Chapter 4: De mauvaise foi (In Bad Faith)

The two of them arrived in a small round square with a fountain in the centre.

'Where are we going, Granger? And what's up with your name?'

'French Ministry of Magic, you have to be registered. Name's a long story.'

Hermione led Draco down the Rue de Furstemberg until they reached its famous square. It was a round square with a fountain in the centre. Buildings surround the square; perfect for an ambush or envelopment. Any threat could be dealt with from all sides.

As they neared the square, Draco stopped in his tracks. His eyes went wide and started frantically looking everywhere; his right knuckles going white from gripping his wand tightly. Hermione followed his running gaze to the men glancing at them at the tea table, the woman peering through the clothes shop, and the "couple" sitting on the edge of the square.

Hermione touched his wand hand and whispered, 'Ce sont des Aurors, Malfoy. On est en sécurité ici (Those are Aurors, Malfoy. We're safe here).'

'Ouais, je l'ai compris (Yeah, I got it).'

When they stepped in the central fountain, vines grew from the four trees in the square, completely enveloping them in a cage. The vines then turned straight as the square itself began to fall. The elevator floated down in the air until it reached solid ground and the doors opened. The Ministry was as Hermione remembered all those weeks ago when she was filing her naming and citizenship papers.

The receptionist greeted them, saying, 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle et Monsieur, bienvenue au Ministère des Affaires Magiques. Que venez-vous faire, s'il vous plaît? (Good afternoon, Miss and Mister, welcome to the Ministry of Magic. What is your business, please?)'

Hermione replied, 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle, nous sommes ici pour rencontrer le chef du Bureau de la Justice Magique, Monsieur Rosier (Good afternoon, Miss, we are here to meet with the head of the Bureau of Magical Justice, Mr. Rosier).'

The receptionist smiled. 'Ah, Monsieur Rosier, il est—'

'Mademoiselle la Baronne!'

Hermione and Draco turned to the booming voice, laying their eyes on a tall man wearing a simple navy suit and white shirt. He looked young, but the wrinkles under his eyes and cheeks as he grinned revealed his true age. He sauntered over to Hermione and shook her hand, the scent of strawberries emanating from him.

He said, 'Mademoiselle la Baronne, c'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer encore (Baroness, it's a pleasure to meet you once more).'

Hermione shook her head. 'Monsieur Rosier, je dois vous rappeler que la noblesse est morte. Il vous suffira de m'appeler comme Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce (Mr. Rosier, I have to remind you that the nobility is dead. It's enough to address me as Miss de Bonnegrâce).'

He laughed and replied, 'You are a baroness, Mademoiselle, it is only proper for me to address you as such.' He turned his attention to the thin man behind Hermione, his brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. 'Ah, this must be the young Malfoy. Unfortunately, Monsieur Malfoy, bureaucracy awaits you. Come.'

The man then walked down the steps with Hermione and Draco trailing behind. Draco asked Hermione, 'Why did he call you "Baroness"? What are you not telling me, Granger?'

'Again, long story.'

They walked in silence past the rows of tables packed with crowds, down another flight of steps, before reaching a door with the words 'BUREAU DE LA JUSTICE MAGIQUE' etched on it. They entered, revealing a room lined with tables extending to near-infinity, books stacked high, hundreds of workers scribbling and spellcasting, etcetera. Unlike the British ministry where the parchments assaulted visitors with their lime alkaline scent, the almond smell of paper was a soft accent in the room, much like a well kept ancient library. They eventually made it to Rosier's office in the secretariat.

He opened the door and said, 'You first, Monsieur Malfoy.'

He glanced at Hermione who only nodded her head and smiled. He opened the door to find his mother sitting facing him, eyes as wide as her mouth, before she stood up and rushed to him with arms spread out. Their embrace was equally tight like finding something precious that was lost before. Draco's tears stained Narcissa's silver blouse; Narcissa's tears made his dark suit even darker.

From the corner of Hermione's clouding eyes, Rosier shuffled where he stood. He reached into his breast pocket and handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes, causing parts of his silver handkerchief to become darker. She handed it back to him. Rosier opened his mouth to reply but immediately closed it before taking it back.

He said, 'I received your gift, the 1983 vintage bottle. Exceptional taste, I must say, with that amazing oak flavour. My compliments to you.'

