The Time Imperative

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The Time Imperative

Chapter Two: And When Darkness Falls...

October 2, 1789

Paris, France

"Bollocks is an understatement, Malfoy," Hermione snapped crossly, glaring at the Slytherin, who still lay sprawled on the ground. The activity of the marketplace still proceeded around them as if they couldn't be seen at all. This, of course, was immediately disproved as a child threw a small rock at her. It struck her hand and glanced off. "Ow!" she snatched up her hand. "Blasted brat," she murmured discontentedly.

A black-haired bundle to the other side of Draco began to stir and Hermione got up from the ground, dusting off her robes as she did.

"Harry, are you ok?" she asked as she stepped over Draco and knelt down beside the disoriented Gryffindor.

"Ugh...yeah, I'm all right Hermione." He removed his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes. His emerald eyes widened after he replaced his glasses upon his nose. "Hermione, where are we?" She watched him as his eyes roamed over the marketplace and the buildings that loomed up around them.

Hermione bit her lower lip. "In France."

Harry sat up abruptly, groaning as he did, eyes wide open. "In FRANCE?" His mouth sagged open in shock; hands braced almost painfully on the cobblestone-paved streets.

"I think so..."

"Why are we in France?" Harry asked, his face chalk-white with surprise.

"Malfoy," Hermione answered, turning to glower at Draco, who sat, watching the two of them with a wary glint in his silver irises.

"Malfoy? I should've figured," Harry growled. He searched his robes for a moment, and to his relief, found his wand. He hoisted himself up and stalked off towards Draco; Hermione followed close behind. He paid no attention to the dusty state of his robes, or to the curious stares he received from passers-by.

"This is all your doing, Malfoy," he spat at the Slytherin, who merely gazed up at Harry. He appeared to be surprisingly calm for a person who was cornered with a wall to his back and an angry wand-wielding schoolmate before him, he hadn't even made a sharp reply to Harry's accusation.

"Apparently so. Granger's been telling me that since I woke up." The clarity of his voice belied the anxiety that shadowed his eyes.

Draco sighed and got up, dusting the back of his robes off. Hermione spotted a small rectangular object off at the corner of her vision, and she left Draco and Harry for a moment to retrieve it. She hoped that Harry wouldn't hex Draco while she had her back turned. She was surprised at the thought. Why did I hope Harry wouldn't hex Draco? Shouldn't I be worried about the opposite? She shook her head picked up the book. All thoughts of Harry versus Draco flew out of her head as she recognized the picture on the cover. It was the book that she'd taken from Draco's parcel. She brought it back to the two boys, who were now glaring at each other; Draco no longer appeared calm and composed, and he too, had his wand out and was pointing it at Harry. She thrust the book in Draco's face.

"This is it, isn't it? What was in it? What curse?" she demanded, cinnamon eyes assessing the blond's steely-gray gaze.

"I don't know," Draco replied stiffly, glaring at her.

"You do know," Hermione insisted.

"It's your book," Harry snapped.

"I DIDN'T KNOW!" Draco yelled. He squeezed past Hermione and Harry and began stalking down the street.

Harry and Hermione ran after him. "It's your book - you should know how to get us out of here," Hermione accused as she forcefully turned Draco to look at her. She was frustrated at his lack of cooperation - only Draco could be against assisting fellow schoolmates while stranded in France.

"I told you, I don't know!" Draco spat at her, fury emanating from him in perceptible waves. "Don't you get it? Sod off!"

Hermione paused in her pursuit. It was the confusion in his voice that wasn't right.

"Not so much without your henchmen, aren't you?" Harry asked calmly, though one look at him betrayed his emotions - he was seething.

"That's what you said to me first year, Potter," Draco sneered, attempting to shake off Hermione who had grabbed his sleeve. "Insults are most certainly NOT your forte."

"You're not going ANYWHERE, Malfoy," she told him, one hand clutching his sleeve, the other clutching her wand.

