Using wands could create negative reactions within the wand cores, nullifying the potency and effectiveness of a new wand. These negative reactions are what caused the explosions of the first two buildings on the site of Notre Dame. Some wizards tried using their own wands to speed up the production process, and their actions had disastrous results. Instead, the new ones are hand crafted, using only the finest, purest materials. People with The Touch can use their hands to do special charms to assemble the wand and prepare them for their enchantments. Then the wand is placed inside a special glass box, where it must stay for no less than 72 hours. This box is filled with an intense magical energy, which is suffused inside the wand. Once it is removed from the box, the wand is then subjected to a battery of tests to ensure its stability and ability to perform. From start to finish, the process of creating just one wand may take several weeks.”

Draco knew the history of LeMaire's Wand Shop -- they tell you on the tour of the store, but it always filled him with a child-like awe with each re-telling. He remembered the summer of “training” after his first visit to LeMaire's, to try and get The Touch. He'd wanted it so desperately. He had found a few of his father's spell books while looking for his toy broomstick, which he thought he had left in his father's study. The book was filled with horrible pictures of mutilated people and severed body parts. It had a picture of a green skull on the front with a snake wrapped around it. The book scared Draco out of his wits, but he had always seen his father reading it, and he also saw many of his father's friends carrying it with them. Draco may have only been a child, but somehow he had understood the significance of that book and the importance it had played in his father's life. This was why he'd decided he wanted to be a wand maker when he grew up; he wanted to use his magical abilities for good instead of to hurt people. Draco had thought if he could get The Touch, he might even be able to give some of it to his father, so that his father wouldn't want to keep reading the skull book anymore.

But of course, all the training was for naught. Draco was not born with The Touch, and it was not something which could be learned. He had been so upset, but his father had been such a comfort. “Don't fret Draco,” his father had soothed. “You have many other talents, and you have been born to privilege, my son. You are a Malfoy. I have different plans for you. Once I teach you all I know, you will understand what real power is, and all these silly dreams to have The Touch will float away like a feather in the wind. You will thank me.”

But as Draco toured LeMaire's that day with Professor McGonagall and Hermione Granger, Draco was certain he would have preferred the life of a wand maker to the life his father had chosen for him.

Hermione was anxious to leave the wand shop. Not because she wasn't enjoying herself. On the contrary, she found everything about the process of wand-making fascinating and perfectly attuned to her detail-oriented mind. But during the course of the morning, Draco had seemed to be a million miles away, not just a few feet. His eyes were troubled, but somehow she knew it was not over nerves for tomorrow. It was something entirely different. She had tried to catch his eyes several times, to see if she could get a better read on him, but he skillfully avoided her, pretending to be captivated by the LeMaire's tour guide. For some reason, she thought the sooner they left, the sooner Draco could relax and try and enjoy Paris.

They went to Abeille Ruelle street after leaving the shop, and Draco felt a little better after eating some lunch. By the time they were strolling in and out of the shops lining the magical lane, there was no trace of his melancholy. At first he was reluctant to enjoy himself, but Hermione was persistent, he had to give her that. She dragged him into all sorts of shops -- apothecaries, pet stores, bookstores, even a Quidditch shop. It was hard for him to be upset as he eyed the new Aerial LX model broom. As he stood there admiring its sleek design, easy grip handle, and high polished sheen, he saw Hermione out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see her talking quietly to Professor McGonagall, looking slightly embarrassed. Hermione looked at Draco, a soft blush washing over her face, raised her hand slightly in a quick goodbye, and disappeared out the door. Draco went over to their teacher, “Where did Hermione go?”

“No need to concern yourself, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger had an errand she needed to run, but she will be back promptly. I saw some lovely Quidditch books against the far wall. Why don't you go have a look at them?” Draco did as he was told, and soon he was wrapped up once again in the world of Quidditch. McGonagall smiled to herself. This trip had definitely had some interesting moments.

Hermione returned to the Quidditch shop with a cryptic smile on her face. “Where did you run off to?” Draco asked curiously.

“I had an errand to run,” she replied, her tone void of emotion.

“What kind of errand?” Draco's curiosity was highly piqued. “Are you trying to help the French house elves get unionized now?”

“I had to buy something. And it's none of your business what it was, so don't even ask,” she added before he could say another word. She was keeping her lips sealed. Truth be told, she felt a little foolish.

