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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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"So," Draco said as they took the lift back down to the lobby, "That's the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. I take it there was nothing in particular you wanted to see at the Louvre, apart from the Mona Lisa."
"I don't know the first thing about what's there, to be honest. Really, I went there because I'd heard of it," Harry replied. "I have to admit, I know it's world famous, and it was impressive and grand and all that, but it was also a bit intimidating. Between the sheer size of the place and crowds . . . It was a little off-putting."
Draco had a comment about being intimidated by size at the tip of his tongue, but given the sincerity Potter'd spoken with, he bit it back. "Paris draws tens of millions visitors every year, and every one of them has the Louvre at the top of their must-see list." Tactfully, he added, "If one is not fond of crowds, famous as it is, it may be as well to leave it off one's own list. The Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay are not Paris' only museums."
"I don't particularly dislike crowds, but I don't particularly like them either," Harry responded. "At a Quidditch match—yeah, fine. But—I don't claim to be a connoisseur of fine art, or anything like that—but how can you can you appreciate a painting, or a sculpture or whatever, in the middle of a horde of people elbowing you in the side of the head and shoving cameras and mobile phones in front of your face?"
Draco laughed. "Did that actually happen?"
"Don't laugh," Harry retorted, rubbing the side of his head, as they reached the ground floor. "It bloody hurt. Got me right on my ear." He motioned in the direction of the gallery Draco'd shown him with the old wizarding photographs. "Honestly, I liked the old photos you showed me better."
"Because they were magical?"
"No. I don't think that had anything to do with it. It's just . . . I don't know. They were more, maybe relatable? Paintings and sculptures are beautiful but they just . . . the photographs felt more natural. More real. People don't stand around or lay around in the poses artists paint them in. Photographs are of people doing things people actually do."
"That doesn't necessarily hold true; a photograph can be as posed as a painting. But I do understand what you mean. A photograph can capture a moment as quickly as it happens, whereas a painting doesn't just happen. It's got to be deliberately planned."
"That's exactly what I mean."
"Most of the metro stations in Paris have Floo terminals or Apparition points. If you'd like, there's an excellent collection of photographs at the Musée Carnavalet. We passed it the other day, but it wasn't open then. It's closed on Mondays. It's near la Place des Vosges. I don't know if you noticed it. It doesn't look like much from the street, apart from its large wrought iron and gilt entry gate."
The Musée Carnavalet was one of François' favourite places, and he'd dragged Draco from room to room showing him this and that so many times, Draco'd lost count. A historian, the museum was almost a second home to François. It was also somewhere there was no chance of his wife's popping up. There was something about the idea of taking Harry there that felt almost cleansing.
"I think I remember it. Big coat of arms over the gate?"
"That's it. It's a history museum, really, but they've an extensive art collection as well."
"Lead on."
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Stepping out of the Floo at the la Place des Vosges, Draco led Harry down the same street they'd walked before. It surprised him again how comfortable he'd come to feel with his company in such a short time—they'd actually flirted, for Flamel's sake.
"It covers the whole history of Paris," Draco said. "Their collection is extensive—it's got about a hundred rooms, about a dozen on the French Revolution alone—but it's the photographs we're interested in. Unless you want to see a shoe worn during the celebration of the Fête de la Fédération in 1790?"
"They've really got that?"
"Among other things."
"Another time."
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"It's titled View from the Window at le Gras."
"And that's really the first photograph ever taken?" Harry asked, impressed.
Draco translated the information given describing the exhibit. "It says it's a manually enhanced print of the first permanent photographic image taken by Nicéphore Niépce in either 1826 or 1827. The photograph shows the view from an upstairs window at his estate in the Burgundy region of France and was created on a chemically coated pewter plate after an estimated eight-hour exposure time. The original plate is still in existence today, and though very faded, the image is still discernible."
Draco read on silently before turning his attention back to the very grainy black and white image. "See here, and here? It shows sunlight hitting the buildings on opposite sides. That's what leads researches to conclude the exposure time had to have been at least eight hours."