"We need to work together to get out of here, Malfoy," Hermione insisted. Draco would never make it if they left him in France without any knowledge of the language or the customs. Harry had his wand out as well, trained towards Draco.

"I will NOT stay with 'Potty and his Mudblood,'" Draco yanked his sleeve out of her grasp.

"Impedimenta!"

"Good one, Hermione," Harry smiled grimly as they looked at Draco, who would've been glaring at them if he hadn't been out cold and sprawled upon the rough cobblestone street.

She was bewildered by her actions - helping Malfoy - nonetheless, but she was sure that leaving him behind would be something that he would do to them, and she wasn't ready to stoop to his level. Harry might, and Ron definitely would, but she prided herself on resolving conflicts, not beginning them.

"Mobilicorpus," she commanded, leveling her wand at Draco, who slowly began to rise from the ground. It was like what Professor Lupin had done in their third year, under the Whomping Willow.

Harry assessed her with a keen eye. "I don't suppose the Ministry can take away our wands for using magic illegally, seeing as we're underage." He looked around and several people had begun to look their way.

"Celoare!" Harry said, and immediately Draco's prone body vanished from sight.

Hermione smiled tersely. "I think they'll make an exception for students who were just magically transported to France."

Harry followed close behind as they began to walk down the street; Hermione shoved the book in a pocket of her robe and kept her wand steady on Draco's levitating body where it would've been ahead of her.

***

The book lay on Hermione's lap, appearing as ordinary as any other book, if any other book had such a gruesome cover picture. Harry had complained that he'd needed a rest, so they'd stopped off by the side of a street and Hermione had taken the chance to examine the book further. Draco was still secreted away under Harry's spell, and neither she nor Harry wanted to deal with the Slytherin just then. She tentatively reached her right hand towards the cover, fingers trembling as she felt the smooth texture of the book beneath her fingers. She winced as she flipped the cover open, expecting to be thrown to Ancient Rome. Silence greeted her, and she sighed. Careful script filled the title page - a poem. She leaned over to read the words written in an elegant hand and black ink. Her eyes skimmed over the poem; blanching, she slammed the cover shut.

***

They had stopped at a boulangerie for food, and Hermione had placed Draco in a chair on the outdoor terrace. Harry had removed his spell disguising Draco; he'd been watching him carefully every since. She went in to talk to the man who worked inside as Harry watched over Draco.

They'd been sitting for fifteen minutes when Draco opened his eyes slowly and was immediately greeted by the sight of Harry Potter.

Harry's brilliant green eyes, so tortured on occasion, were riveted on Draco, mistrust swimming in their depths. His raven dark hair seemed to be perpetually messy, and a body tempered by years of Quidditch remained lean but strong. He was no stranger to women throwing themselves at him - as Hermione had once joked, they seemed to seep out of the woodwork. Harry, however, remained restrained towards his admirers - he'd always chosen his friends carefully. There were far too many out there who'd only use him to exploit his fame and to shatter his spirit.

Well, isn't this a lovely sight to wake up to? Draco thought crossly, sitting up abruptly. He saw Harry's hand flash to his robe, where his wand must've been placed.

"Relax, Potter," he commanded, raising an eyebrow at Harry. He raised a hand to brush back a stray strand of hair and Harry had to visibly restrain himself from impulsively grabbing his wand.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snapped back irritably, his hand still lingering over his wand. "It wasn't my idea to bring you along, anyway." He looked sullen and annoyed as he spoke.

Draco couldn't resist the opportunity to rile Harry up. "Right, so Granger knocked me out so she could get some, because that would be the only way she would get any," Draco smirked.

"Don't say things like that about Hermione. She's intelligent, funny, and rather pretty, if you'd bother to look past your prejudices and look at her without the title of 'Mudblood,'" Harry spat out, glaring at Malfoy. His chest rose and fell with his every breath, and Harry angrily raked a long-fingered hand through his hair.