Hermione smiled. 'I… shall pass them on to the winemakers.'

Narcissa and Draco reluctantly released each other, eyes glassy and cheeks damp with tears. Narcissa then turned to Hermione, gave her the largest smile she had even made, and embraced her like a mother would. Hermione's heart ached for that feeling again, and all she wanted to do was close her eyes and imagine her mother doing it to her. However, her eyes laid on Draco. Specifically, they laid on Draco's trembling figure.

Hermione had thought so much about the plan, about Narcissa, about herself, and about other things that she didn't have her full attention span on Draco Malfoy ever since his arrival. Though his cheeks were still shallow and his sleeves were too wide for his arms, his eyes were relief, content, and… joy. This moment, no matter how desired, belonged to Narcissa's son. Draco. Not her. That moment was gone. So, with a heavy heart, she promptly let go.

Narcissa whispered, 'Thank you so much, Hermione, I don't know how to repay you. You've done so much for me.'

Hermione smiled, 'Repay me by doing right by him. He needs you.'

Narcissa nodded and they turned to Draco slumped on the chair, tears falling from his eyes. She sat next to him and placed her hand on his shaking shoulders. He took her hand and held it until his knuckles went white. Rosier noticed Hermione staring at their interlaced hands and turned to the now-calm Draco.

He said, 'I'm sorry for breaking the emotional reunion, but you must be documented first. Thankfully, Narcissa and I already had a session prepared so we can fit you in.'

Draco nodded. He sniffled. He whispered, 'Erm… What do I have to do?'

'Nothing much, We only require your personal information, things such as full name, date of birth, residence, etcetera. Afterwards, we'll register your wand to our bureau, ensuring your legal status as a resident here. As you are not a citizen but a temporary resident owing to your exiled status, you will be subject to certain restrictions but we'll discuss that later. Shall we?'

Draco nodded. He, along with his mother's help, started answering Rosier about his personal information. Draco Lucius Malfoy, born on the 5th of June 1980 in Wiltshire, pure-blood, British citizenship currently suspended by persona non grata status. Afterwards, he was given a full list of his restrictions to which he accepted it all. It wasn't that restrictive—save for Draco not being able to engage in certain government services such as healthcare—but they were still limitations.

All three then were ushered into another part of the bureau to register Draco's wand. As they entered the registration and testing room, the Auror sitting on the desk greeted Rosier and shook Hermione's hand.

'Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hermioné, c'est un plaisir de te rencontrer encore. Tu cherche toujours à pratiquer? (Hello, Miss Hermione, pleasure to meet you again. Are you still looking to practise?)'

Hermione replied, 'Bien sûr. Viendriez-vous passer jeudi de la semaine prochaine? (Sure. Would you come by Thursday next week?)'

The Auror chuckled. 'Je vais essayer, mais je ne peux rien te promettre. (I can try, but I can't promise anything.)'

Hermione turned to Draco and Narcissa's confused expressions. She explained, 'Oh, I forgot. Draco, Narcissa, this is Auror Eugène Beaufort. I trained with him on-and-off when I first came here.'

Auror Beaufort greeted them and made smalltalk before he put on his official duties. He took Draco's wand and casted a charm before the pen behind him started moving on its own on the paper. Details of his wand were written: hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core, 25.4 centimetres, made by Garrick Ollivander in 1973, and British registration suspended. Auror Beaufort carefully removed the British registration charm and replaced it with a French one. He also added a spell-record charm as part of his limitations.

He handed the wand back to Draco, and asked him to cast spells to test the charms. At first, Draco was his cocky self with straightened back and squared shoulders as he assumed a duelling stance. However, his attitude seemed to turn the more spells he casted. His shoulders slumped, his back curved. Every spell came out with dimmed light and its impact was negligible.

Auror Beaufort asked, 'Something wrong, Monsieur Malfoy?'

Draco shook his head. 'It's… sluggish. Slow. It's almost like it doesn't want to cast spells. It feels reluctant.' Auror Beaufort shared a glance with Hermione which Draco immediately saw. 'What was that? What was that look? Did you do something to the wand?' He turned to Hermione. 'Did you know what it is? Did you plan this?'

Hermione spoke up, saying, 'He didn't do anything, Malfoy. I know what's wrong with your wand.' Hermione stayed silent, pursing her lips to avoid saying something wrong.