“What did you buy? I don't see any packages,” Draco reasoned looking around to see if she had perhaps laid a package down nearby. Why was she being so enigmatic? It was probably something for Potter or Weasley, or even worse, that Hasley prat. No wonder she's being so secretive.

She could read his thoughts and knew he only got that look when he thought about certain someones. She wanted to keep the day as light as possible. “It's being delivered to Beauxbatons for me. It's no big deal -- just a little present I bought for myself.”

“A present for yourself? How very self-indulgent of you,” he commented. “Well, why don't we head over to the zoo then. This store has received enough Malfoy money for one day.” He gestured at the large stack of parcels being wrapped by a young wizard, preparing them to be shipped. Apparently Hermione wasn't the only one guilty of making an impulse buy that afternoon.

They left the Quidditch shop and turned left, heading toward the end of Abeille Ruelle. There was a moderately-sized marble building at the end, with a magnificent sign hanging overhead which read: Larouche Zoo -- Experience the magic! The structure was smaller than Gringott's but larger than Flourish and Blott's. Hermione looked between Draco and McGonagall. “This is the zoo? Even with magic, how can an entire zoo fit inside that building?”

“This is no ordinary zoo, Miss Granger,” McGonagall explained with a twinkle in her eye. “There aren't actually any living animals inside this building.” As an afterthought she added, “Well, unless you include Mr. Larouche's pet crup Mario, but he's so old now, he doesn't really do anything an ordinary Muggle dog wouldn't do. Well, except for the owls. Mario still chases every owl, which flies into Mr. Larouche's office just as if he were still just a young crup. But I digress. You see, Miss Granger, the zoo is actually just a collection of pensieves. Different experts have been hired by the zoo to seek out every species of magical creature. With the aid of invisibility cloaks and some powerful anti-sound and anti-scent charms, these experts track the animals, observe them, and talk about their experiences. They are then given a pensieve into which they deposit their memories of their encounters and the pensieves are stored here at the zoo. Witches and wizards can then come here, enter the pensieve in a completely unobtrusive manner, and share the same experience as the experts, but without the danger or fear of being hurt. Since it is just someone's memory, the animals are not even aware of your presence, so you can get as close as you like to really see the creatures in their natural habitat.”

“That's pretty impressive,” Hermione admitted, noticeably more at ease now that she knew she would not really be peering into the eyes of a nundu. “How many of these pensieves are there?”

“Several hundred, actually. Some creatures have multiple pensieves with the memories of multiple trackers, so there's a variety of experiences. In fact, Mr. Larouche just informed me that he received a large group of experiences from someone, which you may be quite interested in seeing, Miss Granger.” Hermione's ears perked up. “It appears Charlie Weasley was contracted by the Larouche Zoo to record some of his experiences with dragons, and the pensieves were just placed on display last week.”

Hermione was thrilled, but Draco was less than pleased. “Even in France I can't get away from all those damned Weasleys.”

Hermione elbowed Draco in the ribs, “Stuff it, Malfoy. We're going to see Charlie's first. He knows everything about dragons, and I'm sure his pensieves will be incredible.” And she was not disappointed. Hermione kept watching Draco as he approached the dragons. After all, his name did mean “dragon.” She used to think his moniker suited him --that he was harsh, vile, cold, and filled with venom. But as she watched him, circling a Chinese Fireball, his eyes wide with awe at the magnificent beast, she could see no resemblance whatsoever. She knew none of them were in any danger from being hurt in the pensieve, but as the dragon snorted fire in Draco's direction (in reaction to something Charlie must have done during the actual event) she jumped in fear that Draco was singed. Of course he was unscathed, but her heart still beat a bit more rapidly than usual. Suddenly Hermione wished she had spent more time with Charlie on all of her visits to the Burrow. Charlie seemed to have no fear when it came to facing dragons. He respected their power, and knew when to approach or when to back off. The little voice in the back of Hermione's head told her that was one lesson which would definitely come in handy with Draco.

Overall Draco was impressed with the Larouche Zoo. He hadn't been there since the summer before he started at Hogwarts, and they had updated many of their pensieve experiences. They seemed more adventurous and dangerous than he had remembered. Draco would never tell Hermione, but even he had to admit that Charlie Weasley's were some of the better ones. Charlie had crept right up to the dragons, so the detail in the memories was extraordinary. Draco didn't remember seeing the manticores or runespoors or yetis back then either. Perhaps his mother had thought he was not old enough at that time to handle seeing such dangerous beasts. For whatever reason, he had much more fun at the zoo today than he remembered having there as a boy. It was fun seeing Hermione covering his eyes in horror as he would run at a XXXXX beast, knowing he wasn't going to be hurt, but still reveling in driving her crazy.