Draco scrutinized Harry for a moment, then let out a choked laugh. "You like her."

Harry turned red. "I do not!" he protested vehemently. He glared at Draco as if daring him to object. Draco glared back, a self-satisfied smirk cutting across his features.

"You wouldn't turn ten shades of red if you didn't."

"You don't even know me well enough to judge, Malfoy," Harry replied, sidestepping Draco's accusation. He seemed uncomfortable and he glanced over at the doorway of the Boulangerie, keeping his eyes well averted from Draco's.

"Where is Granger, anyway?" Draco asked offhandedly, noticing her absence from Harry's side. It too a concentrated effort to strangle the urge he felt in his stomach to get up and look for Hermione.

Harry gestured towards the door that lay a few feet to their right. "We're at a boh-lan-geh-ree, a bakery, I guess. She's in there."

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry's mispronunciation. "It's BOU-LAN-GER-IE, Potter. Get your French straight." He was pleased that Harry had never been educated in languages - it kept Harry from being more incredible than people already thought he was like.

"How would you know, Malfoy? You don't even speak French. You must've just picked that up from your two bodyguards - all they do is eat anyway - it would only be suitable that they'd know the French name for a bakery," Harry retorted angrily, leaning slightly over the table in an obvious attempt to intimidate Draco.

"You don't know me well enough to judge, Potter," Draco mimicked. "I speak fluent French."

Harry snorted. Draco looked slightly put off, but still smug in the knowledge that he was far better at French than Harry would ever be. Just then Hermione came out the door, quietly speaking in French with a portly man wearing an apron. She looked distinctly scared, the first time Draco had ever seen her that way.

What happened to the infamous Gryffindor bravery? he wondered, watching her as her hands gripped her robes so tightly that when she released the material, he could see the half-moon impressions of her nails on her palms.

"She speaks French?" Draco asked unnecessarily.

"Yes, fluently, Malfoy. She used to go to spend her summer vacations in France."

Hermione stopped at their table, still chatting with the baker. "Merci, monsieur." She smiled shakily and gave the man two kisses on his cheeks. The man smiled and went back inside his shop, and she looked down at the two of them.

"Harry," she said tersely, "I think I just got that man to give us some food for free - it was difficult, but I did it. He said his wife would be happy to help travelers, even if they themselves are low on food."

Draco thought the baker and his wife seemed oddly helpful for people who did not have enough to sustain themselves, not to mention perfect strangers.

Hermione looked pale, but still smiled brightly at Harry. Draco noticed that her smile was forced - he recognized the façade that he often wore when he was with his father in his dealings with Voldemort.

Her hair was wildly tangled and her robes were somewhat creased, but she still looked presentable. She had grown up nicely into a poised young woman - more experienced in all senses of the term. She was no stranger to the affections of young men, though she usually shunned them in favour of her studies, the one thing that hadn't changed since their childhood days. Draco scrutinized her expression for a moment, and for some odd reason, felt an urge to soothe her and to tell her not to worry. He scolded himself for the thought and wondered if the curse had temporarily impaired his ability to think logically.

"Mais, mademoiselle," Draco spoke, his French accented perfectly. "Tu parles Français?"

Hermione cast him a surprised look. "Oui," she replied. "Malfoy, where did you learn to speak French? You have a fantastic accent."

"My family's from France," Draco replied, his voice carrying only a tinge of arrogance. He could see Harry out of the corner of his eye, looking annoyed at the fact that obviously Draco and Hermione could share conversations in a language he couldn't understand.

Hermione looked marginally impressed. She swallowed heavily and took a breath before she spoke. "Um, Malfoy, does your family happen to be in France in the year 1789?"

Draco blinked. "1789?" His mouth gaped open slightly and his hands gripped the wooden table so hard his knuckles turned white. He recovered quickly, closing his mouth, but disbelief still lurked beneath the stormy gray gaze. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms.