Draco lifted an eyebrow. 'Well?'

Auror Beaufort spoke up. 'Your wand doesn't recognise you as its master, Monsieur Malfoy.' Everyone except Hermione turned to him. At Draco's look of confusion, he continued. 'The story of how Harry Potter won the Elder Wand is a famous one, Monsieur Malfoy.'

'No, I… I know that. But, Potter gave it back to me and I can do spells with it, so doesn't that mean the wand is mine?'

'He gave it to you; you did not win it. The wand chooses the wizard, Monsieur Malfoy, and wands choose who can win them. A wizard may donate their wand but it does not guarantee its mastery is also donated. I suspect your wand still owes its allegiance to Monsieur Potter.'

The room fell silent. Draco asked, 'H-How can I fix it?'

Auror Beaufort shook his head. 'You can't. You either have to conquer your wand from Monsieur Potter or find a new one.'

Before Draco could respond, Hermione stepped in. 'I'll take him to La Place Cachée and find him a wand.'

Narcissa nodded, her eyes scanning Draco's whole figure. 'Alright, Hermione. If you would, please buy him some clothes, he still looks too wizard-like. I'll repay you, of course.'

Draco was about to ask why, but then Draco inspected his mother's clothes. Silver blouse, long brown trousers with a cream blazer. Very Muggle. Draco's protest died in his throat as he looked at everyone else in the room. All of them were wearing Muggle clothes. He reluctantly agreed. Hermione agreed to meet Narcissa back in Chateau de la Fierté three or four hours from noon later. They then parted ways with Hermione and Draco apparating to Montmartre.

As they were walking to Rue Girardon, Draco spoke up.

'So, are you going to explain earlier to me?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Which "earlier" are you referring to? My last name, my title, or the fact that your mother wore Muggle clothing?'

He chuckled. 'The Muggle clothing I already knew. F-Father, he always lamented how much of the European pure-bloods have lost their way, too mingling and infatuated with Muggles. No, I'm more interested in your title, Mademoiselle la Baronne.'

Hermione scoffed. 'I've already told him not to call me that, and yet he still does. At least Auror Beaufort stopped, though that took a while.'

'We pure-bloods are traditional, Granger. So, is it a real thing or?'

Hermione stopped in her tracks with her mouth agape. 'How dare you. What, you think a Mudblood like me can't be noble?'

He grimaced and quickly looked away. 'I… I don't… I just… It's an honest question.'

She shook her head and continued walking. 'I'm called baroness because I am, though I'm sure you would still see me as a peasant. My last name, de Bonnegrâce, was my mother's maiden name. My ancestor, Samuel de Bonnegrâce, was a soldier who rose through the ranks and served under Napoleon as one of his generals. For his services, he was made Baron de Baigneaux, the little village he was from, in 1809. The title's passed down ever since to me.'

'Why did you change your last name?'

'Same reason why I've gallicised my name and added my mother and grandmother's names there. Honour, respect, but also anonymity. I'm sure you know what happened in Britain; the newspapers made sure of that. I won't show my face, no. I want some peace without recognition.'

They stopped in front of the Statue of Pythia on the steps, the entrance to Wizarding Paris. Draco seemed tense at the men and women gazing at them until he seemed to remember they were Aurors guarding the way, like how it was in Rue de Furstemberg. They soon entered the statue, and went to La Place Cachée.

As they stepped inside, the late 20th century faded away and the late 18th century blew up in their faces. Tall Classical buildings, architecture similar to the burned Palais de Tuileries. Though she had been here numerous times, her sense of amazement never escaped her. It was as if she was 14 again, enjoying for the first time Wizarding Paris. She was transported to the 18th century, down to the feel of the cobblestone streets and clean air. The only thing that pulled her out would be its sorcerers and sorceresses living inside; they wore such modern clothing they could be put in the middle of Paris or Bordeaux and not look out of place.

As they walked down the boulevards to Rue de Godefroy,the commercial centre of Wizarding Paris, Draco noticed the crowd staring at him. He whispered, 'Why are they all looking at me?'

Hermione chuckled, 'It's because you're a foreigner.' At Draco's confused look she continued. 'You still wear robes and suits belonging to 1928 not 1998. Don't worry, we'll buy you some new clothes.'

