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Disclaimer – This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Harry made his way to the dining hall after his first morning of classes in very high spirits. He'd always loved being up on a broom, and he'd enjoyed working with the kids. He'd been worried—he was no substitute for Viktor Krum, no matter what Malfoy said—but it had gone well, he thought. He'd had three groups of kids that morning—French, Italian, and his last group had been a combined one made up of kids from countries with smaller populations. He hadn't really faced much disappointment from the kids that they were having him as a coach instead of the legendary Viktor Krum, but Harry knew Malfoy had got an earful from loads of parents. Quite frankly, Harry was rather impressed with how well he'd had handled them.

Entering the dining hall, Harry searched out Teddy in the crowd and, his bright orange hair being easy to spot, quickly found him sitting with his group. Harry wouldn't have the British kids till Thursday—according to the schedule Malfoy had worked out, each group of kids got one training session with each of the retired players. Teddy and Douglas sat side by side, and the two had their heads bent together. As glad as Harry was to see it, he did miss the days when he'd had Teddy to himself. He wanted to go over and ask Teddy how his morning practices had gone, but he wasn't so old that he didn't know such a thing just wasn't done. Just as Harry was going to look away, Teddy looked up and saw him. He smiled and waved. Harry waved back and returned the smile; he'd have to content himself with that for now.

At the front of the room stood the staff table, and Harry spotted Malfoy arriving at the far side from where Harry was walking. Malfoy's platinum hair stood out almost as much as Teddy's orange. The staff table was nearly full, and Malfoy made for the nearest available seat, his attention seemingly more devoted to a parchment he held in his hand until he looked up and his steps faltered, as if he'd suddenly remembered something he'd been supposed to do and briefly deliberated whether to stay or leave. It appeared he decided to stay, as he proceeded to the seat to which he'd been headed, although Harry noted that his steps were slower than they'd been before. It was strange, Harry thought, seeing him again after so many years. In many ways, Malfoy looked very much like he had when they were younger: he was tall and slim, his features were still rather pointy, his colouring still very pale. But there was something indefinably different. Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of him. All he did know was that the young woman who had been assigned to him to act as his assistant during his practice sessions—the Seeker for Toubeau House—could not speak highly enough of Malfoy. And she—so she'd told him—was Muggle-born.

As Harry reached the raised dais on which the staff table stood, he saw as Malfoy turned his head marginally towards the witch next to him in response to something she'd said as she stood to leave. The witch was striking—even from a distance, Harry could see that. She had a sensual Mediterranean beauty, deep olive skin and thick black hair that fell over her shoulders in long, smooth waves. Harry could see the way she looked at Malfoy and the way her hand slid over his shoulders as she walked behind him. Harry also saw that Malfoy did not look pleased, whereas once, he'd have eaten up such a public display of interest from a beautiful witch.

Reaching the table, Harry took the seat the woman had just vacated. He'd talked to Andromeda the night before, and she'd told him how tea with her sister had gone—in a word, tensely. Given all that had transpired between them and around them, tensely was rather successfully in Harry's opinion. He wondered if Malfoy's mother had told him anything of their afternoon.

"Potter," Malfoy said as he returned a serving fork to a large plate of cucumber and tomato salad. "I'd hoped to see you. I've been wanting to speak to you."

A new place setting appeared on the table in front of Harry almost immediately, and he picked up the napkin off his plate. "I wanted to talk to you as well," he said, trying to gauge Malfoy's tone and failing. He didn't sound displeased, at least. If Malfoy also wanted to ask Harry about his mother and aunt's first meeting in so long, at least it didn't appear he'd been opposed to the meeting or had got a bad report from his mother. "You first."

"I wanted to thank you for filling in for Krum on such short notice—or rather no notice at all."

Malfoy's manner was overly business-like, very formal, and it strangely made Harry want to grin. He repressed the urge and shrugged. "I've got no one to answer to at home, and there was nothing pressing that needed my attention at work. The owner's a pretty good bloke, and he's got a soft spot for kids," Harry said, rather enjoying the inside joke.