Hermione watched him closely. "The baker says it's the year 1789. Hold on," she pulled out the book from her pocket. "You gave us this book," she began. "It must be a curse I've never heard of a time-travelling charmed book before," she frowned.

"This is your fault, Malfoy," Harry automatically condemned, obviously still shocked. He seemed to only be fixating upon accusing Draco. Harry's face expressed all his emotions of shock and anger - Draco could see trouble brewing beneath the surface, festering. Harry began reaching for his wand, which lay close to him, the ash brown of the wood contrasting with the golden lacquered wooden table.

"Wait, Harry," Hermione said, holding up a hand, her attention trained on Draco. "You look surprised, Malfoy. Did you really know about this?"

"Of course he knew," Harry spat, disdain for the blond Slytherin clear on his face. He thrust his wand in Draco's face. "Tell us what you know or you'll learn what death really feels like."

"You don't have the nerve, Potter," Draco responded, shaking his head.

Harry glared at him, his eyes seeming to spark angrily with green flames.

"Don't I?" he asked quietly, deadly.

Hermione had paled, her chocolate eyes wide. Her gaze was imploring; she seemed to be pleading for him to speak. She knew what Harry had experienced the last time he'd fallen into Voldemort's hands, and the resentment and anger he harboured towards all that were associated with Voldemort.

Draco steeled himself and spoke.

"I only knew part of it. My father just told me give you the book, but not to be present when you opened it. I don't know exactly what was in the book, though."

"He's lying," Harry growled, shaking his head, distrust clear in his eyes. He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"I don't think so, Harry," Hermione responded, opening the book carefully and turning it so they could see a neatly scripted passage written inside the front cover. "Listen to this:"

She began to read the passage aloud; her voice trembled slightly as she spoke.

"Those who trespass on the path of time

Will only find this rhyme

Those who are worthy shall find

A perilous journey through a perilous time

To find the key back to their time."

She frowned. "It says that only those who are worthy will be able to get back to their time," she pressed her lips together in thought.

Harry growled. "That doesn't tell us much. Besides, Malfoy's not worthy - maybe we can leave the bastard here."

"I object," Draco replied imperiously, his gray eyes narrowing. "I am worthy."

"We have to get home," Hermione interjected. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "And it'd be better if we stay together."

"You're always agreeing and helping Malfoy these days!" Harry exploded, rocketing out of his chair, and yelling at Hermione, who was clearly taken aback. "It's his fault we're here in the first place!"

Hermione stared at Harry for a few moments, gazing upward at her irate friend. They watched each other for a moment, Harry breathing audibly with his hands on his hips, his wand clasped in his right hand; knuckles white. Hermione pursed her lips and responded carefully.

"Harry, it's actually both Malfoy's fault, and mine," Hermione rationalized, attempting to subdue Harry. "I asked if he would bring those books, didn't I? And it's not as if he knew what was contained within the book."

Draco looked at her for a moment, watching as she tried to reason with Harry. She helped me? He thought, both appalled and somewhat pleasantly surprised. He attempted to dismiss the thought. I shouldn't be pleased that she helped me, she's a Mudblood. But some part of him protested at his thoughts. She's perfectly nice, you know. Draco forcefully shoved the thought away and swore at himself.

When he had finally won over his inner voice, Harry and Hermione had stopped arguing and Harry had gone sat back down in his chair to sulk. Draco assumed Hermione had won the argument. He opened his mouth, but hesitated.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, her expression displaying her exhaustion.

"My family lives in Paris, if you'd want to go there," Draco offered hesitantly. His gaze caught with Hermione's but he looked away, a slight flush rising to his cheeks, two small dabs of pinkish tinge high on his cheekbones.

He could see Hermione's surprised face beside him, and he turned away. He didn't want to see her happy to see that even Draco Malfoy could help someone if he was desperate enough.

"Are you helping us?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. His jade green eyes were wide open in surprise. A hint of suspicion laced his voice, but he didn't express any of his concerns.