Soon, they reached Rue de Godefroy and their destination: 10 Rue de Godefroy, Les Baguettes Magiques Gracieuses de Gaultier. The doorbell chimed and as Hermione took in the sight that had first amazed her last month, a middle-aged ginger man stepped out from the rows of boxes. When his eyes laid on Hermione and Draco, he smirked.

'Ah, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce et Monsieur Draco Malfoy. I'm assuming the Young Master is in need of a new wand?'

'No—'

'Yes.'

Hermione and Draco looked at each other, the former with her striking look and the latter with a near-sneer. The man then slipped back within the rows, gaze looking at every entry with deep inspection. Hermione looked to Draco, whose attention was fully to his wand. It had been his since before Hogwarts and it stayed with him for over half a decade. Hermione's mind connected with the grimace on his face, reminding her of the longing she felt for her old vine wand.

Her concentration shattered when the shuffling of feet pierced through her ears. Mr. Gaultier was walking back with seven wands: five under his right and two under his left arm. He put all of them on the counter but put aside the two on his left arm. Draco took one and swished it about; too weak. He took another one; too strong. Another one; too difficult. The last one; nothing happened. Mr. Gaultier muttered something under his breath. He then put the two wands aside and gave them to try. The first, a reddish-brown wand with an ivory handle, was given to him.

When it was placed on his hand, the wood cracked. Something was growing inside. Draco almost dropped the wand when the cracks were filled by white streaks. Inspecting the wand, it now had streaks of silver filling the gaps where the wood cracked.

Draco was speechless. 'W-What was that? Why did it do that?'

'How does it feel, Monsieur Malfoy?'

'It feels… Powerful. Elegant. Controllable.'

Mr. Gaultier chuckled. 'When Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce came here once more, I knew I should put some of my old mentor's collection to the test. What you are holding, Monsieur Malfoy, is part of that collection. Are you familiar with Thiago Quintana?'

Draco shook his head. 'I only know he was an American wandmaker, nothing more. Is this one of his wands?

'Yes, yes, it is. The wand you're holding was one of his later creations, made in 1948. Monsieur Quintana was familiar with the harvesting of the White River Monster spine, capable of producing elegant and controllable spells.'

Draco's mouth dropped. 'White River Monster spine? Isn't that rather rare for a wand core?'

'Yes it is, you're quite right. Monsieur Quintana knew how to lure and harvest them and it was something he took to his own grave in 1966. The wood is elm, known for its elegance and sophisticated spellwork. Elm, with the White Spine, makes for an incredibly precise and controllable wand.'

Draco smiled—not smirked—smiled. 'Incredible. How much is it?'

'Sixteen galleons and twelve knuts.'

Draco's smile faded. 'What? That's outrageous, Ollivander—'

Hermione rummaged inside and dropped seventeen galleons on the counter. 'We'll take it, apologies for his emotions, Monsieur Gaultier.'

Mr. Gaultier took it and smiled. 'Of course, Mademoiselle. C'est un plaisir de faire affaire avec vous (It's a pleasure doing business with you).'

Hermione replied, 'Et vous aussi, Monsieur (And you too, sir)', while dragging Draco out.

Once out, Draco shoved his new wand in his coat pocket and crossed his arms. 'What was that, Granger? Sixteen galleons, that's a robbery!'

She shook her head. 'I had to pay over twenty five for my wand.'

Draco's face reddened like a dragon preparing to spew fire. 'Twenty?! That's—'

'I'll tell you later, but we have to go now, we don't have time for arguments.'

Draco huffed. 'I suppose.' Hermione gave him a wry smile. 'Let's go.'

Hermione then took Draco's hand and dragged him from Mr. Gaultier's shop to a row of fashion stores and such. The cold clammy feeling of it was tucked in Hermione's mind as she explained the various styles in the non-magical world incorporated into the magical world. When she finished explaining the fact that clothes were ready-to-wear and not always tailored specifically, she turned to him and noticed his crimson face. His gaze was enraptured by her. His lips were slightly upturned.

'Hey, were you even paying attention?'

He broke out of it, pursing his lips. He licked his lips and said, 'Of course. Suits, blazers, shirts, trousers, sweatshirts, etcetera.'

Hermione's eyes narrowed. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

Draco bit his lip and slowly shook his head. 'I was… captured by your explanation.'