Moving on to another photograph, Draco translated, "The Boulevard du Temple, Paris, 1838 or 1839. First known photograph of a person."
Both Harry and Draco studied the photo. The tilted their heads from one side to the next. They moved closer, then stepped back farther. They squinted and stared.
"Are you sure you read that right?" Harry asked. "There are no people in this photo."
"That's what it says." Draco read on. "This image, believed to be the first known photograph featuring a person, was taken in either 1838 or 1839 by French photographer Louis Daguerre, inventor of the daguerreotype method of photography. The scene shows the Boulevard du Temple in Paris, a bustling, then-fashionable area of shops, cafés, and theatres. At first glance, the street appears to be deserted until, upon closer inspection, a man can be seen having his boots cleaned in the lower, left-hand corner."
Both Harry and Draco's attention was shifted to the spot mentioned.
"Oh," they both said almost at the same moment. "There he is," one observed, pointing. "You can see the boot-cleaner, too," the other said at the same time. Also pointing, he brushed his hand against the other's.
"Er," Draco said, lowering his arm, "It says that because a several minute long exposure was needed to create a photograph at the time, only stationary objects registered, leaving the busy street and pavement seemingly empty of carriages and pedestrians, apart from the man and the boot-cleaner, who remained still long enough to appear in the photo."
"It's kind of eerie," Harry observed. "The pavements and road were crowded with people, who simply didn't appear in the photo."
Draco rather agreed, and they moved on through the exhibit.
Another photo hanging nearby showed the façade of the Notre Dame Cathedral in faded, sepia tones. Heavy garlands hung in cascading swags over the doors, in the centre of which, the letters N and E were visible. While most of the photograph was in focus, the bottommost portion was badly blurred.
Draco read, "This photograph of the Cathedral of Notre Dame was taken on 30 January 1853, upon the marriage of Napoleon III and Eugénie de Montijo. Due to the length of the exposure time needed to create the image, the long procession into the church is a complete blur."
They moved down along the display.
"MONUMENT de l'INDÉPENDANCE" read the plaque above the photograph of a large sculpture of a woman's head. She wore a crown of seven pointed spires, and with her eyebrows drawn together and the set of her mouth, her expression conveyed strength and determination. She looked like a Roman goddess.
"The head of the Statue of Liberty displayed at the 1878 Paris World's Fair. A collaboration between Auguste Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, the Statue of Liberty was a gift from France to the United States to mark the centennial of the American Declaration of Independence. Standing over 305 feet and transported in 350 pieces, its design and construction are considered masterpieces of nineteenth century engineering."
"Eiffel?" Harry asked.
As if in answer to his question, a collage of photos very reminiscent of one they'd seen at the Hotel de la Rose Rouge hung nearby, documenting the construction of the Eiffel Tower.
"The Eiffel Tower, named for Gustave Eiffel, whose company designed and built the tower, was constructed as the main exhibit of the Paris Exposition in 1889. Not originally intended to be a permanent structure, the tower was to stand for twenty years before being dismantled. Now one of the most instantly recognisable monuments in the world, the tower was saved from demolition by its unanticipated usefulness as a wireless telegraph transmitter, and was used by the French military during World War One to communicate with French and Allied ships in the Atlantic Ocean and to intercept enemy communications. Today, the tower is home to over 120 antennas, broadcasting television and radio signals."
A collection of photographs of flooded Parisian streets beneath a plaque that read, "Crue de la Seine de 1910" needed no description. Silently, Harry and Draco studied the photos. People being rescued through windows, climbing down ladders into awaiting boats. Stairs leading down into flooded metro stations, only the first few steps visible above the water. One photo showed a long street lined with tall buildings, a hundred or more books floating in the floodwaters.
They moved on to another photo of the Eiffel Tower, this one titled, "Garde à la station radio de la Tour Eiffel." The tower appeared a pale backdrop to the dark silhouette of a World War One soldier standing guard, his rifle at his side. Beside it was a photograph of Parisians in early twentieth century Muggle clothing with their faces turned up to the sky. In the crowd, one man held a small boy in his arms, a woman pointed upwards with her closed parasol, another woman held her hand to her face, her mouth forming an O in wonder and fear.