"Don't expect me to make a habit of it, Potter,"

"Thank you, Malfoy," Hermione replied, smiling at him. He glanced at her for a moment as she spoke. "The man said that we're in Paris. Just tell us where to go, and I'll ask him to provide directions."

"Near Versailles - it's called the 'Chateau de Foi'."

She smiled again at him. "Thank you."

He didn't want to acknowledge her gratitude. There were several things he'd always hated about Gryffindors. One, was that they pretty much always managed to end up on top. Two, they could show loyalty in other ways than banding together and having their arms branded with Dark Marks. Three, they could always show every part of them, even their vulnerable side, and not be denounced as a radical. If anyone in Slytherin had even made a single polite comment, not only would everyone be shocked, they'd also be angry. They'd been brought up to be nasty, and the house expressed that expectation. Everyone expected Slytherins to be sly and cunning. They expected Slytherins to be bad, to be solely interested in the Dark Arts. Not everyone was like that, but no matter how much power you had, you couldn't express yourself in any other ways other than snide comebacks, clever plans, and trickery. No one was allowed to be openly nice to a Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or even a Gryffindor. Draco prided himself on the ideals of loyalty and cunning. He didn't acquiesce to the ideas of Voldemort killing, and in Harry's case, attempting, to kill innocent children.

He had morals, but of course, no one would ever know that.

***

Harry was surprised by Draco's offer. He could only assume that Draco's offer was to provide shelter. He only hoped that the Malfoy's of 1789 were less zealous than their modern day counterparts.

***

Hermione smiled to herself as she walked back into the boulangerie. She never could've guessed that the Slytherin would ever help his sworn adversaries. She paused as she waited for the corpulent man to finish talking to another customer. Hermione relaxed, leaning against a glass display case and sighed. Draco had alleviated her primary concern of shelter. Perhaps there was more to him than anyone had thought.

Regardless of what everyone at Hogwarts may have thought, she was a girl, and she was aware that Draco Malfoy was attractive. He'd grown from the scrawny pale, pointy-faced git into something else entirely. Usually his steely-gray eyes were filled with contempt; blond hair perfectly in place; clad in standard black Hogwarts robes. But even she hadn't been able to keep herself from sneaking glances at Draco during Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch games. He had a lithe form that was perfect for his position as seeker, though he'd grown considerably and was now rather tall. He constantly strived to gain the perfection that his father demanded of him - both on the Quidditch Pitch and off. Hermione could empathize with this aspect of the Slytherin, due to her own craving to be at the top of all activities that were offered.

Draco had seemed to have matured further during the summer holiday - his voice had deepened to the low timbre that was reminiscent of another aristocratic blond - Prince William. He seemed to be more complex than anyone seemed to know. She remembered the conversations that Lavender and Parvati had had at the beginning of the term - long discourses dedicated to either Harry or Draco.

"Ah! Mademoiselle Granger!" the baker smiled as she spotted her, his voice shaking her out of her thoughts.

"Monsieur Lemieux," she responded politely, once again greeting the man with the customary bises, or kisses, upon his plump cheeks. He seemed like a French Santa Clause. She giggled at the mental image that accompanied the thought.

They spoke for several minutes, where he assured her that the bread would be finished soon.

"Merci, Monsieur," she thanked him. She asked him for directions to the Chateau de Foi.

The smile faded from Monsieur Lemieux's face. He spoke rapidly in French, his voice contemptuous. "Ah. Aristocrats," he spat on the ground. "Why do you keep company from a person who has family there?"

Hermione paused, contemplating his words. She responded carefully, aware that she couldn't come up with an excuse as to why they'd helped Draco. "I just feel I should."

Monsieur Lemieux sighed. "It's just a thirty minute ride from here. You'll just need to call for a carriage. I will assist you in finding one,"

"Merci,"

A slender blonde woman bustled from the kitchen, her skirts swirling. She clutched several cloth bundles in her hands, and held them out to Hermione.

