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Quick author's note-chapters 6 and 7 are both much shorter than I like to post, so I'm posting them both at the same time.
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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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I will meet you at your quarters at 12:30 – D.
Harry read the note that he'd just been handed. "Merci, Nicole," he said, remembering the girl from yesterday's trip to the lake.
"You are welcome, Meester Potter," she responded in English with a pleased grin on her face. "You enjoyed ze lake, I think? Yes?"
"Oh, yes, er oui," he said. Draco and he had not returned to the palace with the carriage the evening before. Rather, talking over coffee and pudding had turned into talking over dinner, and it had been nearly midnight before they'd Floo'd back to the palace.
Slipping Draco's note into his robe pocket, Harry missed the way Nicole's and Émilie's eyes met as the former returned to the palace and the latter hovered in the air on her broom.
Turning his attention skyward, Harry mounted his broom and re-joined Émilie where she'd been keeping watch on the class as they flew through an obstacle course similar to the one he'd had her fly, only child-friendly. This was Teddy's class—the one Harry had been most looking forward to, although he made a point to not favour his godson. As much as he'd been waiting for it, he'd also worried how the rest of the British kids would react to him—would they look at him like some kind of superhero with star-struck eyes like their parents? He'd almost laughed out loud when he'd overheard a whispered, "Not very tall, is he?"
"All right, you lot!" he called out. "Let's fly some sprints, yeah? See how fast you all are."
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Harry stepped out of the Floo into a large room filled with warm, golden light. The lower half of the walls were wood panelled with rich dark oak, above which they were either covered with tapestries in shades of green, blue and gold or painted a soft, subtle shade of yellow. There were several inviting-looking tables around the room, atop all of which stood a small round vase filled with red roses. Across from where he stood, a large wizarding portrait of a young couple, whose hair styles and formal robes with wide lace trim dated them as sometime during the Victorian era, was displayed prominently in a gilt frame. In her hands, the woman held a single red rose. The pair whispered softly to each other as the man gazed down at the woman with a look of absolute devotion on his face, and it was equally clear the woman, discreetly looking down at the long-stemmed rose she held but glancing up at him frequently, returned his devotion.
The Leaky Cauldron, this was not.
Bonjour, Monsieur, said a witch in her early twenties working behind the counter.
Behind him, the Floo lit up again and he was joined a second later by Draco.
"Ah! Monsieur Malfoy! Bienvenue!," called the witch as she stepped out to great them.
Draco responded in French that had Harry's mind venturing down paths he knew better than to let it venture down, but he found himself unable to stop it. It was ridiculous, but hearing Draco speak French was far more appealing than it had any right to be. Harry'd heard French spoken often enough before, and he'd never thought anything particular about it.
Well, he hadn't heard it often, but occasionally. And admittedly, there was rather a difference between the off-time he'd overheard it spoken by Fleur and her family when they visited and hearing it spoken by a good-looking man in Paris.
His thoughts surprising him, Harry turned his head away as if looking around the room, but from the corner of his eye, he watched Draco. Harry'd thought to himself that there was something attractive about Malfoy when he'd arrived on Monday, but it had been nothing but a passing thought, the same as he'd had about any number of men. It was now Thursday, and he had spent more time with Draco than he ever had before, and he found himself thinking once again that while the other man was certainly not his normal type, Harry definitely found him attractive—possibly a little more so than was wise.
Draco introduced the young witch to Harry as a former student of his called Susanne Allemande.
"I am very pleased to meet you, Monsieur," she said to him in English. "Welcome to the Hotel de la Rose Rouge.
"Susanne's younger brother, Mathieu, is one of the Beauxbatons students working at the Quidditch school. I don't know if you remember—"
"Mathieu, yes of course. You were talking to him on Monday, just after we arrived. Bonjour, Susanne," Harry said.
"Our table is ready, but there is something I want to show you first," Draco said before switching back to French and speaking to Susanne again.
Susanne said something to Draco before ending with "Bon appétit, Monsieur." She turned to Harry and said, "Enjoy your meal" in English.
"Look over here," Draco said.
As Harry followed him, Draco explained that Susanne's family had owned the hotel for generations, and that one of her ancestors had been both potioneer and a pioneer of early wizarding photography.
"It was he who created the original potion to make wizarding photos move."
He led Harry into a small room with its buttery yellow walls displaying a collection of very old photos. "These," Draco said, gesturing around the room, "are some of the oldest wizarding photographs known to exist."