Saturday finally arrived, and with it came some horrible sensations: dread, nausea, anxiety, more nausea. Draco tried to play it cool, but there was too much riding on this. If everyone in that room was not wowed, Draco was certain his father's rebuke for him would be less than pleasant. Once again Draco was grateful to have Hermione there with him instead of another Hogwarts student. He knew she worked well under pressure and was very bright and well prepared, but it was more than that. He knew she did not have to work as hard on this presentation as she did. In the grand scheme of things, this was just a minor event in her life. Yet she approached this day with as much vigor and perseverance as he, and he did not know why. True, he did help her with her French in the beginning, but she was such a fast learner, she did not need as much tutoring as she felt she did. Sometimes he wondered if Hermione helped Potter and Weasley with their schoolwork as much as she was helping him. But thinking she felt the same as about Draco as she did about her two best friends churned his stomach with a feeling he couldn't quite place.

He had risen early that morning. Actually he had barely gone to sleep the previous night. Just as he would doze off, his father's criticizing voice would jolt him awake once again. He'd get a drink of water to try and calm his throbbing heart rate, and then lay down again. It was a vicious cycle. The only purpose it served was to make him have to go to the bathroom about half a dozen times that night. When he saw the first rays of sunlight creep through his window, he gave up any hope of more sleep and started getting his shower things together, nervous about what would happen, but grateful, in a way, that no matter what, it would all be over by tonight.

After he showered and put on his most comfortable set of robes, he went to their suite's sitting room, hoping for a few moments of solace and a good cup of tea before running through his notes again. When he walked into the sitting room, there was already a tray there with tea and croissants, which the house elves had brought up. He placed a couple of the pastries on a plate, poured himself a big cup of the warm tea, and moved to the large French doors, pushing the curtains aside to feel the warm, morning sun on his face. It looked like it was going to be a bright, sunny day, and he hoped that was a good sign. He had just taken a large bite out of a croissant but almost choked when he spotted Hermione sleeping in one of the large chairs by the fireplace. She was curled up like a small child, still wearing her pajamas, with an open book, The Scarlet Letter, lying face down on the table next to her. He could feel what little color there was in his face drain instantly. She was wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a sleeveless pale blue tank top, which revealed the soft milky skin of her shoulders underneath her long honey-brown curls. He set his plate and cup of tea on the table next to her book. The soft sounds made Hermione stir from her dreams, and she murmured with a sleepy smile, “Mmmm. That feels nice.” Partly to stem his less-than-wholesome thoughts and partly to keep her warm, he picked up Hermione's bathrobe, which was slung over the back of a nearby chair, and covered her with it. She jumped at its touch, startled and confused about where she was.

“Draco, what are you doing in my room?” she asked lazily through sleep-filled eyes.

His mind stumbled a bit when he noticed she called him Draco, not Malfoy. His stomach fluttered with an odd sensation. When she whispered his name, her voice and thoughts clouded with sleep, it was smooth and sensual. A far cry from the harsh “Malfoy” she'd spat at him countless times back at Hogwarts. Between that and the new sun, he was warming up already. But he needed to stay focused on the presentation that day. He could not afford to let his mind wander about how sweet Hermione looked in her pajamas, wondering what she was dreaming about which could make her smile so contentedly. He shook his head from side to side. This was not the time to reconcile his conflicting feelings for her with his upbringing as a Malfoy. He needed to set his thoughts along a less dangerous path, so he decided to have a little folly with her. He relished the opportunity to relieve some tension and to snap him to attention. Resorting to their old method of communicating, via goading and irking, seemed a simple solution.

He reached out and, in a grand gesture, kissed her hand, “You mean you don't remember? But you said last night was the most magical night of your life.” He didn't bother trying to hide his smirk.

Looking like Ron trapped in a roomful of spiders, Hermione jerked her hand away and stammered, “Wh-what are you talking about? We didn't do anything. Did we?” She looked frantically around, anyplace but directly at Draco. Surely it had only been a dream. Slowly she realized they were not in her room, but, in fact, in the sitting room, where she had come this morning before the sun even rose, after a night of tossing and turning in her bed. Her eyes then fixated on a madly grinning Draco Malfoy, down on one knee in front of her and looking thoroughly pleased with himself. She was completely flustered. In all the ruckus, the robe Draco had placed on her had fallen off her shoulders. She couldn't fight the blush, which insisted on making another inopportune appearance, upset that Draco had managed to, yet again, unnerve her so effortlessly.

