Chapter 1
Lying back on her sun lounger, Hermione closed her eyes and smiled at the feel of the hot St Tropez sun on her skin. A light sea breeze lifted stray tendrils of her hair and she sighed blissfully.
When her parents had cajoled her into joining them on their six week excursion to the South of France, this was not what she had had in mind.
She sat up and sipped at her mojito, relishing the feel of the cool liquid sliding down her throat, her fathomless amber eyes gazing out to sea.
It was funny, she mused, how eight months out of the year she was the perfect student: attentive in her studies, excelling with such minimum application of her focus that it made her feel guilty – guilty enough that she applied herself wholeheartedly to her schoolwork to feel deserving enough of the grades she so effortlessly achieved – and yet the other four months of the year she was somebody else entirely.
The other four months consisted of extensive travel; using her trust fund to flit from place to place, country to country, and enjoying the cultures of exotic places. In spite of all this, she'd never thought of herself as a 'beach-goer', preferring productive holidays and excursions to decidedly non-tourist friendly places as opposed to the sun drenched coastlines of the world.
It was a nice change of pace, she thought, from backpacking in Asia or going on a rough-and-ready safari. She'd done a lot with her teen years – helped to build orphanages and schools, worked in animal sanctuaries and conservation parks, hiked up Mount Kilimanjaro, walked the length of the Great Wall of China, swam with sharks and studied the Great Barrier Reef, amongst numerous others. She'd been quite efficient at packing her Harry-and-Ron free weeks with activities that would benefit her mind, body and soul, knowing full well that life within the wizarding world was sheltered and it was important for her to experience things outside of the land where magic was the answer to everything.
A waiter to her left cleared his throat and she blinked, startled from her reverie. She blushed and placed her now-empty glass down on his tray. She smiled as he passed her another drink – a daiquiri, she estimated from the colour and consistency, and reached over to pass him a tip from her purse. "Merci," she said, adjusting her sunglasses and taking a sip of her refreshed drink.
Oh yes, she thought, it was such a nice change of pace.
...
Draco stood on his balcony and frowned at the happy little tourists on the golden sandy beach that sprawled along the coast.
He wasn't much comfortable in these mixed resorts, preferring instead the safety of decidedly magical hotels.
It wasn't that he was particularly against Muggles – in spite of the drivel his father constantly tried to fill his head with, he could mix with them quite freely – no, it was that he wasn't pleased about having to limit his magic.
He'd grown up around magic, even beginning illicitly performing it himself as soon as it had flared, and being in an environment wherein magic couldn't be freely used made him feel vulnerable and exposed. It wasn't just that; in England, he knew exactly where the boundaries between Magical and Muggle fell, knew exactly where it was safe to use magic, but here, he had no idea who was a Muggle and who was a wizard, further proving that Muggles and magic folk weren't so different.
Even now, in his private suite, he felt unsafe and on edge – defenceless, like a child – and it unsettled him.
Draco ran a hand through his hair and gazed out at the sea before him.
He hadn't been altogether thrilled about his mother practically forcing him into joining her on her annual art tour, though he was pleasantly surprised by the weather upon their arrival.
"Draco? Are you ready?" His mother called, "I thought we'd apparate to Paris for a late lunch and visit the Van Gogh exhibit at the Louvre. How does that sound?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine."
Hermione glanced at the time and sat up, pulling a light summer dress over her head to cover her torso. She slipped her feet into her sandals and began the short walk to her self-proclaimed 'apparating spot' – a shaded, hidden area that was out of sight to everyone except those trying to find it – and upon reaching her destination, reached into her bag and gripped her wand, closing her eyes as she felt the telltale pull and twist.
When she opened her eyes, she was in her room, and she changed quickly. She'd been planning to visit a couple of Museums whilst in France, and there was a new exhibition opening in Paris that she was just dying to see.