"Wow," Harry responded. "Really?" He stepped closer to the wall and studied one of the thirty or so prints hanging at eye-level around the room. He moved from one to the next, examining each photo. Not limited only to Paris, the pictures showed a variety of scenes, including country life and landscapes. Harry watched waves crashing against the coast. "Biarritz, 1886" read a small plaque beside the photo. There were some of people bathing in the Lac des Champs Elysées in very odd looking getups—nineteenth century wizarding bathing attire. Only their forearms were bare—their bathing robes having sleeves that came to their elbows. The next photo was of something Harry recognised—or rather half of something he recognised. "They're building the Eiffel Tower," he said. The next one was also of something else he recognised, but not at all how he remembered it. Several horse-drawn carriages were driven by men in top hats down a wide, tree-lined street. A bicyclist weaved his way through traffic, and women in long gowns and large hats and carrying parasols strolled along the pavement. The only thing that made the scene recognisable as the Avenue des Champs-Elysees was the Arc de Triomphe standing proudly at the far end of the street. "These are great," Harry said.
After spending a good while looking at all the old photographs on display, Draco and Harry left the gallery for lunch. Harry began to return to the room they'd arrived in, but Draco directed him towards a lift. "There's a rooftop, terrace restaurant," he explained.
Taking the lift up eight storeys, they exited through glass doors onto a terrace with a weathered, wood deck floor, cream-coloured painted brick pillars, tall black iron-work fencing and scores of potted shrubs and ornamental, flowering trees. And roses. Harry hadn't known roses came in that many shades of red.
Self-consciously, he ran a hand down his stomach. Knowing they'd be in Muggle Paris, he'd dressed Muggle: a light-weight cotton jumper with jeans and black trainers. He felt a bit underdressed.
"There is a right way to see the Eiffel Tower and a wrong way," Draco said. "Hours of one queue after another is the wrong way. This," he said, gesturing with his hand, "is the right way."
Harry looked in the direction Draco indicated and felt his jaw drop. A second later, he heard Draco laugh.
"Shut it, you," he said, teasingly. "This is, my God, Draco, this is—this is incredible."
In front of them was a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower standing tall and majestic beyond the rooftops of Paris, all of it framed by red roses climbing up trellises mounted on and stretching between brick pillars.
"This is . . . Merlin, Draco . . . this is just . . ."
"And then, if you get bored of that view, you can always turn around," Draco said.
Turning, Harry's jaw almost dropped again. In one direction stood the Eiffel Tower and in the other, the Arc de Triomphe.
"This is just . . ." At a loss for words, Harry's voice trailed off. He looked from one monument to the other and back.
"The menu is posted over here," Draco said after giving him a minute to appreciate the stunning view. He motioned towards a large chalkboard mounted on an easel, which he translated for Harry.
"Messieurs, said the maître d'hôtel as he greeted them. "Ah, Monsieur Malfoy, comment allez-vous? C'est un plaisir de vous revoir."
Draco spoke to the man in French, and Harry dropped his head, his earlier line of thought returning to him. He swallowed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. If Draco kept speaking in French around him, Harry thought he might just end up with a bit of a crush—and how ironic would that be, given their history? It was just as well he'd be returning to England soon.
" . . . anglais," Harry heard Draco say.
"Ah, yes. Welcome," the maître d'hôtel said to him. "You are in France working at Monsieur Malfoy's school.?"
"The Quidditch school, yes," answered Harry.
"Our Mathieu eez zere as well, at zee school. A . . . 'ow you say?" he asked, turning towards Draco.
"Mathieu is a Beater." To Harry, Draco explained, "Monsieur Vennard is Mathieu and Susanne's uncle."
"Ah, yes." The man acted out swinging a bat at a Bludger—an odd sight, given that he was dressed in formal black robes. "Now, me, I was a . . . a . . ." He looked to Draco for help.
"A Seeker."
"Ah, yes. A Seeker," the maître d'hôtel said, clapping his hands together. "Like Monsieur", he added, acknowledging Draco. "But, of course, zees was many years ago," he added as he patted his greying hair.
"Harry was a Seeker, too, Monsieur Vennard," Draco said. Explaining he'd played for the Chudley Cannons and giving a short history of his regrettably brief career.
The maître d'hôtel tutted and tsk'ed disapprovingly at how Harry's career had ended.
"And zis eez your first time lunching wizz us. I do 'ope you will enjoy your visit, Monsieur. 'ave you any questions about ze menu? No? Zen, if you are ready, I have a very good table ready for you, just zis way. If you will please follow me?"