"Still, it was good of you. Had you been unable, or refused outright, I doubt I'd have been able to find a replacement, and it's important to keep class sizes from being too large or the students won't get the attention they need." Cutting a slice of cucumber in half, he asked, "You found your room satisfactory, I trust?"

"Quite satisfactory," Harry replied. The room he'd been assigned looked like it belonged at Buckingham Palace: the ceiling was easily ten feet, the walls were covered with deep burgundy silk, the perimeter of the floor was white marble veined with grey while the centre was covered with a rug so thick Harry could wriggle his bare toes into it. "Considering it was, as you said, such short notice," he joked.

Draco was not in a joking mode, it seemed. For one brief moment irritation clouded his eyes and his hands tightened around his cutlery in a death grip, before his business-like demeanour returned, and, his voice tight with forced politeness, he began to say, "If it is not to your liking—"

Harry held his hands up and smiled. "Joking, Malfoy. I was joking. The room's bloody gorgeous."

Slowly, Draco relaxed. "You're comfortable, then?" he asked with a definite note of relief in his voice as he speared a tomato slice on his fork and slid it around his plate, coating it in the vinaigrette dressing.

After he'd agreed to stay on, Harry had called Winky and asked her to pack a trunk for him. Kreacher had died not long after the war, and at Professor McGonagall's urging—and to Hermione's utter mortification—Harry had agreed to have the freed house-elf bound to him. Anyone who'd cared to look could've seen the poor creature was miserably unhappy being free, and now, even Hermione had to agree the elf was much more content. Once Winky'd arrived with his trunk, she'd quickly gone about the business of getting him settled in. "Perfectly," Harry said as he helped himself to the cucumber and tomato salad. "I can't imagine anyone wouldn't be."

Draco looked at him as if surprised by his words before turning his head towards were Teddy sat.

Now in such close proximity, Harry had the chance to take a good look at the other man without openly staring. He wasn't what Harry would call handsome—not the type of man Harry was attracted to, certainly—but there was something attractive about Draco, he admitted.

"Not even the Weasleys have hair that colour," Malfoy said, still looking towards Teddy.

Harry chuckled. "He's a Cannons fan, alright. His hair is orange more often than not. Yesterday's blue was a bit of showing off in front of his new friend."

"You let him cast colour changing charms on himself at his age?" Malfoy asked sharply.

"He doesn't need them. Teddy's a Metamorphmagus."

Malfoy had reached for a platter of marinated veal with mushrooms, but his hand froze in mid motion and he looked at Harry. "He's a what?" he asked breathlessly.

"A Metamorphmagus."

"Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"His mother was one, too." Harry laughed. "He'll have a ball at Hogwarts. Tonks always said she did."

Slowly, Malfoy placed a slice of veal on his plate. "What was she like?" he asked softly, his eyes on the table.

Harry helped himself to veal as well, spooning on a generous amount of mushrooms over the meat. How did one describe Tonks? "Her first name was Nymphadora, but she hated it and went by Tonks instead. Only her parents called her by her first name, and even they shortened it to Dora. 'Don't call me Nymphadora!' she would say in this really menacing voice to anyone who did, and her hair would change to bright, blood red. Even Remus called her Tonks." Harry breathed deeply. Remembering was bittersweet. "She was the clumsiest person I ever met. I swear, she could break one thing and trip over something else without moving an inch. At Grimmauld Place, she always used to trip over this awful old umbrella stand—a troll's foot, it was, if you can believe that—and wake up this horrible portrait of old Walburga Black, who then went on a tirade of how we were sullying the house of her fathers and blah, blah, blah," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand before he fell silent for a moment and pushed mushrooms around his plate. "She was enthusiastic, and funny. At mealtimes, all these Order members would be around the table and we all knew what was at stake and the danger we were facing, and she'd change her nose to a bird beak and make everyone laugh. She was . . . brave and loyal and inquisitive . . . and selfless and . . . she loved Remus so much . . ." Harry ran his hand over his mouth. "She'd have been a great mum," he said quietly. "And Remus would've made a great dad," he added almost inaudibly, so softly did he speak.

Malfoy hadn't spoken a word as Harry talked, and afterwards they both fell silent whilst the crowded hall around them buzzed with voices.