She spoke in French, her voice lilting. "Good luck to you, Mademoiselle,"

"Merci, Madame," Hermione took the bundles from her. There were three, and each was filled with hot, steaming bread. Her mouth watered at the scent. She kissed the woman twice and smiled thankfully at the couple.

"I will help you find a carriage now," Monsieur Lemieux said, though he sounded a bit unwilling.

They walked out of the Boulangerie, and Monsieur Lemieux waited patiently as Hermione informed Harry and Draco as to how they'd be reaching the Chateau de Foi.

"At least be civil," she told them; Harry and Draco had begrudgingly agreed.

It was only a moment before they were packed in a simple wooden carriage, a single bay coloured horse pulling them away to the Chateau de Foi. A simple unacknowledged truce holding their destiny in its fragile creation.

***

The chateau loomed out from the wide expanse of land, a cream coloured monolith. Their carriage pulled through a highly embellished iron and gold gate, which two footmen opened smoothly. Even they were clad splendidly with silver and green dressings. The chateau itself was magnificent, several stories tall with ornate decorations upon i's exterior and with grandeur that indicated the Malfoys' place in society. Massive French doors displayed the Malfoy family coat of arms proudly upon its exterior. There were footmen located there as well, dressed identically to the ones that had opened the gate.

The carriage rumbled along the dusty golden carriage path, heading directly for the front doors. On each side, ornately styled gardens rose from either side, bright flowers peeped through a sea of green. There was a fountain on either side, both of a nude Aphrodite with water streaming from a shell she held in her hands.

Hermione gazed at the imposing building, her mouth slightly open in wonder.

"Well, it certainly looks different," Draco murmured beside her.

She turned toward him, curiosity clear in her eyes. "It's different?" she asked.

Draco glanced at her. "I suppose my family's ... redecorated quite extensively over the centuries."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask, "how has it changed?" but stopped short as the carriage halted before the pristine white marble stairs. A footman had appeared beside the carriage and opened the door, his silver-gloved hand appearing to assist their descent from the carriage. She stepped down from the carriage and gaped as her vision was assaulted with the splendor of the chateau. Harry raised an eyebrow at the footman, but allowed the man to assist him. Draco emerged last, and he immediately began walking up the stairs towards the doors. Harry followed closely behind him, and Hermione allowed herself one last glance before following the two up the stairs. The doormen stood silently as Draco grasped the large brass circle and banged it several times on the wooden door. The door opened almost immediately, and a young woman stood before them. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and a cascade of shimmering curls fell past her shoulders. She glanced at them disdainfully, eyeing their foreign clothes.

"Names, please," she asked sharply in French.

Draco stepped forward. "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy."

The woman appeared to be taken aback by his last name, but she gave a curt nod and opened the door wider for them to enter. She motioned for them to halt and she closed the door, quickly walking past them and disappearing into an adjoining room.

"Well, she was rude," Hermione stated, her right hand on her hip.

Harry opened his mouth to respond but shut it as the blonde woman reappeared with a tall blond man. His blond hair, gray eyes, and imperious attitude immediately identified him as a Malfoy.

The woman inclined her head at them, and spoke in French to the man. The man's gaze fell upon each of them one by one, his gaze lingering on Draco the longest.

He spoke to them in French while holding out his arm for the young woman to straighten his sleeve. Hermione rolled her eyes as the blond woman sprang forward to assist the man.

"If you're a Malfoy, you can open that door."

Hermione frowned. A door that only a Malfoy can open? Perhaps it requires Malfoy blood to open - similar to a specifically tuned Portkey, I suppose. Harry tugged on her sleeve, obviously upset that he was left out of the conversation. Draco calmly walked over to the door, and after a moment's hesitation, grasped the knob, twisted it, and pulled the door open.

The man merely raised an eyebrow in response. "All right, you've proven yourself." He gestured at himself, the ruffles on the cuffs of his shirt fluttering as he did. "I am Francois Malfoy. I am the head of the Malfoy household."