Pleased by her more than satisfactory reaction, he picked up the plate, waved it under her nose, and asked innocently, “Would you like a deliciously, warm pastry with your blush this morning?”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she barked, angrily twisting her robe around, trying to cover herself as quickly as possible. She snatched one of the croissants off his plate as she thrust her other arm through her sleeve. He stood up from where he was kneeling and was about to pick up his cup of tea, but Hermione was too quick and stole it first. “Thanks for the tea,” she said smartly, swiping it from his reach before he could grab hold of it.

“Hey, that's mine,” he cried.

“Consider it penance for your little joke,” she answered, taking a sip and then rising from her chair. He was still standing directly in front of her, so as she stood he had to back away, but he took his time in doing it. He still had that fresh shower smell about him, and his cologne made her nose tingle more than usual. She realized she must look awful, and nervously ran her hand through her mussed up hair. He was staring at her intently, only adding to her edginess. “What?”

“Why were you sleeping out here? Was your bed not up to the almighty Gryffindor standards?” he asked. Fortunately, he stopped himself before he blurted out what he was really thinking: “Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you just wake up?”

“I couldn't sleep. Nerves I guess. So I came out here to watch the sunrise and do a little pleasure reading.” She stepped past him, anxious to get out from under his penetrating stare. She took another sip of tea and tried to smooth her hair with her other hand.

He glanced down at The Scarlet Letter and thought it sounded like some sort of grammar or writing textbook. Why would she ever find that fun to read? “Reading? Don't you get enough of that with all our schoolwork?” he asked in disbelief. His reaction only made her chuckle, so he asked, “Did I say something funny?”

She turned back to him, “It's nothing. It's just, for a minute you sounded a bit like Harry and Ron.” As soon as she'd said it, Hermione wished she could take the words back. She was certain Draco would blow his top at anyone making a comparison between him and Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. But he didn't.

Instead he snuffed, “Well on rare occasions, even Gryffindors have been known to make a keen observation or two.” But the damage was done. The mere mention of Potter and Weasley's name had thrown a bright light on the situation and the lives and friends they would be returning to in only two weeks. Their détente was just temporary, and it would be wise not to get too comfortable with it. In a way Draco was grateful for the little reality check Hermione served him. He pointed toward breakfast cart, “I'm going to get some tea then go get my notes to look over. I'll see you later.” And he left without a further glance.

They left for the meeting in relative silence, each person wrapped in their own thoughts: McGonagall hoping her students would somehow be able to keep their cooperative nature intact for a few more hours; Draco looking through all their slides one last time; Hermione wishing there was some spell to make sure everything went off without a hitch. However, they needn't have worried. They were a smashing success. The only mishap was in the very beginning of their Magic Point presentation. Professor Lemieux had loaned them a charmed projector, which projected pictures or text on sheets of parchment onto a wall or screen for presentations to groups of people so every one could follow along. It was a device about the size of the briefcase. At the beginning of their presentation, Hermione 's sleeve got caught on the projector, when, in a fit of nerves, she gestured wildly and swung her arms about. But it was very minor, and after that, she stayed safely out of its reach.

In fact, the presentation was spectacular. Both Draco and Hermione were calm and cool, talking about their experiences in France and how the program had broadened their understanding about life outside Hogwarts and how they cherished the experience. They were completely in sync with one another, sharing the spotlight equally. It was an incredible scene to watch. Where one stopped the other began. Their sentences and ideas flowed seamlessly from one topic to the next. It was obvious they had rehearsed a lot for today, but their ease with each other went beyond mere practice. They were a perfect complement to each other.