After several minutes, Malfoy touched his napkin to the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. "We had no idea a child had been born until your letter arrived." He hesitated before continuing in a rush, "I—I was very glad yesterday when, when my, my aunt said she was accepting my mother's invitation to tea. I spoke to my mother last night, and she said it went well—uncomfortable, understandably—but well."

Harry chewed his veal and swallowed. He took a drink of water. The way Draco stammered when referring to Andromeda as his aunt—as if unsure his use of the term would be welcomed—had not escaped his notice. "I talked to Andromeda last night, too. She said the same. Tense was the word she used."

A Beauxbatons student came up to Malfoy and excused himself before whispering something Harry did not hear but that made Malfoy close his eyes and exhale tiredly. The student looked sympathetic. Malfoy rubbed his forehead before responding, "I will handle it." Until that moment, Harry had only heard Draco speak in English, but he'd answered the student in French, which Harry heard in English thanks to the translation charms. The voice Harry heard speak was not Draco's, and the words did not match the motion of his mouth. Harry found himself wondering what Draco's voice sounded like speaking in French.

Draco peaked at him quickly before spreading some brie on a slice of baguette. "How do you find Émilie?" he asked.

His mind wandering somewhere it really ought not wander, Harry was surprised by the question, and he took a moment before answering. "She seems very nice. She's good with the kids."

"What did you think of her flying?"

"I didn't particularly notice. Why do you ask?"

"She has hopes of flying professionally. She could do it too—she's one of the best natural flyers I've seen, and she's the first one on the pitch to practice and the last one off. The only thing she lacks is confidence. I tell her she's got talent, but I'm her flying instructor."

"And you're thinking that if she hears it from someone else, it might carry more weight," Harry said.

"Particularly if that person played professionally himself. If you could possible spare some time to go up with her—"

"Yeah, sure," Harry agreed readily. Why not? He had nothing better to do with his afternoon. Teddy, he knew, was going with his group on a short excursion to an all-Wizarding village chaperoned by more Beauxbatons students. If Malfoy thought this girl was that good, Harry believed him, and who knew, if she was good enough, he could put her on the radar with the right people within the Cannons organization. "I'll go up with her. We'll take a practice Snitch, and I'll put her through a few drills. This afternoon?"

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.~*~.

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"Je ne sais pas, Monsieur," Émilie fretted as she walked with Draco to the pitch where Potter would meet them.

"Tu n'es pas obligée, si tu n'en as pas envie," Draco assured her. "Mais si je ne pensais pas que tu avais le niveau, je n'en aurais jamais parlé à Monsieur Potter."

When they arrived at the pitch, Potter was already there, and he came up to them. He greeted them both, and smiled warmly at Émilie.

Émilie cast an anxious glance at Draco. He stood directly in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Regret is a terrible thing, Émilie," he told her. "No one gets through life without their fair share, but we can try to limit the number we carry." He gave her a pat on the arm. "So get on your broom." He held her eyes with his until she inhaled and nodded her head. Draco smiled at her and watched her move to stand next to Potter. Potter, Draco noticed, was looking at him with an odd expression on his face, but he quickly turned his attention to Émilie.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Oui," she responded looking determined and reminding Draco strongly of her first Quidditch match five years ago.

They mounted their brooms.

"I thought we would go through a few basic drills the Cannons' scouts use when trying out new hopefuls." Potter explained. Holding up a Snitch, he explained, "It's bewitched to fly an erratic, unpredictable pattern like during a real match, but at the same time it's spelled to stay within a quarter of the pitch. This is not a test to spot the Snitch from across the pitch. I know you can do that, else we'd not be here. The real test is your agility, reflexes and ability to focus on the Snitch despite distractions, to not lose it once you've spotted it." He pointed up at two Bludgers hovering about fifty feet off the ground at either side of the half-pitch line. "Just like during a match, they'll fly at you from random directions—but never from behind, or directly above or below. They'll only come at you from within your field of view, but they might not enter it until almost the last moment. You've got no Beater to protect you, so you need to be on your guard at all times and fly defensively without losing sight of the Snitch. They'll come at you progressively faster and more frequently. Any questions?"

"Non."