Hermione scoffed. 'I thought I was a bushy-haired know-it-all.'

Draco chuckled. 'You are, it's just that I've never seen you be so passionate in things other than giving the right answers all the time.'

Passionate? She was just explaining non-magical clothes! Hermione decided to play along. 'How did you conclude I was passionate?'

He smirked and brushed his hair back, strands falling in front. His hair was a curtain, behind which he could express himself without fear. 'It's the little things. The way your eyes jumped from style to style as if deciding which to tell me. The way your lips stumbled over your words, as if your brain was racing past without your mouth's cooperation. The little jumps of your shoulders when you realise what to tell and how to tell them.'

Hermione was speechless. She was often described as manic, passionate, but that was people telling her their perception. She didn't know what exactly made her seem as such. Yet, in only a few minutes, Draco Malfoy—of all people—had described to a T exactly what made her seem passionate. She was so engrossed in her thoughts she didn't realise Draco was walking up to her.

Their eyes met. Their lips pointed to each other. Only a few centimetres of air separated them. She could see his sunken bones, but also his fiery eyes. He leaned in, and whispered, 'Also, you've been holding my hand ever since we walked out of the wand shop.'

Hermione gasped and immediately let go, leaving a small hole where coolness resided. At the same time, the shop attendant walked in, and Draco backed off. Hermione glanced at the attendant, holding in a smile.

She asked, 'Alors, quels vêtements achèterez-vous? (So, which clothes will you purchase?)'

Before Hermione could respond, Draco cut her off. 'On va acheter tous les types (We will buy every type).'

As Draco stepped away to discuss the various fits and colours provided, Hermione stood there in silence. She had spent so much time holding either Harry or Ron's hand to the point where holding Draco's hand was second nature, but this was Draco Malfoy! Draco Malfoy, the pureblood arsehole that had tormented and insulted her for years! Yet, she was curious about him. The way his face cracked after she recounted the letter in Azkaban, the way he trembled after hugging Narcissa. It was that Draco—the real one—that she was intrigued with.

Her thoughts percolated as she paid the amount—several thousand Galleons amounting to millions of Francs—through her French Gringotts account. Before it was packed, she said, 'Draco, change into one of them before we go. We're going to Bordeaux.'

'Why? I thought mother lives in Lyon.'

'She does but our houses are connected, and as it turns out, I only have a long-distance portkey to Bordeaux. So, change into some non-magical clothing and crack on.'

He then picked out a bag and entered the changing room. He then walked out in a green collared shirt with silver trousers, Slytherin to the bone. Though they were a bit too large for him, Hermione was sure he would soon fill them out as soon as he was eating normally.

Once they were out, they touched the portkey hanging on Hermione's neck to transport them to Bordeaux. They emerged inside an old building and soon walked out to a wide open square with buildings placed in a semicircle, leaving room for a large fountain. Hermione internally breathed a sigh of relief as robes would have all eyes laid on them.

'Where are we?'

'The Ministry's official Apparition point for the city of Bordeaux. I can't apparate you directly to my home since I'd have to key you in my wards, and I have to make a phone call.'

'A what call?'

'You'll get it.' She sauntered over to the nearest phone booth and asked Emmanuelle to prepare two portions for Hermione and her 'guest'. Afterwards, she ordered a taxi, told the driver the destination, and hopped in with Draco and their bags.

'Granger—'

'Shush.' She turned to the driver and said, '12 Rue du Champion, au nord de Bordeaux, près de Blanquefort, s'il vous plaît.'

The driver nodded and they drove off to Hermione's residence. She discreetly pulled her wand and casted, 'Vocem obscuro.' A light yellow light enveloped around them and quickly faded. She turned to Draco and said, 'We can talk freely now.'

'What spell was that?'

'It's an invention of the French Ministry. The driver will still hear us but he won't be able to understand us. It's better than muffliato or any other silencing spell since we'll still look and sound like we're talking; it'll just be unintelligible.'

'Why would you cast that?'

She took a deep breath. 'Because you need to know something. I have a housekeeper—' she rolled her eyes at Draco's surprised look, 'and she's a Non-Magique. I know it's going to be difficult, but I would advise you not to use any form of magic. She'll only be there for a few hours, that's all I'm asking.'

