Sitting down at her vanity, Hermione gazed at her reflection with a soft sigh. She was nervous for tonight, for so many reasons. All day long she'd pondered and fretted over just how Malfoy would comport himself in the Muggle world, and she had no illusions that this would be a first for the proud wizard. It was also highly likely she'd run into various prominent members of the french community, some of which were regular patrons of the arts, in particular the Opera and Ballet. She and Draco would be sitting center aisle in the 1st Balcon, which in her humble opinion, offered the best seating within the Opera Bastille. The seats belonged to the Alphonse family, and had since the inception of the Bastille Opera House nearly ten years prior. The Alphonse Family also kept current their preferred status at the Palais Garnier, which they'd been regular patrons of, since the time of Napoleon's reign.

A movement from behind her, served to sever her momentary introspection as her ladies maid, a lovely witch by the name of Solange Moulin, was busy trying to fix her hair (which was not cooperating at the moment).

"Vos cheveux sont une terreur, ma Dame. L'humidité n'aide pas non plus, préférez-vous monter ou descendre ce soir?"

(Your hair is a terror, my Lady. The humidity isn't helping either, would you prefer it up or down this evening?)

Hermione stifled a laugh at the disgusted expression on Solange's face. She was about ten years her senior, and had been with her since she'd started Hogwarts. Her mother had been Angelique's ladies maid, and the Moulin family had served the Alphonse's for centuries.

They were paid handsomely for their services and loyalty.

"Solange, je t'adore, mais tu te plains toujours de mes cheveux et je te dis toujours que ce n'est pas de ma faute si je suis né avec cette monstruosité. Fais ta magie, je suis sûr que j'aimerai le style avec lequel tu me pareras."

(Solange, I adore you, but you always complain about my hair and I always tell you that it isn't my fault I was born with this monstrosity. Do your magic, I'm sure I'll love whatever style you grace me with)

The witch huffed, and then twirled her wand in several directions, murmuring spells under her breath and like magic, Hermione's untamable mess, suddenly looked absolutely stunning.

It never failed to both amuse and irritate her that even after all these years, she couldn't manage to get her own hair to behave with only magic. Fourth year and a cauldron of Sleekeazy's had proven that much.

Hermione sighed again, but this time it was in pleasure as she nodded in gratitude.

"Comme toujours, vous êtes un faiseur de miracles, Solange!"

(As always, you're a miracle worker, Solange!)

Solange tutted, but didn't reply—she just waved her wand again, and then tiny gemstone pins appeared throughout Hermione's hair, which was pulled away from her face and the curls were glistening down her back in loser ringlets, the gems sparkling like tiny diamonds.

"Oh!" Hermione's eyes widened in awe. "Absolument magnifique!"

"Bien sûr, ma Dame! Pensez-vous que je vous autoriserais à sortir de cette maison en ayant l'air moins que parfait!"

(Of course, my Lady! Do you think I would allow you out of this house looking anything less than perfect!)

"Non, tu as toujours si bien pris soin de moi, Solange."

(No, you've always taken such good care of me, Solange)

"Et vous prenez toujours soin de tout le monde, ma Dame. Même au détriment de votre propre sécurité et de votre bonheur, non?"

(And you always take care of everyone else, my Lady. Even at the expense of your own safety and happiness, yes?)

Hermione blushed, but didn't deny it. The tone of Solange's voice indicated that she wasn't expecting, nor wanted a response. She just hummed in her way and went into the large closet behind her, coming out a few moments later with Hermione's dress for the evening.

It was a stunning piece of clothing, more like artwork than anything else. One of the advantages of being the daughter of the Grand Duke, was that all of the Paris fashion houses were eager to send her dresses from time to time. This was one she'd been gifted the previous year, right before she went in the run with Harry and Ron, and had never had the chance to wear it. The gown had been designed by Yves Saint Laurent, and was a dark midnight blue French silk tulle strapless design, the bodice fitted and the flowing skirt falling to the floor in a whimsical layer of the shimmering fabric. There was a sash that sat to the left side of the waisted area, and the sparkling Swavorski crystals embellished the bodice and the top part of the skirt to perfection.