Though he'd been in the museum for little over twenty minutes, Draco was already bored of hearing his mother discuss Van Gogh's brush stroke and use of colour with one of the guides, and had sat himself down on one of the hard wooden benches that littered the gallery.
He gazed around absentmindedly, his mood brightened by the sight of long, tanned legs standing twenty or so feet in front of him. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, focussing on the delectable behind of the owner of the legs. He opened his mouth as the girl brushed a curl away from her face with a manicured hand, enraptured as her movement stirred the air. Draco breathed in her scent; it was vanilla and citrus and made his mouth water.
Draco's eyes tracked the girl as she made her way along the wall of the gallery, stopping occasionally to gaze at a canvas that caught her eye.
"This used to be my favourite," he heard his mother remark, and only then did he realise that the girl was standing beside his mother and staring up at The Courtesan.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at the painting, glancing back at Mrs Malfoy and then up again to the Van Gogh work. "It's beautiful, Mrs Malfoy, there's no denying that, but Van Gogh just doesn't speak to me as much as say, Picasso or Monet."
Draco gaped as the girl fell into an easy conversation with his mother – even calling her by name, so he concluded that she must have magical heritage of some sort – and stood to approach the two.
"I must admit I do feel the same," Narcissa said with a smile, "My personal choice would always be Monet."
Nodding again, Hermione went on, "Yes, Monet has an elegance that just isn't much seen anymore. His style is enviable to others, I would think. Especially his ability to capture movement and stillness, happiness and sorrow."
It was then Draco recognised the owner of the voice and his appreciation of the beautiful creature was renewed rather than quelled. Hermione Granger – the muggleborn girl who had been his victim for their first years of schooling together – was effortlessly discussing art with his mother as if she was her companion, a friend, rather than the mother of her tormentor.
Narcissa smiled at Hermione. "You know your art, Miss Granger."
Hermione blushed. "One of my great loves," she admitted, "One of my secret loves. My friends from school – they wouldn't understand."
"No," Narcissa agreed softly, "Most people don't."
"I am sorry that I'll be in school when the refurbished Turner gallery opens," Hermione said with a sigh, "I would have loved to have gone to the opening."
"Mother loves Turner," Draco interjected, smirking when Hermione's posture immediately stiffened. "She has many original works in her apartments at our Manor."
"Draco," his mother quietly chided, "It is not polite to boast. Though, I must admit, I wish I could get hold of his Modern Rome."
Hermione finally turned to look at him, and Draco was bowled over by the change in her. Her unruly hair fell in loose curls down her back, streaked almost blonde by the sun, and reached her small waist. She wore a thin pastel yellow summer dress that clung to her figure, showing the slimness of her waist, her flat stomach, the curve of her hips, and ended three inches above her knees. On her feet were simple silver sandals. But it was her eyes that Draco was captivated by. Dark amber pools with an upper curtain of thick black lashes. She raised an eyebrow, as if to say 'How shall we play this, Malfoy?' and he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before giving her a genuine smile.
"My family has the original," Hermione revealed, lowering her eyes. "My father inherited it from my grandfather. It is leased out at the moment to the Getty Museum."
Narcissa Malfoy gasped. "But that painting is owned by the 5th Earl of Rosebury."
"Yes," Hermione agreed slowly, a flush rising to her cheeks.
Narcissa glanced up sharply and stared at Hermione, gazing at the girl with a renewed interest. So, the muggleborn was born of nobility, was she?
"Harry and Ron – they don't know," Hermione went on quietly, seeing Mrs Malfoy's expression, "I would prefer it to remain that way. I... I don't like people to know."
Glancing between his mother and Hermione, Draco frowned. "Would one of you tell me what on earth you are talking about?"
"It is of no consequence," Narcissa replied with a smile, resigning herself that she would have to keep this piece of information from her son. She knew from past conversations that the young Granger girl had suffered at the hands of her son and his classmates and had no desire to give him further fuel to make her life miserable.
Hermione looked down at her watch and pulled a face. "I was supposed to collect something for my parents," she explained, "If you will excuse me."