Draco looked pointedly at the young woman who stood behind Francois, and Francois turned to regard the girl with a heavy-lidded gaze.

"That is Catherine,"

Draco nodded. "Would you spare several rooms for myself and my companions?"

Francois looked at Draco suspiciously. "I have never heard of a Malfoy with your name - and yet, your ability to open the door confirms you as such. Who are you?"

Harry coughed to gain Hermione's attention, curious as to what was being said in the exchange between the Malfoy's. Hermione relayed the situation to Harry. Francois turned his head to look at them and glared.

Francois turned back to Draco. "Your...companions," he disdainfully stated. "Speak English. Are you spies for England?"

Draco appeared offended. "Most certainly not. We are merely travelers."

"Then answer my question, impertinent youngster: Who are you?"

Draco quipped in French. "If you really want to know, I'm your relative from two hundred years in the future, and these are two of my arch nemesis. Nemesi? We are looking for lodging."

Francois glared at Draco and straightened himself up to appear taller, though in truth Draco dwarfed him by several inches. "You are lying. By lying, you are disrespecting me, and therefore you will not be granted lodging."

Hermione bit her lip, worrying the flesh with her teeth.

Draco smiled smugly. "According to rule #14 of the Malfoy Code, you may not refuse lodging to another Malfoy."

Francois narrowed his eyes. "I may not refuse lodging to you, but I may refuse lodging to your companions."

"You wouldn't dare!" Hermione exclaimed in French, catching the occupants of the room by surprise.

"It is my house, and I will do as I please, girl," Francois sneered. He withdrew a small stone from his pocket and threw it at Hermione. She caught it out of reflex, and nearly dropped it as it glowed red. Francois glared at her. "Give the stone to the other boy," he commanded, jerking his head toward Harry. Hermione hesitated but gave the stone to Harry when Francois removed a wand from his pocket and pointed it at her. Harry took the stone and watched as it glowed blue. Francois smirked. "You, girl, are a Muggle-born. You are a Mudblood." He looked at Harry. "You, boy, you have Muggle blood somewhere in your family."

Hermione glared at Francois. "Don't call us that."

"You don't want to trifle with a Malfoy, girl."

Another voice interrupted the argument. "Father."

Everyone turned to look at the direction of which the voice had come from. A young woman stood on a nearby stairway, her blonde hair piled atop her head and crowned with a diamond tiara. Her features were delicate, and she too, had the traditional gray Malfoy eyes. Her long lavender gown swept the floor, her waist pulled in by a corset, and a white fan was clasped in her white-gloved hands.

"Victoire," Francois greeted.

"Father, let them stay," Victoire said, slowly descending down the stairs.

"But they are not purebloods," Francois frowned.

"They will do us no harm," Victoire replied, halting on the next to last step.

"You have Seen it?" Francois asked, walking forward and holding out his hand for his daughter to take. Victoire grasped his hand and descended the remaining stairs, her gray eyes assessing Harry, Hermione and Draco.

"Yes, Father, I have Seen it."

Hermione turned to look at Draco. "She is an Oracle?"

Draco nodded. "Victoire Malfoy was an Oracle."

Harry frowned. "What's an Oracle?"

Hermione turned to him and sighed. "Honestly, Harry. Don't you ever listen in class? An Oracle can tell the future."

Harry nodded. "I remember now - like the Oracle at Delphi,"

"Yes, she was particularly famous,"

Francois sighed. He turned to them, still grasping his daughter's hand. "I will defer to my daughter on this one. If you do not incite any illegal actions, you may stay."

Draco nodded. "Thank you."

Victoire smiled at him. "You are a Malfoy - you cannot remain in those clothes." She removed a small silver bell from a small purse she carried on her waist and rang it. The sound rang throughout the immense house, and within a moment, several young women had appeared, including Catherine, bowing to Victoire one by one as they stepped into the room.