Her Father had left some of her Mother's jewelry for her to wear tonight, a deep blue sapphire teardrop pendant necklace, that was ten carats, with a flawless two carat diamond nestled above and a platinum chain that encircled her throat so that the gem would fall just below the hollow of her neck. The matching teardrop earrings were far more dainty, and her silver pasha Cartier watch, a fourteenth birthday gift would be her only other jewelry.

Solange helped her into the gown, and once everything else was settled, Hermione stared at herself one last time in her full length mirror, and sighed.

"Vous ressemblez à une princesse, ma Dame."

(You look like a Princess, my Lady)

Hermione smiled at Solange, and replied, "Des jours j'ai l'impression d'être un imposteur, Solange. Ce sont des moments comme celui-ci qui me font souhaiter que ma mère soit là."

(Somedays I feel like an imposter, Solange. It's moments like this that make me wish that my Mother was here)

A dark look briefly settled over Solange's face, before she said, "C'était une parodie ce qui est arrivé à Lady Angélique, mais je n'ai aucun doute qu'elle vous méprise et est fière de qui vous êtes devenu."

(It was a travesty what happened to Lady Angelique, but I have no doubt she looks down upon you, and is proud of who you've become)

"Merci, Solange."

Solange waved her hand again, as if her words were more like a fait accompli, and then went back into the closet, to grab the matching clutched handbag, that Hermione would be using this evening. She however, grabbed her wand and attached it into the folds on her skirt, then disillusioned it, so no one would notice it.

When Solange came back into the room, she quietly handed over the small bag, and Hermione put a few items inside: Her Muggle identification, credit card, money, lip gloss and a silk handkerchief. She spritzed on a bit of her favorite perfume, Lalique Amour Flacon—and shook her head for a moment. This had been her Mother's preferred scent, and while the notes had changed subtly over the years, the top notes of bergamot, neroli and rosebuds, blended nicely with the heartier notes of jasmine, tuberose and gardenia. She had worn this perfume throughout Hogwarts, and had taken a small bottle of it on the run with her—and though the snatcher called Scabior had recognized the fragrance, even through the protective wards she'd settled around their campsite, she was loathe to change her favored scent.

She wouldn't let the war and it's horrors strip her of every good memory she'd had left in her life!

There was a soft knock on her door, breaking her out of her self-imposed melancholy and she smiled when Solange let her Father inside, who's eyes widened with appreciation when he noted her standing there.

"You look so much like your Mother, Angel."

"Thanks, Papa."

"Mr. Malfoy is downstairs awaiting your arrival."

She nodded and sighed, taking her father's arm with one hand, while reaching for her wrap with the other.

"Enjoy your evening, my Lady."

"Thank you, Solange, and thank you for making me look presentable."

Solange scoffed, waved her hand and as always—didn't reply, which caused Pierre to chuckle deeply.

"She adores you, Angel and missed you whilst you disappeared. I think she was as worried as I was about you."

"I don't doubt it."

The rest of their walk towards the main receiving room was met in a comfortable silence, and it wasn't until they were just outside their destination, that Pierre halted their gait and placed a swift kiss on her forehead.

"Enjoy yourself tonight."

"I'll do my very best, Papa."

"The car is waiting outside for you both."

"Thank you for this."

"Nonsense, Angel—this is what I'm here for."

With one final wink, Pierre left and Hermione watched her father walking away with a heavy feeling in her heart. She knew he missed her Mum, and whatever her father was—a politician, a wizard, a cunning man—he'd loved her Mum with everything he was.

Turning her attention back to the present moment, Hermione took a fortifying breath and walked gracefully into the receiving room, her eyes widening at the visage of Draco Malfoy standing there in a bespoke custom Muggle suit, and dare she admit it?

He looked devilishly handsome.

Draco for his part, caught the movement of Hermione walking into the room from the corner of his eyes and literally felt his heart stop within his chest as the vision in deep blue French tulle silk, glided into the room, and his eyes widened in wonder.

She was exquisite.

Thankfully, years of ingrained lessons on proper manners served him well in this moment, as he sauntered over and bowed formally, even as his eyes lifted in awareness, and his patented smirk fell instantly over his aristocratic features.