"Parisians watch German aircraft overhead during World War One," Draco read quietly.
A third photo showed flag bearing soldiers marching in front of the Arc de Triomphe.
"Great Victory Parade, 14 July 1919."
Displays of photographs continued to document the passing of the twentieth century in Paris. One photo dated 1929 was a shot taken from within the Eiffel Tower looking down, displaying both the lace-like ironwork of the structure and the shadow it cast on the ground below. An undated photo showed a man and a woman riding in an open motorcar, the legs of the Eiffel Tower visible again in the distance.
Then came more photographs showing a city during wartime. The omnipresent Eiffel Tower was captured in another but very different photograph, this one taken from beneath the tower, its legs framing military aircraft. A city invaded; Nazi soldiers on horseback making their way down the Champs Elysées, the Arc de Triomphe behind them. More photos showed a besieged city as it fought back. In a low voice, Draco translated descriptions: a Free French soldier racing to aid a resistance fighter taking cover as he fired at one sniper, parents shielding their children behind a jeep as resistance fighters and Free French troops tried to take out another. But then a photograph of a jubilant crowd applauding, a woman in the centre of the photo with her arms thrown up in the air, her face lifted skyward. Another parade on the Champs Elysées—citizens, this time, waving flags of the Allied nations after the liberation of Paris.
Speaking only in hushed whispers, Harry and Draco proceeded through the rest of the photographs on display. Draco had been wanting to see these photographs for some time, but with as many times as François and he had come to this museum, he never had. His former lover's area of expertise had been the late Middle Ages through the Revolution. The nineteenth and twentieth centuries had not interested him very much. Once or twice, Draco had been going to come see the display by himself, but it had never happened. Now having seen it, he was glad he'd experienced it with someone else. He cast a glance at Harry. The photos had made as much of an impression on him as they had on Draco.
Making their way out of the museum, they passed through the formal garden they'd entered through almost two hours earlier. The cool grey of the gravel surrounding the plantings contrasted the two rows of deep green of the shrubs that formed the boarder of the garden. Between the rows of border shrubs, purple and white summer flowers bloomed. The last time Draco had been here with François, the flowers that had been in bloom had been red tulips and lily of the valley.
Draco thought about the photos of occupied Paris resisting their enemy's domination, and from there his mind unavoidably drifted to his seventh year at Hogwarts.
"That was a great collection," Harry remarked. "I'm really glad we went."
Draco agreed, though distractedly.
"Thanks for . . . Draco?"
"Another time," Harry'd said earlier, when Draco'd mentioned seeing the exhibits from the French Revolution. But there wouldn't be another time. By this time tomorrow, Potter could be on his way back to England, or perhaps already home. Draco'd not heard anything from Krum. As far as he knew, Krum would be arriving on Sunday as his wife had said. Harry was under no obligation to stay at Beauxbatons beyond his last class tomorrow morning.
"You must be looking forward to getting home," Draco observed. "I know I've said this before, but your agreeing to stay on such short notice was a tremendous help. I really am most grateful."
Harry's easy smile faded. The very green of his eyes seemed to dim. He looked away and might've been speaking to the ivy climbing the side of the building rather than Draco when he mumbled something about it's being for the kids.
"Have you heard from Viktor?" Harry asked.
Draco said he'd not.
"I, er, I was disappointed to see how few British kids there were," Harry said as they passed through the iron gates. "I was rather expecting a lot more."
"Were you? I wasn't." Standing on the pavement outside the museum entrance and looking down at his shoes, Draco said, "There were better than twice the number who came originally registered. Within two days of the information packets going out with my name on them, cancellations began to arrive." One corner of his lips lifting into a smirk, he continued, "I expect once they learnt you were on staff, they wished they'd not pulled their children out."
Harry grinned. Waiting until a group of Asian tourists passed by, he said, "Yeah, the same thought's crossed my mind once or twice. I expect there'll be owls circling my property for weeks."