Harry and Draco were led to one of several redwood, patio-style tables with green tablecloths and blue and white striped cushions on the chairs. Between the wood decking and the painted brick pillars, the roses and trellises, the shrubbery and flowering trees and the redwood tables, the effect was one of casual, comfortable elegance. And then there was the view . . . As Draco sat down, Harry glanced at him. The view in that direction was quite nice, too.
An intelligent, funny, attractive man, whose voice speaking French was far more alluring than should be possible, a setting that couldn't be more beautiful . . . Harry felt the thrill of first real attraction sweep through him. How could he not? A man would have to be dead not to—that or straight, he reckoned. The thought occurred to him that he ought to have been more careful than to allow himself to take notice of Draco in that way. They'd been out together now three times since he'd arrived in France five days ago. He ought to have been more careful. He ought not to have—
No. Why, Harry asked himself? Why shouldn't he spend time with an intelligent, attractive man whose company and sense of humour he enjoyed and whose voice speaking French . . . well, whose voice speaking French sounded as delicious as chocolate tasted? He was in France—in Paris, one of the most romantic cities in the world for Merlin's sake. He was at a beautiful roof-top restaurant that offered an incredible view with a man he found attractive both physically and in his personality. And he was thinking he ought not to have let this happen? Why? Why shouldn't he let himself fall for Draco just a little? It wasn't as if anything could come of it—he was leaving in just a few days.
So, why shouldn't he take advantage of those couple of days and just enjoy himself?
Yes, Harry decided that was exactly what he would do. He felt giddy with excitement. A little harmless flirting . . . he couldn't wait to see Draco's reaction.
"I really want to thank you, Draco," Harry said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and smiling. "I feel as if I've been monopolising your time." It had been a while since he'd openly flirted with a man, and he felt a bit rusty, but Harry let a little something suggestive slip into his voice. "I'm sure you have far better things to do than play tour guide to me."
His smile widened when Draco's lips parted and he blinked three times. He was going to enjoy this, Harry told himself.
"I, er, no," Draco said. He shifted in his chair and looked around. "Our waitress is coming," he said with a small note of relief in his voice.
"Monsieur Malfoy," said a pretty ginger-haired witch who, apart from her hair, bore a notable resemblance to the maître d'hôtel. "Papa said you were here. Eet ees very good to see you," she said to him in English. She must've been told that Harry spoke no French.
"Martine," said Draco. "How have you been? How are your studies coming?" he asked.
"Very well, Monsieur. Thank you."
"Martine left Beauxbatons a year ago," Draco explained to Harry. "She's studying to become a Healer."
Harry made appropriate congratulations and inquiries. "Did you play Quidditch at Beauxbatons, too?" he asked.
"Non, Monsieur. Not I. I like to fly fast, but being 'it by the Bludgers? Zat I do not like."
"I implemented racing teams a few years ago," Draco said.
"Racing teams?" Harry asked. "That's a great idea." It really was. As much as he loved Quidditch, why shouldn't there be another option for kids who liked to fly and wanted to compete but didn't make their house Quidditch team, or who, like Martine, just preferred something else?
"The students started it themselves, really. I just take the credit. A small group of students had started some simple races on their own and as more students wanted to join in, they approached me about forming formal teams. Martine was one of the fastest racers—flew both short and long distance and on the relay team. Her house won the first Racing Cup with Martine flying anchor in the relay."
"Is that so?" Harry asked.
Harry watched as Draco and his former student talked easily for a few minutes. He took a genuine interest in their lives, not just their flying skills, which spoke well of his character, Harry thought. After their orders had been placed and Martine had gone, he said, "You've really got a good rapport with your students. Émilie can't say enough good things about you."
"You've made quite an impression on them yourself. I've had more than one comment about you. Even with the translation charms, you make an effort to speak in French to them."
Embarrassed at how very little French he knew in comparison to the students' knowledge of English—what was a simple oui and non compared to complete sentences?—Harry replied he only knew a few basic words and expressions.
"That doesn't matter. It's that you bother to use the few basic words you know that they like."
"When did you learn to speak French?" Harry asked.
"I had tutors from the time I was five." There was a moment's hesitation, as if Draco was unsure of whether to say something. "The Malfoy family originated in France," he eventually said, his uncertainty audible in his voice. "The wards at the manor are all old French familial spells."