"You look enchanting, My Lady." The sincere words feel easily in French, causing Hermione to blush, which only served to widen Draco's smirk a bit more, but she curtsied elegantly, and responded sincerely in French, "Thank you, kind Sir. You look quite dashing as well."

"You'd have to thank my Mother for her foresight this evening, and my choice of attire."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he chuckled fondly, "apparently she made the effort to owl her sister on my behalf."

"That's wonderful, Draco. I'm happy to hear that they're trying to mend fences after all this time. The War was hard on everyone and family is in short supply for those who survived."

"Yes, and I was hoping perhaps you might be kind enough to introduce me to my little cousin at some point? I'd very much like to meet him."

Hermione beamed, infinitely pleased by the request which only served to confirm to Draco that he'd made the right choice in asking of his intended for this boon.

"I'd be happy to, of course." She responded easily.

"Brilliant."

"Do you have any questions for me, before we leave?"

Draco reached for her hand, and took her arm within his, leading her out of the room and down the hall to the front of the house, where Pierre had shown him to go.

"Your Father was kind enough to share a few tidbits with me. I'll admit, I've never ridden in any kind of Muggle transport before, but I suppose it's something I'll need to learn to get used to?"

"A bit," she admitted softly, nodding to Gaston their chauffeur, who was holding open the front door, "whilst Father and myself don't travel by Muggle means much, we do some."

"Oh?"

"Mmhmm," she replied, and waited as Gaston opened the door to the back of the limousine, "Merci, Gaston."

The man nodded, and Draco watched Hermione slide inside, before he followed, only slightly wincing when the door shut them in. He watched the man moving towards the front right of the car, and get inside, before a loud sound caused Draco to visibly flinch.

"What was that?" He asked lowly.

"That's the engine."

"Engine?"

She giggled and shook her head, stating, "Complicated bit of Muggle technology, and I'm not all that familiar with how it works, frankly. However, Muggles have all kinds of transportation methods—planes, trains, and automobiles. Planes fly in the sky and can travel across the world, trains can traverse continents as do cars. Muggles even race cars."

"Race?"

"Yes, at high levels of speed."

Draco frowned, but Hermione could see an interested gleam forming in grey eyes when he asked, "How fast are we talking?"

"Quite fast. In fact, if you're interested, later on this month my Father normally attends the French Grand Prix at the Circuit de Nevers Magny-Cours. It's one of the few Muggle events he attends every year."

"And they race at this event?"

"Oh yes! Actually, would you be interested in attending with me and Harry? He'd mentioned to me he'd like to go and my Father was considering extending the invitation to the both of you."

Draco glanced away for a split second as he considered the request, and had to admit he was intrigued with the idea. He needed to make an effort to be more open to the Muggle world and this might be as good of a place as any to start.

"I'd like that."

Hermione smiled again, in that way that lit up her entire countenance…her amber eyes shining with pleasure and he had to admit, she was beautiful when she smiled at him like she meant it.

It made him conclude that he'd rather liked this foreign feeling and wouldn't mind feeling it more often, if this was the end result.

"So tonight?" He decided to change the subject a bit, "I'd imagine I might be introduced to a few people in your social circles, yes?"

"A few."

"And?"

She huffed out a soft laugh, but forged ahead as she offered, "You'll likely be meeting Jean-Baptiste d'Orléans, another nobleman of a rival family, who doesn't acknowledge the Alphonse family as having the legitimate claim to the French Throne. He's the Count of Paris, and can trace his family's history to nearly as far as mine."

"And why does your family have the more legitimate claim?"

"My Father is the direct descendant of King Louis-Phillipe I, the last King of France and our family hails from the Bourbon line. Another gentleman you might meet tonight is Henri Senard, he's also a nobleman and runs a very large Muggle corporation."

Draco nodded, but just silently processed Hermione's words. It was hard to imagine looking back on everything now, how he'd missed certain things about her behaviors back at Hogwarts, that were glaringly obvious now. How she'd been so socially awkward in their shared first year, but her mannerisms and tone screamed wealth and privilege. The ways in which she'd look her nose down on some of her classmates when they'd act crass or uncouth, as if she couldn't quite fathom how they could act in such a way. It wasn't until she befriended Potter, that some of her behaviors seemed to soften, but not entirely.