She smiled politely at Mrs Malfoy and nodded at Draco.
"Of course," Narcissa responded, "It was lovely to speak to you, Miss Granger."
"Please, Mrs Malfoy, call me Hermione."
Mrs Malfoy smiled. "Then you must call me Narcissa, I insist. Draco and I will be attending the opening of the Air de Paris next week, would you care to join us?"
Hermione looked at Draco to gage his reaction to her invitation. He shrugged and nodded half heartedly. "I would love to," Hermione replied with a surprised smile, "Thank you."
She nodded at Narcissa and Draco and then turned to go.
When she was out of earshot, Narcissa turned her attention to her son. "I saw the way you looked at her," Narcissa said knowingly, placing her and on Draco's arm. When Draco made to protest, she shook her head to quiet him. "You know that I don't believe in the blood nonsense that your father spouts. She's a nice girl, Draco; don't hide away your heart to maintain the family reputation."
Draco gaped at his mother and she smiled at him, pressing her credit card into his palm. "Now, I do believe I promised you a late lunch. Go – find that girl and make amends."
...
Hermione smiled in spite of herself at the memory of her conversation with Mrs Malfoy. She hadn't expected the older woman to be so knowledgeable about art – muggle art, no less – but it had been a pleasant surprise to have a discussion with someone that she actually knew about something that she loved so dearly.
She looked around and sighed happily, content to be enjoying the sun in her favourite city. A waiter placed a glass of water and a menu down in front of her and she thanked him, opening the menu and staring at it blankly. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw someone standing opposite her and looked up. "Malfoy," she greeted politely, raising an eyebrow when he seemed to dither.
"May I?" he asked, indicating the chair across from her down. She nodded and he sat down, plucking another menu from the adjoining table and opening it.
Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. "What can I do for you?"
Draco shrugged and set his menu down. "There's no law against one classmate enjoying a drink with another, is there?" he replied, his tone mocking the ridiculousness of the situation.
Hermione let out a scoff of laughter. "Oh yes, let us just pretend that we're old friends who have just so happened to bump into one another for a bite to eat, rather than people from different worlds who haven't ever, in fact, had a civil conversation – which we actually are."
"Grow up, Granger," Malfoy hissed at her, and Hermione smiled.
"I still know how to throw a punch, if you're interested," she offered, malice glinting in her eyes in spite of the conversational tone.
Malfoy scowled at her, frustrated beyond measure at her responses. Then, seeing that he was going to have to be the one to extend an olive branch, "Look, Granger, I never meant to wind you up, alright? Just thought it was odd us both being, well, here, together, and wanted to say hello. Perhaps engage in some witty banter and exchange gripes about school, you know, small talk, but if you can't be mature enough to hold a civil conversation then-"
"Civil conversation?" Hermione interrupted incredulously, "We haven't exchanged two civil words in six years for crying out loud. Forgive me for being a tad dubious about your intentions. You haven't got Pansy Parkinson lurking anywhere waiting to fire a hex at me, have you?"
In spite of himself, Draco let out a bark of laughter. "All right, point made. I just, well, I just wanted to apologise."
"Whatever for?" Hermione said with mock surprise, taking a sip of her water and grimacing. She gestured for a waiter. "Could I have a mimosa and a caeser salad? And whatever he wants," she gestured to Draco.
"Shrimp cocktail and white wine, please," Draco supplied, handing his menu to the waiter. "And I'm paying, not her," Then, turning to Hermione, who looked flabbergasted at his gesture, "I wanted to apologise because I've not exactly being the nicest to you, have I?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Draco went on, "I just want you to know that I never meant any of that stuff. I know now that your blood doesn't have anything to do with how adept you are. I don't believe all of that pure-blood superiority rubbish."
"What will your father do when he finds out that you're sitting here with me?" Hermione asked pointedly, taking up her glass again for a sip and groaning. "Where are these bloody drinks? This is not a conversation that should be had sober."