When the question and answer session concluded, both students heaved a heavy sigh of relief. It was over. Hermione wanted to approach Draco, to give him a congratulatory hug or something like that. But in an instant, all sorts of people were approaching him, showering him with praise for a job well done. He recognized many of them from the lavish parties his parents used to throw when they were still on the A-list in the wizarding world. He grimaced a bit as he watched Mr. Weasley embrace Hermione in a great, big hug. Her easy, familial rapport with the Deputy Minister of Magic was a stark reminder of their vastly different lives and associates waiting for them back in England. Draco did not have much time to dwell on this, however, as he spied a tall, gruff-looking wizard with one eyebrow approaching him. Draco recognized him instantly; it was Maximilian Jensen, an influential old wizard. He used to be close friends with Lucius, but who had now distanced himself from the Malfoys in the months after the tri-Wizard Cup. But now he approached Draco and extended his hand. Draco shook it. “Well done, young Mr. Malfoy. A splendid job indeed,” he praised. “I must confess, when I heard you would be attending Beauxbatons with Miss Granger, a Muggle-born witch, I was concerned that Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had made a grievous error.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke, a serious expression coloring his features darkly. Draco held his breath. He knew wizards and witches all over England placed a lot of credence in Mr. Jensen's opinion. The older wizard's mouth curled upward in a smile and placed his arm on Draco's shoulder. “But I see now I was the one in error. Your family ought to be very proud of you.” He placed his arm about Draco's shoulder as Draco heaved a sigh of relief. “Come with me. There are some people I'd like you to meet.”

Hermione watched intently as this event unfolded from her vantage point across the room. He made people notice him, but not in the Do-You-Know-Who-My-Father-Is way to which Hermione had grown accustomed to in the first 5 years of their acquaintance. She watched him work his way through the room, mingling with everyone and charming the robes off his audience. He was having the same effect on Hermione. She couldn't take her eyes off him; his essence filled the room.

When Draco finally glanced upwards, he caught Hermione spying on him. It sent a jolt of electricity through them both and everything and everyone in that room seemed to freeze for a few moments. There were no movements or sounds except the beating of their hearts, which seemed deafening to them. Then an impressive-looking witch placed her hand lightly on Draco's arm and led him away to meet more members of the French and British Ministry.

While Draco had been rubbing elbows with the Who's Who of the wizard community, Mr. Weasley had pulled her to the side, thinking she would share his preference for staying out of the spotlight. She suddenly realized he was speaking.

“Hermione, is something the matter? You seem a bit distracted,” Mr. Weasley asked with fatherly concern. Hermione was distracted. She recognized Mr. Jensen as he conversed with Draco and knew the significance of their little chat. At first Draco had appeared anxious, and Mr. Jensen dour, but when Draco had locked his eyes on hers, she felt such a tremendous sense of relief, she realized she hadn't heard a word of what Ron's dad was saying.

She turned her head back to the anxious, red-haired man, “What was that, Mr. Weasley?”

“I said, you seem a bit distracted. Has Lucius Malfoy's son done anything to you? You seem to be watching him closely.” His eyes traveled over to the cause of Hermione's disruption. “Look at him over there, prancing about just like his poor excuse of a father. I wouldn't be surprised if it was all just a ruse to charm the socks off Maximilian and his old gang. To try and weasel him and his sordid family back into the Ministry's good graces. I'll bet he let you do all the work in preparing for today, but he struts about the room, accepting all the praise.” His eyes narrowed as he watched Draco move effortlessly among the Ministry's elite.

Before she could stop herself, Hermione opened her mouth to defend Draco, “Actually, Mr. Weasley, Draco's worked just as hard these six weeks as I have. He's actually much more disciplined with his studies than I ever gave him credit for.” She paused, unsure if she should continue. “In fact, I've learned many things about Draco since we've been in France, things I think lots of people would be pleasantly surprised about.”

He eyed her curiously, wondering if this exchange program had actually hindered the girl he considered a daughter, rather than helped her. At the beginning of their presentation, he had assumed their camaraderie and coordination was a simple case of the end justifying the means -- they needed to impress the officials to ensure the continuation of the program and make Hogwarts proud, so they had to work together to do a good job. He certainly never imagined Hermione's attitudes toward a Malfoy would alter so drastically. But as she defended Lucius Malfoy's son, Mr. Weasley wasn't so certain it had all been an act. “Hermione, you can't honestly stand there and tell me Draco Malfoy is any different from his father. He was born and bred to oppress people considered beneath him.” He could sense her disbelief. “You're a Muggle-born witch, Hermione. He would sell you to the first Death Eater he saw before he'd ever speak such kind words about you.”

Hermione shook her head, “No, Mr. Weasley, I don't think Draco would do that. Not anymore. I wouldn't put it past his father. But Draco is very different from him.”

“Are you sure Malfoy hasn't put some sort of spell on you when you weren't looking? I can't believe you're being so kind about him.” It seemed like an idea struck Mr. Weasley, “Oh no, he's threatening you with something, isn't he? What did he tell you? Is the Dark Lord planning a move? Is anyone in danger?” Hermione started getting flustered and wanted a quick way out of this conversation.