At least not until she'd punched him third year.

At the Yule Ball, she'd danced effortlessly with Krum, as if she'd taken lessons for her entire life.

She hadn't been timid at all, in fact she'd utterly glowed that night.

A fact that everyone, even those in his own House, even him—had noticed from afar.

"You're awfully quiet." Hermione's voice broke him out of his reverie, and he hummed thoughtfully, before replying, "Just musing over our time back at school, and how I could've missed so much."

"People see what they wish to see, Draco."

His grey eyes flitted towards her, and he bowed his head at that harsh truth.

"You're right, but it doesn't change our past, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Do you think if you'd gone to Beauxbatons, and there hadn't been a Dark Lord…"

"Do I think we'd have become friends?" She finished for him.

He nodded.

"I don't know," she offered evenly, "but I do think things happen for a reason. If my Mother hadn't been killed, I would've probably stayed in France, and perhaps had there been no Dark Lord, my Father might've allowed me to attend school as myself, but I tend to think his overbearing nature and concern for my safety would've wrought the same choices in the end. He didn't want to stop me from attending school, and I'd been so lonely growing up, as I'd shared with you already, that I would've capitulated to any restrictions he'd asked, just so I could've gone to Hogwarts. I know there were some within the French Ministry, that were unhappy with his decision to not have me attend Beauxbatons, but to their credit, no one made their displeasure known verbally. I think it was due to the widespread affection my Mother engendered in those within the French Magical Aristocracy, that served to keep unfavorable opinions scarce."

"And now you're a War Heroine."

"And yes, there's that too."

He chuckled, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as he considered her.

"Thank you for this," He drawled deeply, "and thank you for giving me a chance to prove I'm more than the hateful boy you knew."

Hermione stared into Draco's eyes, and could see a myriad of emotions swirling there—but the biggest one was regret.

"I told you, I'm willing to try if you are, Draco."

He reached for her hand, and placed a tender kiss on the back of her knuckles, which caused Hermione's breath to hitch, so he allowed his lips to trace a path along each knuckle, all the while their gazes locked and held.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, until his lips quirked and he teased huskily, "Perhaps when this evening is over, you might allow me to kiss you goodnight properly?"

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut for the briefest of moments, even as her heart was desperately trying to beat out of her chest. Her breath hitched for a split second, before she decided to take the plunge.

"Who said you have to wait until the evening is over?"

Her words came out as a whisper, but Draco heard them, and his face registered shock, and then that damnable smirk morphed into life, and that split second before his hands cupped her cheeks and his lips descended upon hers…

It was as if the earth stood still in that singular space of time, before his lips touched her own…

Because when they finally made contact, a light had suddenly switched on and she instinctively allowed herself to fall into the moment.

His lips were much softer than they looked, and she could taste the hint of spearmint on his breath, even as his lips pushed and pulled with her own. There was no fighting for dominance, no awkwardness...it was as if they'd done this dance their entire lives.

Draco for his part, felt his gut clenching with something completely unexpected but not unwelcome. The moment he gave himself over to the kiss, was the moment everything else in his life ceased to exist. It was just he and Hermione and this overwhelming feeling of euphoria that cascaded over his body and settled his magic in a way nothing had in a very long time.

When he finally broke away from Hermione's too tempting mouth, he sighed softly—his gaze greedily taking in her swollen mouth, sweet blush and the tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Had she always had freckles?

How had he never noticed how perfectly they complimented her tawny skin tone.

When her eyes fluttered open, their gazes locked and held, neither one wishing to break the fragile moment between them, that unspoken promise of something more…

Her hand lifted and cupped his cheek, and Draco leant into the gesture, never breaking eye contact for a second. Whatever this feeling was, he wanted it to last for as long as possible.

Neither one knew how long they'd stared at each other, each lost to the wonder of the other, until their limousine slowed down, and eventually stopped.

Hermione blinked and dropped her hand, before smiling softly.

"We're here." She stated with a tinge of regret.

"So we are," he responded, his voice even, "shall we enjoy our evening together, My Lady?"

"I'd like that very much, kind Sir."