"I would like our guests to be bathed and clothed."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

Francois turned and left the room swiftly, the heels on his boots striking the floor sharply.

Draco, Hermione and Harry were swept up by the maids and hurried upstairs into several separate bathrooms, with Draco complaining loudly that he didn't want to be washed by someone else.

***

Hermione stepped out of the large marble bathtub and wrapped a soft towel around her body. She padded across the room and opened the door into the adjoining bedroom where her maid was waiting. She was told to enter the bedroom and wait while the maid retrieved clothes for her to wear. The maid reappeared several moments later, nearly hidden behind swaths of pale blue skirts and jewels. Hermione winced as she glimpsed the corset and the heavy gown. It took nearly an hour for Hermione to get dressed, her waist tucked in severely by the corset and her body weighed down by the gown. Her chestnut hair had been curled and swept up, pinned into place by several jewel-studded clips. The maid finally allowed her to turn and look at herself in a nearby mirror, and she gasped. It was like nothing she had ever worn before, and although it required far too much effort, Hermione had to agree that she looked splendid.

She turned to the maid gratefully. "Thank you."

The maid smiled, nodding. "Your blond-haired friend is ready, as well."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "He isn't my friend."

The maid frowned, "But -"

"He's a companion. But I would love to see him at the moment." Hermione snickered as she envisioned Draco swathed in heavy brocade breeches like Francois had been.

The maid smiled. "He is though there." She gestured to a paneled door to her right that Hermione had not noticed before. Hermione thanked the maid again and took several unsteady steps towards the door. She reached the door, opened it and stepped through, and nearly collapsed in laughter as she saw Draco, wearing a silver and gold embroidered brocade jacket in a deep green, along with brocade breeches, a high-collared shirt, high socks, and buckled shoes.

Draco turned to her and stared for a moment. "You look...nice." A flicker of admiration briefly crossed his face, but it was gone before Hermione could wonder why.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Yes, I do, don't I?"

Draco glared at his outfit. "These pants are ugly." Hermione burst out laughing.

"Well, the colours suit you,"

"Yes, well," Draco glanced at the diamond buckles on his shoes and scowled.

Hermione merely laughed harder, clutching her abdomen as she fought for air to breathe.

"It's not funny," Draco snapped, pulling at an embroidered sleeve.

"Yes, it is."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but was cut off as the door slammed open and Harry stomped in, half-dressed with a maid trailing behind him, holding a shirt with an impossibly ruffled collar.

Draco's lips twitched at the corners and he burst out laughing, doubling over and pointing at Harry, who scowled.

Harry turned to Hermione. "Tell her I don't want to wear that," he gestured, waving at the ruffled shirt clutched in the maid's hand.

Hermione covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Harry was wearing brocade breeches, like Draco, except they were blue and embroidered with gold thread and didn't match his colouring at all. His upper body was bare; his hair tousled and going every which way. Hermione turned to the maid and spoke quietly, instructing her to find another shirt for Harry.

Harry looked at Hermione and he smiled. "You look nice, Hermione,"

She pirouetted for him, attempting to move beneath the constricting fabric. "Thanks, Harry."

"I -" Harry was cut off as the maid grabbed his hand and promptly dragged him from the room, leaving Hermione gaping after their quick departure.

"That was certainly not Potter's colour," Draco smirked from the bed, obviously over his laughing fit.

"I think it was rather nice," Hermione said, automatically defending Harry.

"I think I look better than him."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Hermione answered.

"Yes, of course. These are Malfoy colours. The blue on him just clashes with everything."

Hermione smiled. "I think you both look nice."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, I can be diplomatic," Hermione replied, grinning. Her smile faded as she realized that this had been the first time that she'd ever had a polite conversation with Draco, much less having one while alone with him. She was surprised that Draco could even be this pleasant. It occurred to her that the blond Slytherin had more secrets than he alluded to.