A moment of silence followed before Harry asked where in France Draco lived. He wasn't sure whether the question was too personal, but Draco had opened the door on more personal topics of conversation, and, Harry reckoned, he could always just give a generic answer—the coast or the countryside or some such thing—if he chose.
"We have a small estate in la Côte d'Azur—the Riviera, that is. Mother lives in the main house, and I live in a small villa on the grounds, when I'm not in residence at Beauxbatons. Sort of a dowager house. Lovely view of the Mediterranean."
Harry doubted his idea of a small villa was the same as Draco's, but regardless, a house of any size with a view of the Mediterranean . . .
"How about you? You're not at the old Black house in London, are you?"
"Grimmauld Place? Merlin, no. I've a cottage in the West Country." Harry explained the condition it had been in and all the work he'd put into it. "With all the land it came with, I wanted it the minute I saw it, in spite of the house's being ready to fall down. Perfect for flying, it is. I'd've ripped the old house down and built new if I'd had to."
Draco sat back and folded his arms in front of himself. He leant his head slightly to one side and asked, "I've got to ask, how is it that there's no Mrs Potter waiting in that cottage?"
Harry crinkled his forehead. "I, er, rather thought I'd established I'm not interested in a Mrs Potter."
"One never knows. I'm left-handed, but I do occasionally use my right for certain things."
Harry laughed. "Do you?" he asked suggestively. "I find I prefer the same hand."
Draco nearly choked before rallying. "No Mr Potter-Jones-Somebody, then. Or do you prefer your do-it-yourself skills in areas not limited to home improvement?"
Martine brought their wine and salads, necessitating an abrupt change of subject. Draco commented on the luck they'd had with the weather so far at the same time Harry remarked on the number of their fellow diners.
When she'd gone, Draco pointed out that Harry hadn't answered his question—how was it that the most eligible bachelor in the British Isles didn't have someone anxiously awaiting his return?
"I've not been in any rush," Harry responded. Looking directly into Draco's eyes, he added, "When I find the right man, I'll know it."
Draco swallowed and looked away.
"When that news broke, there must've been hell to pay," he said sympathetically. "Telling my mother she'd not be having a daughter-in-law was hard enough. Or is it still under wraps?"
"Oh, no. That story broke ages ago." Seeing the headline of Daily Prophet informing every witch and wizard in Great Britain that he was gay above a picture of him entwined with a man he'd picked up had not been a pleasant experience. "I was photographed leaving a gay nightclub in Muggle London, and, well, I wasn't alone and we weren't discussing the weather."
Draco winced.
Harry speared a slice of asparagus on his fork and did what he normally did: he adopted a 'sticks and stones' attitude. "Let them say what they will. Merlin knows they've said far worse—least this one was true." He didn't think Draco bought it any more than his family and friends back home, but like them, he didn't press the issue. "Everyone who mattered already knew. The rest, how do you say 'they can go to hell' in French?" he asked.
Ils peuvent aller se faire voir.
Harry raised his glass to offer a toast and repeated Draco's words as best he could.
Draco raised his glass as well, and confirmed the sentiment.
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"Where to next?" Harry asked after they'd finished lunch. "I'm all yours," he added in the same suggestive tone he'd used more than once that afternoon.
Draco didn't know what he was playing at. At first, he'd thought Potter was taking the piss, but that didn't fit in with the image of Potter he'd got over the past few days. Whatever he was up to, Draco did know one thing—he could keep up.
Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the other man from head to foot and back. There was one thing to be said for Muggle clothing—they left little to the imagination. And Potter certainly wore them well. When dressing in Muggle clothing, Draco's personal taste ran more towards fine, wool trousers and pressed button-downs, but the way Potter's simple slate blue jumper stretched across his chest and shoulders, showing off just how toned the body beneath was. . . And his jeans—Draco approved whole-heartedly of the way Potter looked in those jeans. There were far worse ways to spend a summer day than in the company of an attractive man, he decided.
Draco breathed deeply. "So many possibilities and so little time. What to do with you first?" he asked.
Potter smirked.
Oh, yes, Draco thought to himself. The game was on.
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There's chapter 6! Chapter 7 is up too, so go check it out!
Author's note: Magical though it is, the rooftop restaurant Harry and Draco have lunch at is real. The Hotel de la Rose Rouge is based on two hotels in Paris—the lobby on the Hotel du Lys, and the rooftop restaurant on the Hotel Raphael. According to several pictures online, you really can see both the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe.