Before Third-Year

The noise surrounding her was deafening. There were people shouting angrily. Some were howling, some begging for clemency. But most were riled up, electrified by the excitement of imminent death, pulsing throughout the town square as a group of armed men dragged two women, through the frenzied crowd, to its centre. The women did not resist but sobbed hysterically while the guardsmen bound them to the wooden stake. The ruckus escalated, working itself into a crescendo, reaching its peak when angrily crackling flames engulfed the women, drowning out their high-pitched screams.

Hermione was spellbound. She couldn't take her eyes off the scene; the Pigalle sisters selling the dramatics of being burnt at the stake — while they merely felt a tickle. Unlike Wendelin the Weird who had employed the Flame-Freezing-Charm solely to entertain herself, the French witches had also utilised the Polyjuice potion, saving countless Muggles in northern France wrongfully accused of witchcraft.

Suddenly, through the riotous, ear-splitting surroundings, Hermione realised that someone was calling her name.

'Hermione!'

Startled, she looked up. The book sitting on her lap almost slid to the floor, and she managed to catch it at only the last moment.

She blinked. She was not in 14th-century Normandy witnessing a witch-burning. This was 1993, she sat in a large chair in a hotel lobby in Caen, and the person calling out for her was her dad.

He was grinning at her, his camera in hand.

Hermione pressed her eyes closed, diffusing the vivid imagery her mind had conjured reading.

'Your Mum's here. Let's go!'

'Right!' She tucked the book away and jumped up. 'Brilliant!'

As much as Hermione loved books, nothing compared to visiting the actual places where all the history had happened. She followed her father through the entrance door with its dainty white curtains. Outside, her mum was waiting in the old mustard coloured Citroën 2CV they had rented for the duration of their holiday.

'You didn't take another photo of me, did you?' Hermione said as she fastened the safety belt.

'Of course not.' Her dad turned around, grinning broadly. He lifted the camera and snapped another shot. Hermione scowled. 'Why ever would you think that?'

She snorted and pulled up her book to hide her face. Medieval Sorcery in Europe: Places and History by Marguerite Malavesse delved into Hermione's latest obsession, medieval witch trials.

Of course, Hermione had long completed her History of Magic assignment on the history of the witch burnings before she and her parents had travelled to France almost ten days ago. Since then, however, much had changed. It was during their stay in the capital of Normandy, Rouen, that Hermione had stumbled across exciting new information: a rich magical and Muggle history, the intertwined pasts of Britain and France, the medieval witch trials— and then the most famous of all, the trial of Joan of Arc.

Next to the Muggle museum dedicated to her that Hermione's mum had dragged them to (accompanied by a lengthy lecture on the perseverance of sexism), Hermione had discovered, for the second time, a magical monument. Where to her parents' eyes there was only a plaque on the ancient stone wall bracketing the narrow alley, Hermione saw a lengthy epitaph relating her heart-breaking story.

Joan of Arc had been a young Muggle woman who'd been used by several wizards around her, greedy for an opportunity to gain money and influence during the Hundred Years War—only to be abandoned when it suited the aims of her magical allies.

It was the first time Hermione had read about that shameful part of wizarding history. She'd been even more outraged when she realised that her history books mentioned none of it.

Not that it was much of a surprise. If her entirely too brief Second Year had taught her anything, it was, firstly, that even Professor Binns with close to two centuries of knowledge had a truly limited understanding of history. But the second, more jarring lesson was about the deep divide that ran through the wizarding society, making people like her, Muggle-borns, in the eyes of some worthless. This finally shed a light on Draco's exceptionally strange behaviour towards her; how he, at first, could be something close to friendly, and treat her like dirt the very next. Though, looking back on their strange adventure last year, Hermione wondered just how deeply rooted this belief was, seeing that Draco seemed to forget about it from time to time.

In all honesty, it was a pretty idiotic notion to begin with. Everyone had to see this.

But since there was no use in worrying about Draco Malfoy and his issues, Hermione had instead focused on the underlying issue: how the magical society treated those who were weak or different.

In the following days, as she and her parents travelled around Normandy, she'd scoured every bookshop she could find for more information on witchcraft and Muggles before the Statute of Secrecy— until she'd found Medieval Sorcery in Europe. Places and History in a dingy old wizarding antiquary in Honfleur. Much like her mother, Marguerite Malavesse was a stout critic of the sexism rampant in the witch trials, and just like Hermione, she was affronted by the behaviour of the magical community that allowed countless instances of Muggle abuse to go unchecked.

Promptly, Hermione binned her old essay and rewrote the entire thing, this time focusing on the many examples of witches and wizards skirting the consequences of their reckless behaviour at the expense of Muggles — while also throwing in a couple of lines about sexism. She was her mother's daughter, after all.

'Aren't you getting motion sickness, darling,' her mum asked, while manoeuvring their hire car out of the narrow historical centre of Caen, where they had been staying in since yesterday.

'You know I don't.'

'We'll have to engage in different tactics to make her talk with us,' her dad joked, and her mum snorted. 'Maybe I'll have to keep snapping pictures of her.' His camera clicked and Hermione protested, cowering behind Marguerite Malavesse.

'Oh, just leave her be, Richard.'

'No, I shan't. I cannot stand idly by as our only daughter grows up without a trace of evidence!' He shook his head and his brown curls bounced.

'You know I hate being photographed,' Hermione said, pouting. 'I've told you a thousand times!'

'And I've told you a thousand times that it's extremely silly.'

'It's not,' Hermione retorted hotly. 'If you'd just let me shrink my teeth, I'll happily grin like a loon in every bloody picture!'

'We've discussed this, Hermione,' her mum said seriously. 'This is our field of expertise, and we know what's best for your health. You'll keep wearing your braces. You can decide differently as soon as you're of age.'

'Only three more years then,' Hermione mumbled under her breath.

'Three?' Her parents exchanged looks of surprise. 'You mean four.'

'No, it's three. In the wizarding world, we're of age when we turn seventeen. Professor McGonnagall told you, remember?'

Her mum frowned. 'Still. It's awfully early...'

'If you consider what I can do even now,' Hermione said, 'conjure fire or water, or transfigure living things, it's only logical to accept responsibility earlier. Aside from the fact that we're leaving school when most are eighteen anyway, it would be massively inconvenient having to ask your parents for permission for all sorts of things while you're supposed to be a working adult.'

Her mum pressed her lips together but didn't say anything more.

'Which makes it much more important that I capture your childhood as long as I can,' her father said, snapping another picture.

'Oh dad,' Hermione muttered and pulled up her book again. 'You're wasting your film.'

'Nope. Still got five rolls, and I can always buy more.'

Hermione groaned. She didn't think it was possible, but her dad had grown even more excited about photography and, consequently, had dragged them to all sorts of places for their photogenic appeal alone. Monet's garden in Giverny had been a magical experience for all of them. The modernist architecture of Le Havre, on the other hand, had been the source of some discussion.

The only thing that he was equally as excited about was getting Hermione to take up photography herself. He'd not yet given up hope of impressing upon her the importance of art.

But after four straight days of impressionism and modernism, her mum petitioned for a change.

'Enough with the art!'

So today, they were on their way to Bayeux. With Omaha Beach just a stone's throw away, the city was a hot spot for the history of the Second World War. It also had a rich medieval history — which met Hermione interests perfectly. Not only was it home to the famous tapestry, it was also – according to Malavesse – the location of an ancient Wizarding settlement dating back to Norman times.

'The city is absolutely gorgeous,' her mum said. 'You'll see. It's just one of the two major towns that have been spared from wartime destruction. And it shows.'

'Oh, come on, are you still cross about Le Havre?' Her dad grinned in the front seat. 'Modernism isn't that bad, you know?'

Her mum rolled her eyes. 'Just because I'd rather not live there, doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.'

'Just admit that you're turning into a conservative old hag!'

Her mum snorted from the driver's seat. Hermione caught her dad's look in the rear mirror, his eyes crinkling. 'Your mum once told me she'd have had all the pre-war town reconstructed because she prefers the past over the present—'

'That's not at all what I said, you dalcop !'[1]

Hermione chortled. She loved it when her parents started using old swear words at each other.

'Do not believe a word he says, Hermione. What I actually said was that I prefer towns which weren't—'

'You were being a zoilist , [2] that's what you—'

'No, you utterly infuriating abydocomist —'[3]

Hermione chuckled as her parents continued to trade friendly insults. They were passing through a lovely landscape with rolling hills surrounding them as far as they could see. The sky was just the sort of deep blue that seemed to belong exclusively to the summer holidays; the grass had a colour so intensely green that it almost seemed otherworldly. The cows grazing on them appeared to agree; they were fatter and more content than any Hermione had ever seen before. She blinked, realising with a start she had seen farm animals this phantasmagorically satisfied before.

She thought of the sheep and cows grazing peacefully in Oz, ignoring the boy, the girl, the Lion, Scarecrow and Tin Man wandering along the yellow brick road.

With everything that had happened this past year, all the tensions and revelations about blood, and the full realisation what Draco had meant by rejecting her friendship, their little stint in the world of Oz seemed like an eternity ago. Hermione unwittingly wondered what Draco had done with the ruby slippers.

Had he thrown them out?

Probably.

The drive wasn't long, but Hermione was growing impatient. Her legs were bobbing up and down, the closed edition of Sites of Historical Sorcery jerking in her lap, unable to hold her attention anymore. Her brain was bursting with all the information she had amassed these last few days, and now she was dying to see all the places, sights, and people in the flesh.

The history of the witch-hunt was merely one aspect she was so excited about; another was the local magical community. The particular thing about Bayeux was that there were a handful of families who claimed Roman and Gaulish roots, even though in this part of the country, Norman ancestry was a lot more common.

Although Hermione had learnt to be cautious when it came to magical families and their relationships to history, the French magical community appeared to be a lot more liberal than the British. So there was reason to be tentatively hopeful that she might actually learn something here.

Excitedly, she told her parents about it.

'Isn't it incredible that those families are actually able to trace their families so far back?' her mum said from the steering wheel.

'You forget that it's significantly less complicated if you don't have to rely on scraps of paper and a scatterbrained little archivists to keep record,' her father said, grinning widely at Hermione. 'Magic can be a rather helpful little tool, can't it?'

She nodded. 'On top of that, some old magical families are simply obsessed with their ancestry. I don't know if you remember the Malfoys from last year at Flourish & Blotts?'

'Wish I could forget about that,' her mum muttered.

'Yes, they were rather horrid, weren't they?' Her father nodded, grimacing slightly. 'And that poor boy… so eager to be stepping into his father's shoes...'

Helen snorted something unintelligently from the front. It vaguely sounded like "that spoiled little brat," and Hermione quietly agreed, though she didn't say anything out loud.

It had been just a few weeks since she'd been reawakened from her basilisk-induced petrification, and she hadn't forgotten about what, according to Harry and Ron, Draco had said about her in the Slytherin common room; nor who had been responsible for bringing Voldemort's teenage shadow back in the first place: Lucius Malfoy.

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if she'd ever get used to Draco's many faces. Almost exactly a year ago, during their little adventure, they had been something like friends. And then, only a few months ago, Draco had wished her to be dead.

"I hope Granger is next."

Time was such a strange thing.

Her father turned in his seat to face her. 'You and he aren't friends, are you?'

'Draco and I?' Hermione thought quickly, evaluating whether her parents remembered the moment they'd shared after they'd both basically appeared out of thin air in Flourish & Blotts. Probably not; and Draco seemed to have forgotten all about it anyway. 'God, no.'

'Hm,' her father said, frowning. 'But it's not because you have non-magical parents, is it?'

Hermione was temporarily stunned by this exceptionally astute observation. Luckily, her mum saved her from a response.

'Oh, you know these types, Richard. Because they know where great-great-great-grandmummy took her tea on the first of March 1562, they think they're better than everyone else.'

Her dad chortled.

'Besides,' Hermione said, her cheeks heating, 'he's been absolutely horrid to Harry at school. So I'll never be friends with him, thank you very much.'

Her parents exchanged a look.

'Ah,' her dad said simply.

'Anyway…' Hermione said, thinking that she'd best steer the conversation back into safer waters. 'His family traces their roots back to the Conquest.' She pondered whether to remind them of the very first time she'd ever seen Draco, at the grave of his ancestor, at Stonehenge. Then again – considering the unpleasant encounter a year ago—she'd best not bring that up either.

'Malfoy you said?' her mum said slowly, 'Sounds Norman.' She watched Hermione in the rearview mirror.

'Maybe we'll meet them again!' her dad said, chuckling under his breath.

Her mum snorted. 'Right. Mustn't forget to visit these pesky relatives you've last seen a millennium ago.'

Hermione and her dad laughed.

Bayeux was a handsome little city, with narrow streets and ancient-looking houses, that seemed as though it had stepped right out of a medieval picture book.

They left the car by the Place Charles de Gaulle, and after walking the short distance to the cathedral, they strolled around the heart of the city.

Hermione completely understood the point her mother hade made earlier. She, too, liked seeing the history in buildings. The narrow, half-timbered houses standing close to each other gave the instant impression of stepping through several ages at once.

The little family walked leisurely through the city centre, and just as always, Richard Granger took it upon himself to provide a little commentary of the architecture, intercepted by Helen who would relay historical facts. Hermione learnt that unlike cities such as Le Havre, Bayeux had been expressively spared from wartime damage. She also learnt that it was amongst the first to be liberated from the Nazis, and that General de Gaulle had given two momentous speeches from here, one of which was to declare France having joined forces with the Allied powers.

Walking through the cities where General de Gaulle had walked; where he had been a figure of hope to so many suffering that their pain might see an end… a shudder tingled down her spine as she imagined those who had given their lives for a better world and had never even seen it come to pass. It was worth it; undoubtedly. But she was glad she was living in a time where such extreme decision-making seemed remote, like stories of the olden days, mythical and abstract.

They walked by ancient houses, the magnificent cathedral, the quaint cobblestone streets… It was hard imagining that this city and its people had endured so much strife. And yet, it had stood the test of time and moved on, unblemished. That, to her, seemed like the real miracle.

After a quick breakfast at the famous Saint-Eves, they decided to go to the museum of the Bayeux tapestry first. It was still early in the day, so it wouldn't be too crowded, and then they'd have the afternoon to do a World War 2 tour to visit the memorials and Omaha Beach.

The museum itself was only a short walk from the cathedral, so the three Grangers took their time walking there. Along the way, her dad would get more into his architectural observations, halting here and there to snap a picture of this absolutely singular building from the 13th century, or that one-of-a-kind-mill, or these restorations which clearly had been done in a modernist style.

Hermione couldn't help but smile fondly. Her dad had not yet given up on winning her for the arts. Her mum, on the other hand, would ostensibly roll her eyes whenever her husband launched into poetic descriptions about how the elegant slope of the roofs was just so French , or why the framing of the windows had to be inspired by Italy, and did you see that exquisite example of Corinthian capitals? But whenever they thought Hermione wasn't looking her parents would share secret smiles and exchange kisses.

The fact that her parents, even after twenty years of knowing each other, were still sometimes acting as though they were university students in love, was something she had only come to appreciate recently. She thought of Harry who didn't have parents at all, or the Weasleys who had so many kids that one didn't seem to matter much, or Draco whose parents had treated him so very coolly—

Hermione frowned, annoyed at herself that, for the third time, her thoughts had landed on Draco Malfoy. That would not do.

The sun was shining brightly, the sky was an endless blue, and Hermione relished the heat seeping into her skin. Something expanded in her chest, and Hermione felt suddenly very light and thankful. Yes, she knew she was an extraordinarily lucky girl. She resolved to write to Harry and Ron this evening, and make sure they were doing all right as well.

The famous tapestry itself was really, incredibly long. Hermione didn't know why she was so surprised. After all, she had read all about it and she had seen many pictures, so Hermione was well aware that it was supposed to be almost seventy metres long. However, having an enormous room entirely devoted to a stretch of fabric that, scene after scene after scene, went on and on, circling around the room and didn't seem to end made a completely different impact.

Hermione halted in front of the lengthy description at the entrance. The tapestry—or rather the embroidered linen —had been made in England, very likely by English nuns, and was probably commissioned by the brother of William the Conqueror, Bishop Odo, shortly after the Conquest as a means to remember the victory. She frowned, annoyed that it told her nothing new.

The room was almost pitch-black, except for the display cabinet in its centre which showcased the tapestry in perfect artificial light. Hermione walked around it, following as the story of the Conquest unfolded: Harold Godwinson swearing an oath to William, ensuring his line to the English throne; Harold breaking said oath and William coming up with a plan to assure his right after all; building a fleet on the coast of the Channel; the massive undertaking of sailing across the channel with an enormous army of French and Norman allies; the massive cavalry that would later ensure their victory at Hastings.

Every scene was so vividly depicted, so full of detail and humour, that Hermione couldn't help but wonder how a medieval contemporary would have experienced the tapestry. Most of the scenes were easily understood: fighting, walking, and riding men acting out the Conquest, surrounded by their horses, livestock or onlookers. Embroidered texts identified a few scenes with historical incidents or named the persons. But then, there were other episodes which seemed a lot more anecdotal, naughty even. Hermione chuckled at the sight of a man peeing on someone's head, or the horse galloping around with an erection. There were so many animals, horses of course, but also falcons, rabbits, dogs, snakes, and chickens crowded the scenes. According to the Muggle historians, these bits were meant to be seen as moral commentary.

Hermione was particularly taken with the mythical creatures populating the tapestry: there were phoenixes and griffins and some creatures eerily reminiscent of species she would probably get to know in her new subject, Care of Magical Creatures .

In fact—Hermione crept as close to the glass as it would allow her—this particular creature here looked remarkably like a Hippogriff.

Hermione held her breath.

No.

That was a Hippogriff.

Hermione's head swam. In all the books she'd read, there had never been the slightest hint of this part of the Conquest being magical. Why would it? After all, this was a famous Muggle artwork, made by Muggle nuns, for a Muggle bishop. Completely unmoving and, therefore, decidedly, resolutely unmagical.

And yet—here was a Hippogriff, and there— she gasped— that was the unmistakable short snout and four legs of the Common Green Welsh!

Hermione was so bewildered by this discovery that she only fleetingly noticed a commotion from the entrance. With her focus on the magical creatures, her mind kept spinning with the implications. What if wizards had been part of Muggle history all along? What if Muggles had been part of wizard history? What if Muggles and wizards had lived peacefully side by side? Why hadn't they learnt about that?

She only realised that she had company when someone walking up behind her drew in a sharp breath.

'You have got to be kidding me,' someone said in an unmistakable sneer.

Hermione whirled around, breath stuck in her throat.

'Malfoy,' she said, and it was equal parts surprise and acknowledgement.

'Granger.' His eyes seemed to almost gleam in the unnatural light of the exhibition spots. 'I would ask you what you're doing here, but I'm not actually interested.'

'Happy to disappoint you by merely existing.' She huffed and turned back to the tapestry, fixing her focus resolutely back on the Hippogriff.

Draco made to stand next to her, but Hermione ignored him, instead angling her head to inspect another creature. There was a white bird and it almost looked like it was dancing around the edges, even though it was perfectly still. Next to it was a wyvern, and next to that was a snake that looked like a… a basilisk.

She sucked in a breath.

To her left, she felt Draco shifting from one foot onto the other. 'You're better.'

'Unfortunately for you,' she said. 'But there's always a next time, I suppose.'

Hermione didn't want to look at Draco, and yet, she was also curious to see his reaction. Which Draco was he today? She angled her head ever so slightly. He was frowning at the tapestry.

'The original is much nicer,' he said after a long moment.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. 'The original? What do you mean, "the original"?'

'The magical one, of course.'

'This is "the original," so there can't be another original.'

Draco gave a sound that vaguely resembled a proud huff. 'Of course, there can. My ancestor paid for half of it.'

Hermione put her hands on her hips; she was growing irritated. 'And where would you find this so-called "original" then?'

Draco considered her for a moment. 'At the Manor of course,' he said matter-of-factly and lifted his chin.

'You're lying!' Hermione turned back to the Hippogriff, the glaring evidence that some part of what he was saying was correct. 'You're always lying. Even if there was a magical one, even if your ancestor did pay for a supposed original—which frankly, sounds just like a load of rubbish, I bet it's not at the Manor at all.' She also lifted her chin. 'Because why then go to a Muggle museum to see this version.' She smirked at him triumphantly.

Draco opened his mouth for a retort, when someone else came round the corner, interrupting them.

'Marvellous, marvellous... oh, there you are, darling! Your mother and I... oh, hullo there!' Her dad had swaggered over to them. 'Don't I know you?' he said, peering at Draco curiously.

'I don't think so, sir,' Draco said cautiously and extended his hand automatically. 'Draco Malfoy.'

'Malfoy… hm... Sounds somewhat familiar. Forgive me, my memory isn't the best.' He laughed loudly and squeezed Draco's hand, sizing him up through shrewd eyes.

'We know each other from school ,' Hermione said, trying to steer the conversation away from any recollection that they had talked about him just this morning. She'd hate to give Draco the impression that she ever spared him a single thought.

Just then, her mum walked in. 'Oh, there you all are.' She smiled from her husband to her daughter, then, her gaze fell onto Draco. Her eyes widened. Hermione unconsciously shuffled away from him. 'Making friends again? How lovely.' She, too, extended her hand and Draco introduced himself again.

'Malfoy?' Her mum glanced at Hermione. 'The Malfoy? The one with the Norman ancestry and the extravagant tumulus?'

'Yes, Mum.' Hermione's face burned. Apparently, her mum remembered all too well.

Her mum hummed, eyeing Draco with a new kind of scrutiny. 'Yes, the blond hair. Very Viking.' She grinned mischievously.

Draco just stared.

'It was a joke, Malfoy,' Hermione mumbled. Her face felt so hot, she must have been burgundy-red at this point.

'Ah, yes my jokes aren't the best you see… Hermione takes after me, I'm afraid—'

'Mum!'

'—but I did want to thank you, now that I have the chance. The flowers from your ancestor's grave are incredibly beautiful. Still blooming! Make for a lovely spot of colour in our hallway.' Her mum beamed at Draco.

He blinked a few times.

'They were from your ancestor's grave, weren't they?' She turned to Hermione who tried to nod without accidentally catching Draco's eye.

'I think you've hexed the poor lad, Helen,' her dad piped up, grinning broadly, as he put an arm around Hermione's shoulder. 'Haven't talked to any Muggles yet, eh?'

Draco unfroze. 'Of course, I have!' he said quickly. Even in the cold artificial light, his cheeks had turned an unmistakable shade of pink. His eyes jumped from Helen to Hermione and back again. 'I'm just…' He paused but then seemed to think better of it. 'You're welcome, ma'am.' He bowed slightly. Hermione's dad chuckled under his breath, and Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. The blush spread to Draco's ears.

'If you have Norman ancestry, you must have some fabulous family tales about the Conquest, mustn't you?' her mum said eagerly.

'Oh yes!' her dad piped up. 'An ancestor who shot Harold in the eye, for instance?'

Her mum chuckled. Hermione glanced wearily at Draco and caught his eye. She almost pitied him, utterly rattled from being bombarded by questions.

'Um,' he managed to get out, just as another couple entered the tapestry room. Draco whirled around. They glanced over at their little group, but then put on their headphones and proceeded to make the journey around the room, led by the audio guide.

Draco shifted nervously from one leg to the other. His pale face was still unusually rosy. 'So, um,' he began again.

The pause stretched awkwardly between them.

'It's getting a little late, isn't it?' Hermione said finally, deciding to end this embarrassment. She gave her dad a long, meaningful look.

'Right,' her dad said slowly, frowning.

'Indeed!' her mum piped up, checking her wristwatch. 'It's almost noon!'

'Ha! No wonder I'm starving.' Her dad grinned broadly at Hermione. She sighed, relieved they had finally picked up on the tension. It was obvious to her that Draco couldn't very well talk to them about Magical things in a Muggle museum. Best to leave the conversation at that, before it got any more embarrassing, or worse, illegal. Even though her parents knew about the Magical World, they were still beholden to the Statute of Secrecy.

'There's a quaint little bistro just round the corner and they make the best Bouillabaisse in the region,' her dad continued, waggling his eyebrows at Hermione, 'do you want to join us, lad?'

Hermione wanted to sink into the floor. That was not what she had been aiming for.

'That's extremely generous of you, sir,' Draco said who had finally found his words again. It dawned on Hermione that he could be well-mannered if he chose to, even to Muggles. 'It's just—'

'Here you are, Draco.'

The tall figure of Lucius Malfoy had entered the room. His cold, pale eyes, gleaming eerily in the dark, flickered over to the Grangers. His lip curled. 'I hope you're not bothering the… people.' Immediately, Hermione's hackles rose. Lucius Malfoy had a talent in making the banalest sentence sound like an insult.

He stalked across the room, not sparing the tapestry a second glance. Draco immediately straightened up to stand at his side. Seeing both of them in a Muggle setting was rather absurd. Whereas most Wizards were basically inept at stringing together a halfway believable Muggle outfit, the Malfoys had no trouble whatsoever with getting Muggle attire right. And yet. With their tailored beige linen suits, shirts and probably hand-made loafers, they still looked horribly out of place compared to the tourists in jeans and T-shirts. And then, there was the long, silvery hair that was a dead give-away that Lucius Malfoy was anything but ordinary.

Richard Granger made a slight movement with his hand, but then seemed to think better of it. He exchanged a brief look with Hermione's mum.

'Nice to meet you again, Mr Malfoy,' he said finally. He intoned every word very carefully but smiled.

Lucius Malfoy only made the slightest inclination of his head. There was no attempt to shake hands. Draco stood stiffly at his father's side, his eyes fixed on a spot on the tapestry behind them. Hermione bit her lip, her gears spinning with ways to get her parents out without subjecting them to one of the vilest people of all of wizarding England.

Richard Granger cleared his throat. 'We'd been just on our way… but we were wondering if Draco would like to—'

Draco snapped his head down to stare wide-eyed at Hermione. The blood froze in her veins.

'Mum, Dad, I think Draco—'

'—I apologise, my parents—'

Hermione and Draco erupted simultaneously. The other couple in the room had taken off their headphones and were now staring unashamedly in their direction.

Lucius Malfoy smiled coldly. 'There seems to be a misunderstanding. My son appears to have given the impression that he was free to spend his time whichever way he pleases. Unfortunately,' he said, and though his usual drawl scarcely involved any movement of the lips at all, the consonants were now sharp and cutting, 'he has obligations to his family.' He put a hand on Draco's shoulder. It was a gesture that should have been comforting, but Lucius Malfoy managed to make even this seem like a threat. 'We do, however, appreciate the thought.' Once again, he inclined his head ever so slightly, but the courtesy of the gesture was undercut by the curl of his lips. Lucius Malfoy turned on his heels. 'Come now, Draco.'

Draco obediently followed his father as he strode out of the room. With the way he walked, Hermione could just imagine a cloak billowing out around him dramatically.

'What an odd fellow.' Her dad frowned. 'You and he are not friends at school, was it?'

'Not if his daddy has a say in it, by the looks of it,' her mum muttered, scowling at the door through which the Malfoys had just escaped. 'Bloody fucking classists, the lot of them.'

Despite the heaviness of the situation, Hermione and her dad chuckled at her mum's unusual outburst.

'Never mind those people, my darling,' her mum said. 'They're really not worth your time.'

Helen Granger put an arm around Hermione and the three of them left the museum.

'Now, what was that about these Gaulish wizards…'

'Shit.'

Draco landed abruptly on a cliff, stumbling slightly as he cushioned the momentum of his Nimbus 2001. The pebble stones beneath his shoes crunched.

He looked around, doing a quick check of his surroundings, and then pulled off his Invisibility Cloak. He inspected the garment thoroughly. It slid through his fingers like liquid. Draco swore again as half his hand appeared behind the fabric. It was losing its enchantments which meant that he wouldn't be able to ride his broom back home.

Continuously mumbling curses to himself, Draco walked around, trying to establish his position. He'd been so lost in pushing his broom to its limits that he'd hardly noticed where he'd flown to.

The sun was setting, and from his vantage point high on a white cliff, he overlooked the stony beach already bathed in shades of yellow and red, while the outlier stretched out further and further, until it ended in a sort of arch, bridging the sea and the land. At any other time, Draco might have taken a moment to appreciate the majestic shape of the cliff; how it had withstood countless tides, and still looked as though it would outlast many more centuries to come.

Now, however, Draco was preoccupied with a crucial realisation: he was at Étretat beach. His relief was short-lived when it dawned on him that his way back would take ages on foot.

He shouldered his broom wrapped in the malfunctioning Invisibility Cloak and marched along the cliff. It was far from ideal but still better than using his wand. He didn't want to risk an international incident over the use of underage magic. His parents would be disappointed enough in his tardiness as it was.

After a long while of walking along the edge of the cliff and not having encountered a single soul, Draco started to weigh the risks of being detected. He really, really, really didn't want to walk all the way back to their summer house. Besides, a potential political incident might be preferable to angering his father for being too late for supper…

It was then that a small group of people on the stone beach below, about two hundred yards away from him, caught his attention.

A woman was sitting on a blanket, reading a book; nearby, a brunette girl and a man with similar hair, likely her father, were walking around in a bowed, crouched-down sort of manner, bending down every now and again as if to collect something.

Muggles.

In spite of himself, Draco was intrigued by their behaviour. The man and the girl stood up and approached the ocean. Standing next to each other, first the man, then the girl bent down and made throwing gestures.

Draco squinted, trying his best to figure out what they were doing. His seeker eyes managed to detect the flimsiest sparkle; water drops reflecting the evening light.

But what on earth were they doing?

The wind turned, and Draco heard the girl and the man laughing loudly, carelessly. The woman looked up from her book, watching them as well. Then they started anew, first the man, then the girl threw something into the ocean. They stood, looking attentively into the distance. Then, they broke into laughter again.

They repeated this a couple of times. Sometimes they would talk to each other, other times he appeared to be explaining something, nodding and making a throwing gesture, which the girl imitated. She'd often pull up her shoulders, addressing her father, and catapult her arm. They always ended up laughing.

Draco dropped his broom to the ground and shoved his left hand into his pocket. It irked him that this Muggle girl (who seemed about his age) and her parents were engaging in such nonsense. This was no way to spend one's time. Parents weren't supposed to lounge about on a beach during dinnertime. Parents were supposed to be examples of comportment and respectability.

After a couple of tries, the girl must have achieved what she'd been trying to do because the man gave her a large hug, and the woman looked up from her book, clapping into her hands and shouting something he couldn't understand. The girl eagerly continued under the attentive gaze of her parents.

Draco, too, stared hard, wondering. He noticed the girl was quite pretty—for a Muggle. She wore a white dress that, even seen from afar, made her skin glow. Her hair was wild, but the way it swayed in the wind, it gave her a sort of… carefree look. Adventurous.

Dragging his eyes away from her he finally realised that when she threw something into the water, something cut through the waves, almost jumping over them, and leaving a path of sparkling droplets.

She was throwing stones.

What an utterly weird thing to do.

Draco squinted as the girl bent and threw another stone. The wind turned again, carrying a cry of victory over to him, and he followed breathlessly as the stone skipped over the water surface—once, twice, three-four-five-six , seven times!

Father and daughter laughed again and the mother clapped.

Draco ground his teeth. Muggles had it so easy. They could just sit on the ground and didn't have to wear robes, and didn't have to worry about politeness, or slouching, or do try to put your best foot forward, darling, we're expecting Minister Soandso… Nobody would ask that girl to sit straight or be quiet or do something about that fucking hair.

They could sit around and throw stones.

Draco frowned, glancing around. He was still alone, up on the cliff with a view of everything whilst being hidden at the same time.

No one here to judge him.

He stubbornly plopped down into the grass, pulling the broom into his lap and continued his study of the little family.

They had stopped their strange throwing game and were crouched down. Draco supposed they were stacking stones on top of each other, another ridiculous thing to do. At last, they stood back, admiring their handiwork. Linking arms, they returned to the woman sitting on the blanket. Immediately, mother and daughter fell into an eager conversation, while the father pulled out a Muggle camera and began taking pictures.

Muggles didn't know about magic, which certainly was a bummer. Muggle photos seemed awfully lifeless to him. Then again, if he didn't know about magic, would he miss it? Maybe he, too, might lounge about and enjoy something as ridiculous as throwing stones into the sea, or take boring, unmoving pictures. He would not fly on a broom, but maybe he'd take one of the vehicles they had developed instead.

The whats-it balloon.

The sun loomed large behind the ocean and gave the greys and blues of the pebble beach a magical glow. Draco was momentarily caught unawares of the beauty of the moment. The white stone arch in the distance seemed as though painted with the colours of Gryffindor house, the ocean glittering golden-white in the background.

It would have been nice to see that up close. Draco vowed to come back another time. Maybe if he filched daddy's Invisibility Cloak, he could admire the view from a higher vantage point—

A sudden chuckle startled Draco so much that his broom fell out of his lap. A duet of laughing voices, one high and girly, the other deep and manly, was rapidly approaching.

Draco scrambled up.

He had completely missed that the Muggle family had packed up their things and was presently climbing up the escarpment.

They were already less than a hundred feet away from him.

He had to get away. Draco cursed the founders and the stars above that he had to run away on foot. Like a bloody Muggle. What a disaster.

He briefly debated whether flying away was worth the risk.

Inevitably, his mind went to Potter and Weasley flying cross-country in a car, detected because of a malfunctioning Invisibility Spell.

Draco huffed. There were levels of idiocy and incompetence that were loads more humiliating than scrambling away like a commoner. He'd never stoop so low.

Draco cursed again, pushing away any thought of his mother who was likely already sick with worry. His stomach twisted at the thought of his father.

Peals of laughter erupting much too close to him were the shattering realisation that he had to make a decision now.

Draco dove behind the next bush, shaking out the Invisibility Cloak, trying to get it to work again. It flashed, appearing and disappearing, but did not retain its condition.

Draco swore. Glancing around wildly, he evaluated whether he was adequately hidden. His heart was thumping in his chest, but his head remained oddly calm. He now realised that he should have hidden the cloak and the broom inside this bush and just remained where he was before. He could have just waited for them to pass, instead of cowering in the dirt like a bloody gnome.

He grimaced, suppressing any shame of his earlier panicked reaction. Instead, he redirected his attention to the family. He was here now, wasn't he, so he'd better keep an eye on them. From where Draco was cowering, he heard them long before they came into view, walking up the path leading to the edge of the slope which was frighteningly close to his hiding place.

He saw the girl first. She had been racing ahead, and suddenly she appeared, her wild, chestnut-coloured tendrils blowing in the wind, and for the first time, she was close enough that Draco could see her face.