"Sorry about that," Draco said, although his tone conveyed he wasn't sorry in the least. In a very different tone, he added, "When you arrived and asked if there was another carriage of students from Britain, I thought you were taking the piss."
Surprised, Harry denied anything of the sort.
"I know that now," Draco assured him. Changing the subject, he said, "So, that's a museum. Although, admittedly, only one collection, but there is only so much time in one day, and I expect you'll want to do a little shopping. Gifts to take home? Or are the macarons you bought all you intended—"
Harry's eyes widened. "Merlin, I almost forgot! Rose—if I go home without a gift for Rose, I'll lose my favourite godfather title."
"Rose is . . . ?"
"Ron and Hermione's daughter. She's three," Harry answered.
"So, Weasley and Granger," Draco commented, striving for a casual tone at the mention of the other two thirds of the Golden Trio. The ear piercing screams he heard in his nightmares echoed inside his head, and he focused on his breathing.
"Weasley and Weasley," Harry corrected. "They'll be married ten years this Christmas."
"Will they, indeed? Well, good for them," Draco said, surprised at just how much he meant the words. "They've only the one?" Honestly, he'd have expected a Weasley to have reproduced far more prolifically in ten years. However, Granger was an only child, of course. Perhaps the small family size was her preference.
"They've a new baby, too. Hugo."
"I've not had any occasion to shop for children." François' children had been the reason he'd used to keep Draco away from his home for so long. "Je ne veux pas qu'ils s'attachent à quelqu'un, tu comprends," he'd said how many times? Draco felt like a fool for buying the excuse for so long, but he'd already spent far more of his time brooding over François than the man deserved. Motioning down the street with his hand, Draco said, "This is actually one of the best streets for shopping in Muggle Paris, in my opinion. There's a variety of small boutiques. Clothing, perfume, jewellery, items for the home—some well-known Muggle names, some not. The less well-known are less expensive, of course, but still good quality. However, for your goddaughter, there's a particular toy shop in another arrondissement I've seen a number of times I've always wanted an excuse to go into. It's in a nineteenth century enclosed shopping arcade. Un passage couvert. A covered passage."
Slowly walking along the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, they looked at the displays in shop windows, commenting here and there, and Harry admitted in a somewhat sheepish tone that he could use some new things. They passed one or two menswear shops, where the clothes displayed in the window were rather trendier than Harry's taste ran, and stopped in a third. Draco explained to the man who greeted them that his friend—he called Harry his friend—was looking for some new things but didn't speak French. The man turned his attention to Harry then, and speaking in quite good English, led him through the shop. Draco was rather surprised at the clothing Harry looked at. More jeans, yes—but given the way he looked in the pair he had on, Draco had no complaints at this—but the shirts he was choosing were shirts Draco might've selected for himself. Good quality fabrics, well cut and well made. Draco pulled the inside of his upper lip between his teeth—fuck, but Potter'd look good in the clothes he was picking. He regretted he'd not get to see just how good. When the salesman led Harry to the fitting room, Draco rubbed the back of his neck. He was extremely conscious that in a minutes' time, Harry would be pushing those jeans down his legs.
Doing a little browsing himself to try to distract his mind from forming pictures of Potter stepping out of his jeans and pulling his jumper over his head, Draco was surprised when Potter called his name far sooner than he'd have expected him to finish. Turning around, Draco's surprise doubled. Harry stood by the fitting room door in a different pair of jeans and a crisp white button down shirt that fit him so well, it could've been tailor made for him, and he wanted his—Draco's—opinion.
Draco moved closer to him, and, fidgeting, Harry asked, "Well? Does it look okay?" His voice and body language showed hesitation and uncertainty, like he was seeking approval he did not expect to get.
"Passable," Draco responded with deliberate and obviously feigned nonchalance.
"Only passable?"
Stepping closer to him, Draco elaborated in a low, calculated voice, "Like I could push you back in that room, lock the door and break several public decency laws."
Not batting an eyelash, Harry said, "I'll take it, then."
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Hope you liked chapters 6 and 7!