He opened his mouth to reply but closed it. He merely nodded and replied, 'Got it. I'll be sure to interrogate you afterwards.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. Soon, the taxi arrived at its destination. After a quick Finite Incantatem, she paid the driver and stood in front of a large home. It was an ostentatious palace with tall Corinthian columns, symmetrical silver facade, and yards surrounding it. With a few discreet flicks of the wand, a faint red light enveloped Draco.

She said to Draco, 'Bienvenue au Château de la Fierté, my ancestral home.'

The gates opened and they walked inside. As she walked further, old memories resurfaced of her playing hide and seek with her grandparents in the front courtyard, the tall tree where she climbed and fell several metres, and so much more. Her attention was broken when the front door opened and Emmanuelle stepped out.

She smiled and asked, 'Bon retour, Mademoiselle, j'espère que vous allez bien (Welcome back, Miss, I pray you are well).'

'Je vais bien, Emmanuelle (I'm well, Emmanuelle).' She turned to Draco and said, 'Emmanuelle, voilà un vieil ami d'Angleterre, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, voilà ma domestique, Emmanuelle Sonderies (Emmanuelle, this is an old friend from England, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is my housekeeper, Emmanuelle).'

Draco said, 'C'est un plaisir de faire votre connaissance (It's a pleasure to meet you)' as he shook her hand. She replied the same and then escorted them both inside. Hermione walked with Emmanuelle. As they were talking about the state of the house, Hermione noticed the three sets of footsteps suspiciously becoming two. She stopped and turned back to see Draco admiring the pastel colours. Emmanuelle walked away to prepare the tea table and they were left alone.

He touched the wall, feeling the texture of it. 'How old is this house?'

Hermione shrugged, 'About 150 years. Construction began in 1835 and finished in 1841.'

Draco furrowed his eyebrows, 'Six years? For a relatively small house? No offence.'

Hermione chuckled. 'None taken. That's just how long things are built in the non-magical world. It's something one takes for granted when you have magic to help you.'

'Yeah, a chateau this big might take a year, maybe a year and a half.'

They continued their walks to the tea room where Hermione and Narcissa had had long and deep conversations about the world and each other. He sat down, legs crossed like his mother, back straight like his mother. However, he took coffee, and not tea. Two sugar cubes, a splash of milk.

Draco took a sip of his coffee. 'I'm going to be honest, Granger, didn't expect you to have a housekeeper, what with your crusade against house elves in Fourth Year. SPEW, wasn't it?'

Hermione nodded. 'I didn't protest House Elves as housekeepers, just how it was forced upon them and how they were abused. Winky—she was an elf—was afraid of heights, yet she was ordered to go up to the highest seat to reserve it. Your own elf, Dobby, was also abused on orders of your father. You don't give them clothes, you don't pay them, you have them working against their desires, and you call on them whenever the fuck you wanted. Emmanuelle came into my employment by her own free will. She comes here four days a week, her work hours are clear—10 AM to 6 PM, I pay her above the wage expected of her position, and most importantly, I treated her as a partner, a friend, and not a slave like you did with Dobby.'

Draco at least had the awareness to stay silent and look away. He whispered, 'At least your cause is a noble one. I'm sure many in Gryffindor followed.'

'No. None at all, actually. Ron even…' She looked down. 'Ron… kinda mocked me. Made S.P.U.G; Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins. It's just… he didn't know better.'

Draco scoffed. 'And you were planning on marrying that buffoon?'

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but found no words. At first, she was convinced that she still wanted to marry Ron; it just wasn't the right time. However, as time went on and her thoughts percolated, she doubted even the idea of being in love with him. When she laid her eyes on him that day on Draco's trial, her response wasn't romantic. She wanted to shake his hand, not embrace him as lovers. However, she soon pivoted to something else. Something she had wanted to ask Draco ever since the clothing spree on Rue de Godefroy.

She said, 'Before we continue, I have one thing to ask of you.'

Draco nodded. He placed his cup and looked Hermione in the eyes.

'On our way here, I was thinking about something, something you said in Azkaban.'

Draco's throat bobbed. His gaze glanced from his cup to his hands.

'Not many people know it. Only the Order knew.'

His legs grew restless. His thumbs fidgeted. His eyes wandered out.

'Draco.'

The sound of his name made him tense.

'How did you know my parents were gone?'