"Then let's start."

And they kicked off.

Potter took Émilie up to the centre of the pitch, and they hovered facing each other for some time before Potter flew several feet lower and a glint of gold caught Draco's eye as the Snitch shot from his hand.

As Émilie flew off in pursuit, Draco stood on the edge of the pitch, holding his hand up to screen his eyes from the sun. Potter remained in the centre of the pitch, hovering in place and watching.

Potter waved his wand, and the first of the two Bludgers circled around and flew at Émilie from almost dead ahead. It didn't appear to fly any faster than one hit by a strong Beater during a typical school-level match, and she evaded it easily. When the second came at her ten or twelve seconds later, it was noticeably faster and from an angle to her left. Whether Émilie saw it or not, Draco couldn't be sure. She stayed on her course, and he could see her gaze was set directly in front of her. When the Bludger was no more than five or six feet from her, she dipped down smoothly and the Bludger passed directly over her. Draco mumbled his approval under his breath.

As Potter had said they would, the Bludgers came ever more frequently and with greater speed. With Émilie's every dive and swerve, Draco felt himself leaning into the move along with her. It looked to him like she was doing well, and he hoped Potter thought so too. When both Bludgers came at her at the same time from different directions, Draco held his breath, but Émilie performed a skilful evasive manoeuvre at the last second and the Bludgers collided in exactly the spot she would have been, the sharp, jarring "Clang!" of iron hitting iron audible where he stood. Draco pumped his fist in the air, his loud shout of approval combining with the cheers and handclapping of several others. Turning in surprise, he saw that a number of Émilie's friends had turned up some time after Émilie and his arrival and that with them were several Quidditch school students and even a few retired professional players, including both Mathilde Mallard and Hildegarde Lafarge, as well as Paul Reynaud, Keeper from the 1986 French National Team. One and all had their faces turned skyward, and several hands pointed towards Émilie as voices whispered.

Redirecting his attention upwards, Draco was just in time to see Émilie surge forward, her torso pressed low on the broom and her arm outstretched. Seconds later, she threw her arm in the air with the Snitch clenched in her fist.

Draco nodded his head and grinned proudly whilst applause and shouts of "Ouais!" "La classe!" "Trop bien!" "T'es la meilleure!" and "Bravo!" came from the crowd.

Potter was not done with his drills, and he flew to Émilie. They hovered together for a minute before flying off to one end of the pitch where they stayed for a moment until, just like before, Potter flew a few feet below and waved his arm. A yellow ring appeared in the air a few feet in front of Émilie, and she flew straight through it. A blue circle then appeared above her, and she flew over it. A continuous series of different coloured rings and circles appeared randomly in the air one after the other as Émilie flew, creating an obstacle course which required immediate and varied reactions and gave no advanced warning of which obstacle was coming next or where. The farther around the pitch she flew, the less reaction time there was between obstacles and the smaller the rings she was to fly through became. Most vanished after she passed it, but as she made her way through the course, a few began to remain after she'd passed, which Draco took to mean she hadn't cleared it cleanly. He flinched with every obstacle that remained. Émilie flew one full lap around the pitch, and finished back where she began and where Potter was waiting for her.

The final drill Potter had for her was pure speed, a race against the clock. Bands of white smoke appeared at either end of the pitch, and Émilie positioned herself directly behind the one at their end. Anxiously, Draco waited for her to start. Émilie was a damned fast flyer, but after the two drills she'd already completed, she had to be feeling some fatigue. She'd flown hard, and Potter had given her no time to catch her breath between exercises.

Behind the starting line, Émilie lowered her body against her broom and shot forward, the smoky starting line swirling away on eddies of air in her wake before vanishing. The Quidditch pitch was the regulation five hundred feet long, and Émilie covered the distance like lightning and broke through the finishing line to more applause and cheers, including Draco's own.

From opposite ends of the pitch, Potter and Émilie both flew to the ground near where Draco stood waiting. As she grew closer, Draco could see the radiant smile that lit up Émilie's face. She'd flown well, and she knew it. As soon as she was on the ground, she hurried to him excitedly and out of breath.

"Bravo, Émilie! Bien joué! Je savais que tu en étais capable."