Draco smirked at her latter question but shrugged. "I don't really care, and, in any case, my mother will soon straighten him out. She likes you."
Hermione's eyes widened fractionally. "Does she?"
"You're the first person I know who's ever managed to talk 'art' with her. She was very impressed."
"And her opinion has rubbed off on you, is that it?" Hermione wondered, twisting a lock of hair around her finger and biting her lip.
"Please don't do that," Draco asked softly, and Hermione glanced at him questioningly. "Bite your lip," he explained, "It's very, uh, distracting."
The very idea of Draco Malfoy finding her attractive was suddenly so ludicrous to Hermione that she began to laugh – it was a deep, low sound, Draco noted, much different to the high pitched giggle of most girls – and Draco was caught up in the moment and began to laugh with her.
Hermione looked up at him, her eyes filled with unanswered questions. "This is very odd," she commented. "Three weeks ago we were arguing in the Potions corridor."
"Because of Potter," Draco pointed out, "Not because I insulted you."
"As was usually the case," Hermione said wryly.
"Granger," he replied in a warning voice, "I'm trying to be nice."
Hermione sobered and nodded. "I know. And it is appreciated. It's just... weird."
Changing the subject, Draco leaned forwards. "How long are you staying here?"
"Staying here?" Hermione looked around, "In Paris? Oh, I'm not."
"You're not? Oh." For some reason, Draco felt a little disappointed. "Are you going home, then?"
"No," Hermione said, "I'm staying in St Tropez with my parents. Le Chateau de la Messardiere?"
"That's where mother and I are staying," Draco murmured with a smirk. "So perhaps we'll be seeing a lot more of eachother over the coming weeks."
"Perhaps," Hermione echoed, unable to fight the unexpected smile on her face.
...
Back in her room, Hermione lay down on her bed and pulled a biro out of her bag. She looked around for some paper and used whatever was in reach.
Dear Ginny, she penned, I'm here in the South of France with my parents – for some sort of convention or gathering or something, not entirely sure – and you'll never guess who's also staying in my hotel.
Wait for it – Draco Malfoy.
I bumped into his mother in Paris and he was there, and I ended up having an early dinner with him – I don't even know how that happened so don't ask, I suppose I'm too polite for my own good – and it was rather odd. He was... well... nice. Not nice enough that I've miraculously forgotten the past six years, but he seems different. And his mother was lovely, too, funnily enough. Hope all is well with you and the boys – tell Harry to stop stressing and make sure Ron doesn't eat too much. And if you happen to show them this letter, please make sure they know that I'm not 'going over to the dark side' or 'betraying them with Draco Malfoy'. He's simply providing much needed entertainment. I'm not used to sitting around doing nothing and it's nice to have someone my own age to talk to.
Love, Hermione.
She opened her balcony doors and winced when two owls screeched into the room, one was her own and the other was decidedly not. She tended to her own first, attaching the letter to its leg and giving it a piece of dried chicken, not allowing it to fly until she'd cast a long-lasting disillusionment spell over the bird, and then let it go.
The second bird was larger than her own – completely black where her own was a tawny brown – and sat moodily on the back of a chair. She approached it gingerly, opening her palm to offer more dried chicken whilst she untied the letter attached to its leg. It gave her a happy nip on the back of her hand and flew off as soon as it's burden had been released.
Hermione unfolded the letter and raised her eyebrows.
Granger –
Mother is staying in Paris for the rest of the holiday and Lucius has gone home. Fancy some company tomorrow? I was planning on going to the beach if you would like to join me. The bird won't stay once you've untied the letter so you'll have to notify the front desk with your answer. I'm in room 657.
Draco.
Hermione blinked at the words for a moment and deliberated. Then, almost unthinkingly, she reached across and picked up the phone. She pressed a button and waited. "Hello, would you pass on a message for me?" she asked the receptionist, "It's for the man in room 657. Would you tell him that I'll meet him tomorrow by the bar at 10:30? Thank you."