The blood in his veins froze.

The girl turned around, calling something towards her parents.

Of fucking course. The girl was none other than— Granger.

His heart was pounding in his ears. What the fuck was the matter with fucking Fortuna that he always ran into that fucking Mudblood?

Without thinking, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself and by some stroke of luck, it stopped flickering, successfully hiding him and his Nimbus from the trio, just as Hermione and her parents walked by while Draco cowered in the shrubbery, buried by his humiliation.

'–love it just as much, really, darling!' he heard her father, Richard Granger, say. He laughed a deep carefree laugh, his camera dangling from a strap around his shoulder. Draco frowned, struck again by how different he was from her.

'You said the same about Le Havre, and it was atrocious!' Hermione said, giggling and bouncing along the path. He had never seen her quite as giggly before. Draco squinted. Now that he thought about it, she seemed a lot different than usual. The way she held her head was just the way she usually did, though it seemed less arrogant and more—elegant. But it was the way she moved that was the starkest contrast of all.

Draco sat there reflecting for some time on what it was that made it seem… not like at school. It took a few moments until he caught himself, chiding himself internally for thinking for any length of time about that Mudblood.

'That's your mother's horrible influence,' he heard her father say. 'Just you wait. When you'll learn to appreciate the simplicity of modern architecture, you'll understand—'

Her mother snorted and he recognised the sound immediately. Indeed, Granger did take after her mother, though the ridiculous hair she seemed to have gotten from her father. He narrowed his eyes as the three of them approached the car park, laughing and chatting. Her father had put an arm around her shoulder again and was directing her how to hold the camera.

Unwittingly, Draco compared the image with how his parents treated him. Something in his stomach twisted. All of a sudden his desire to escape home had evaporated. So Draco stayed where he was, unwilling to move, crouching in the bushes.

The engine of the Muggle vehicle jumped to life, rattling like an empty tin can. With a start Draco remembered the Lion in Oz cowering in the shrubbery like a coward. His face burned. All his former immobility ebbed away and made way for the desperate urge to do something. Something reckless. Something daring.

He looked over to the car park where he got a last glimpse of the Grangers speeding away.

Without waiting another second, he jumped up. The invisibility cloak wound tightly around his hand still flickered in and out of sight. Draco resolutely shouldered his broom and ran down the slope towards the beach, any thought of his parents or consequences resolutely pushed to the back of his mind.

The sun loomed large over the horizon as it dipped into the sea, painting the beach in that beautiful reddish-golden hue. Since he already was in trouble, he might as well enjoy the present. Draco sat down, digging his heels into the stones and not sparing the stains on his robes a single thought. They had house-elves to do the laundry, so what was the point of keeping everything pristine?

It had been a long time since Draco had enjoyed something as simple as the view of the sea.

The calm of the waves coming and going drowned out his worry. The relaxing murmur of the sea eventually settled over his mind, and Draco breathed.

He just sat there and breathed, taking in the colours and shapes and sounds.

The horizon swallowed the sun bit by bit, and slowly, he felt the coldness of the night creeping over the beach, seeping into his bones. But Draco still didn't want to go.

A little from where he was sitting, he spotted a few pebble stones stacked on top of each other.

They must have left them there.

Draco jumped up and walked over. He counted seven polished stones, all in various shades of grey. Like a thief, he picked the topmost pebble. It felt smooth in his hand, comforting somehow. He pocketed it.

Remembering what Granger and her father had been doing, Draco took another stone from the stack. He crouched down, and, just like they had previously, flung the stone into the water. Instead of skipping over the surface, it sank through the surface with a depressing glop. Draco snatched the next pebble and tried again. It didn't go any better, so he kept trying. When the last of the stack had been catapulted into the water with only so much as a meagre double jump, Draco kept searching for more stones; flatter ones, lighter ones, stones with sharp edges that would cut through the waves.

After a while, Draco stopped, kicking away a pebble in frustration. His latest attempt had resulted in only two and a half disappointing hops and a big splash.

She had made it look so simple. There had to be a trick!

Breathing heavily through his nose, Draco sat down. The water was already coming very close to him, making the submerged stones look so different. They'd just seemed dull and grey before, but even now, during the last moments of twilight, they appeared sleek and shiny, like the scales of a snake. Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out the stone he had pinched from the very top of the pebble stack and dropped it into the water. As he pulled it out, it shone, dark green and blue.

He kept staring at it, utterly mystified while the water kept splashing against his legs.

By the time the sun had sunk into the sea, the stone had dried up again, and Draco had stopped worrying about what his parents might do if they saw him like this.

Notes:

[1] Old insult literally translating to dull-head, from Old English cop[pe] meaning head.
[2] An overly nitpicky critic named for the Greek philosopher Zoilus who is most known for his acidic critiques of Homer, so much so that he became known as Homeromastix, Homer whipper.
[3] Old insult. A liar who brags about their lies, harking back to an ancient Egyptian city whose inhabitants were supposedly famed for inventing slander.

Penny for your thoughts? I'd love to know! Cheers, Lynx xx