"Merci, Monsieur," she said radiantly. "'Ow did I do, Mr Potter?" she asked Potter in English as soon as he joined them.

Draco turned to Potter. Whilst he wasn't Draco's normal type at all, the sight of Potter fresh from flying was something to appreciate. His normally wild hair was even more so from being windblown, and whilst the Quidditch training robes he wore were nothing special, just simple plain black, there was no denying the man filled them out damned well. Add the dark shadow that had appeared along his jawline, and Potter was not at all unattractive.

"You did every well. Very well, indeed," Potter answered Émilie. Turning to Draco, he said, "You weren't exaggerating at all."

"I missed seven of the obstacles," Émilie said critically.

Potter winked at her. "My first time through, I missed eight."

"Really?" she asked, eyes wide and slack-jawed.

"Really. You did extremely well." Potter nodded at Draco before turning back to Émilie. "If you've not got your heart set on flying for a French team, have Professor Malfoy send me an owl before a match, and I'll see about getting the Cannon's Seeking scout out here to take a look at you—with your parents' permission."

Émilie's eyes went impossibly wide. "Really?" she asked again, her voice an octave higher than normal.

"Now, I can't make any promises beyond that, mind. But, yes, really," Potter confirmed with an indulgent laugh. "You show definite potential."

Émilie's hand went to her chest as if out of breath, an expression of disbelief and delight on her face.

Draco stared at Potter incredulously. He wanted to grab his arm and yank him off the pitch—what did he think he was doing, making a promise like that? Yes, Potter had been instrumental in turning the Cannon's fortunes around, and it was true they owed a great deal of their current success to him, but claiming he could get one of the scouts to come to France to watch a teenager fly . . . What did he think he was doing?

Draco was just about to try to say something to keep Émilie's hopes from getting too built up when they were joined on the Pitch by the rest of the assembled crowed. Her friends gathered around her possessively, each wanting to be the first to congratulate her. The Quidditch school students looked up at her in fascination, and even the retired professional players all looked distinctly impressed and congratulated her on an impressive flight.

Draco looked at Potter severely, and Potter had the nerve to smile at him—if he had got Émilie's hopes up and then failed to deliver, Draco swore the title of the Boy Who Lived would no longer apply.

"Tu devrais aller rejoindre tes amis pour fêter ça," Draco told Émilie, as it looked like they were about to carry her off any moment. Turning to Potter with narrowed eyes, he said,"J'ai deux mots à dire à Monsieur Potter."

At least now, Draco noted, Potter had the decency to look sheepish.

The crowd broke up, with the retired players going off to do whatever they'd planned with their evenings and the kids returning to the palace.

Once they were alone, Potter asked, "What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy."

Draco rounded on him. "How could you make her a promise like that? Do you have any idea how crushed—"

"I specifically said I couldn't make her any promises. The scouts have free reign when it comes to new recruits. I have no say in that."

"Oh?" Draco asked condescendingly. "You don't? What makes you think you've even got any say in who the scouts take a look at?"

"I own the team."

"Just because you flew—What? You . . . What? You own . . ."

"The Cannons. Yes."

"Oh," Draco said after several seconds when the news had fully sunk in. "So, if you say you want a French teenager looked at . . . ?"

"She gets looked at."

"Oh," Draco repeated. "Well, that's . . . that's different, then. That's . . . that's very good, then."

"Look, Malfoy—Draco—it's not widely known, about my owning the Cannons, and I'd like it to remain that way."

"Right. No, I completely understand," Draco said. He'd made a mess of things, and he knew it. He began to apologise. He should have known Harry Potter, of all people, would never promise someone something he couldn't deliver, even if he'd not known the how of it, and he said as much.

"It doesn't matter." Potter shrugged. "You care about your students," he said with sincerity.

It pleased Draco far more than it should have to hear Potter acknowledge something positive about him. He was happy with the new life he'd built for himself after his old one had fallen to pieces, and he knew he really shouldn't care if Potter saw something decent and worthy in him—but he did care, and it surprised him just how much.

"That's nothing to apologise for," Potter added. He looked very self-conscious, slipping his hands into his robe pockets and glancing around the pitch.