As if sensing Hermione's silent pleas to be rescued, Professor McGonagall approached the two and interjected, “Mr. Weasley, I thought the question and answer session was over?” She placed a gentle hand on her grateful student's arm, but her tone when she spoke to Hermione was firm and unflinching. “Miss Granger, since you are in my charge while we are in France, you must obey my orders.” A worried expression flitted across Hermione's soft features. McGonagall waved to Draco to get his attention and motioned him over. Draco spied Hermione's apprehensive expression as well as Mr. Weasley's presence and felt a bit nervous himself.

“You wanted me, Professor,” Draco said amiably. “Is there something the matter?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Malfoy, there is,” she replied, her voice stern but with a twinkle in her eye. “They will be serving dinner shortly, and I am afraid neither you nor Miss Granger will be able to stay.” Hermione looked nervously from her teacher to Draco and noticed he was as well, the same thought running through their minds, What did we do wrong? McGonagall watched their emotions and a small smile escaped her lips, “I'm afraid that neither of you will be attending, because you have both worked far too much in the past few weeks, and you both deserve a bit of a break. And spending the evening rubbing elbows with a bunch of crotchety old witches and wizards is hardly a fun way for two young people to spend their last night in Paris.”

Hermione smiled broadly. McGonagall had come through with a wonderful save. She was having a difficult enough time understanding her changed attitudes toward Draco, and she knew she could not spend an entire evening with Mr. Weasley, as sweet as he was, and his prying questions. They made their goodbyes, shook some more hands, and were finally ushered from the room by their teacher with final instructions to be sure to be back to the hotel before midnight and not a minute later. The heavy weights of nerves were gone, the anxiety had disappeared, and Hermione knew exactly where she wanted to go.

After they left the conference room, they practically ran to their hotel suite, their bodies humming with the energy from their stellar performance. He flopped down on the couch, letting himself relax into its soft, fluffy cushions. But Hermione asked instantly, “What do you think you're doing? Go get changed.”

He looked up over the back of the couch at her, a questioning gaze on his face. “Why? Where are we going?”

“I know the perfect place, but it's Muggle, so don't change into your robes.” She was calling to him from her room. He could tell by her muffled voice she was slipping out of her robes and changing her clothes. He tried to stop his mind from wandering to what it must be like to be a fly on her hotel room wall at that moment, but failed miserably.

He stood and went into his room, hoping any activity would keep his mind from what was happening in the room right next to his. “Haven't you seen enough Muggle things on all your trips here with your family? Why don't we just go get a bite to eat in Abeille Ruelle?” But he changed into a pair of black jeans, emerald green shirt, and leather jacket anyway. They were going to the Muggle side, but he didn't feel comfortable going anywhere outside of school without his wand. He placed it in his inside jacket pocket and stepped out of his room.

“Trust me. You won't be disappointed,” was her reply. When he re-entered their sitting room, Hermione still was not there, so he sat and waited, his foot bouncing up and down, his body still hyped from the events of the day. He found he couldn't sit still, so he started pacing, looking about the room at the flowers, the pictures, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he got to the mirror. Hermione had opened her door, which was on the other side of the room from where he was standing. Draco could see her reflection in the mirror, and he had to place his hand on the small table in front of him to steady himself.

Instead of choosing an outfit like the conservative skirt and sweater Hermione had worn for their sightseeing on Thursday, Hermione decided to try something a bit different. Her hair was swept up in a clip with a few cascading tendrils hanging down, revealing her long, slender neck. She had put on some more makeup, not a lot, but enough to make her cinnamon eyes somehow brighter and framed in long, soft lashes. But the dress was the killer. She was wearing a little black dress, which fit close to her body, not too tight, but curving to every inch of her. It was sleeveless, with the front coming up just below the base of her neck. It was also short with the hem of dress only extending to the middle of her thigh, showing off those incredible legs Draco had first spied on the train to Beauxbatons. Somehow it managed to show everything while revealing nothing. He turned about slowly. “Wow,” was all that would come out.

Instead of being embarrassed, however, Hermione grinned broadly. “Well, I guess that means we're ready to go.” She went to the door and opened it, holding it open for Draco. She grabbed her black sweater from the coat rack by the door and put it on. It would be a bit chilly where they were going. As Draco passed through the doorway, she smiled again, “You might want to try closing your mouth a bit, Draco. The Muggles will be wondering what you're gawking at.” She knew she was in for a night to remember.