This was the first time they'd ever been alone together, Draco realised, suddenly feeling as awkward as Potter looked. It had never been just the two of them before, someone else—usually a lot of someone elses—was always there. Against his better judgement, Draco couldn't help but wonder whether they might not have been friends had there not been all the someone elses.

But that was as pointless as searching for Leprechaun gold. Knowing what he did now, Draco knew he'd blown any chance of a friendship with Potter the very day they'd met—when they were eleven years old and being fitted for their first Hogwarts robes. Not for the first time, Draco wished he could go back in time and tell his younger self to sit down and shut up.

"I'd best collect the Bludgers," Potter said drawing his wand from his pocket.

As Draco watched, the two Bludgers dropped from the sky and deposited themselves neatly into their crate. "Any interesting plans for tonight?" he found himself asking before he'd had the chance to think better of it.

"Just a bit of a fly over around the mountains followed by dinner and a book." Potter answered as he secured the Snitch in its proper place. He locked up the crate and levitated it. The lid of the crate was marked with a bright orange shield and two large black Cs. "I had my house-elf fetch it from the office and bring it to me after we talked at lunch," Potter explained, indicating the crate.

"You do understand your afternoons and evenings are free, right? You're under no obligation to remain at the palace after your morning sessions."

"I've not really got anywhere to go," Potter said with a nonchalant lift of one shoulder. "And the mountains are beautiful to fly over. I had my house-elf pack my camera, and I got some nice photos."

Draco was incredulous. Certainly, Potter didn't mean to spend a week—or possibly two—in France and do nothing but fly over the Pyrenees—beautiful though they were—before going to bed with a book? "You're in France, Potter—go somewhere. See something."

"Where do you suggest?"

"Anywhere!"

"Anywhere, where?" Potter asked him with a small laugh.

"Paris, the Loire Valley, le Chateau de Versailles, Lyon, Mont Saint-Michel, Aix-en-Provence, la Côte d'Azur, Strasbourg." Draco could have gone on and on.

"Sightseeing by oneself . . ." Potter ran a hand through his hair, and Draco's eyes followed his fingers through the jet black strands of their own accord. "I don't speak a word of French, and I doubt there are translation charms in place at the Eiffel Tower."

For the second time, Draco spoke without thinking. "I speak French."

Potter looked at him in surprise, but not, Draco didn't think, as if he was about to laugh in his face. He had to be half-mad, Draco told himself, but in those impulsively spoken three words he'd issued an invitation, and since he couldn't pull them back—and it didn't seem they were about to be thrown back at him—there was really nothing to do but see the thing through. He felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, easily the worst case of nerves he'd felt at inviting a man to dinner in years—ridiculous, really, given that it was Potter and not someone he was attracted to—but he said, "If you do nothing else, you cannot leave France without at least dining at a pavement café in Paris."

Potter didn't answer immediately. He studied Draco silently for what felt like a very long time as if he was trying to decide whether he'd really just been invited to dinner or if Draco was taking the piss.

Draco felt rather like a potion in a cauldron being carefully studied for any unexpected reactions, but he pushed on. "To get a good seat outside though, it's best to arrive earlier rather than later."

"Er, yeah. Yeah, okay," Potter stammered. "Why not?" He ran a hand through his hair a second time, as if trying to smooth it down. "I'll need to change." He indicated his black Quidditch robes. "Muggles will think I'm dressed up like Darth Vader," he said with a small laugh.

Draco didn't know what a Darth Vader was, but he said, "Bien," feeling unaccountably relieved. It was only Potter, after all. What would it have mattered had he refused? Still, he was glad he'd asked and that Potter had accepted—the man had not only agreed at the last minute to stay on and fill Krum's empty spot, but he'd also helped Émilie. Draco was grateful to him, and an invitation to dinner seemed an appropriate way to thank him properly. Really, he told himself now, he ought to have thought of it sooner. "There's a Floo terminal in la Place des Vosges and from there, it's just a short walk. I'll meet you at your quarters at," Draco checked his watch, "say, eight?"

Potter agreed. "Eight, then."

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Hope you liked it!