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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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.~*~.
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Harry awoke with a deep moan still in his throat and a sigh on his lips. His eyes blinking open, he stretched his arms behind his head and arched his back, then collapsed back down into his bed and grinned. Draco Malfoy had appeared in his dreams before, but never like that.
Pity it'd only been a dream.
Rolling over, he reached for his wand on the small table beside his bed and cast a quick cleaning charm on himself and his sheets. He'd shower in a moment, but the first few minutes after he woke in the mornings and could just linger in bed before having to face the world were Harry's favourite part of the day, and after his dream, he rather wanted to indulge a bit.
Damn, but it was a pity it'd only been a dream.
Harry stared at the canopy over his bed. As he lay there, Harry thought about the times he and Draco had spent in each other's company that past week, and he had to admit, he was sorry the week was over. The best dates he'd had in ages, and they weren't dates at all. Regardless, date or not, lunch at on rooftop terrace with views of both the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe followed by a museum and strolling and shopping in the nineteenth century passages couverts Draco had taken him to would be damned hard to beat.
One by one the minutes ticked by as Harry's thoughts roamed from one place visited with Draco to another, his lie-in becoming significantly dimmed by the unavoidable truth that his time in France was up. Viktor would be arriving on Sunday, and Harry would no longer be needed. He hadn't thought to ask Draco when he would be expected to clear out. Harry figured he'd probably been given the room that had originally been intended for Viktor. Would he be expected to leave that afternoon, Harry wondered? Or not until morning? His only role at the school was as a coach, and after that morning's practices, that role would be over. He should've thought to ask Draco yesterday. Was he expected to arrange his own way home, or was that taken care of for him? He'd have to seek Draco out at breakfast and ask him. With a very different sort of sigh, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Crossing the room to the bathroom, a wicked grin crossed Harry's face. There was another question he had for Draco.
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.~*~.
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In the suite of rooms Draco called home during the school months, he sorted through the reports he'd got over the past few days from the retired-pros-turned-coaches. He'd had to wake up early that morning to catch up on the work he'd been neglecting, spending so much time with Potter. Draco despised waking up early. His eyes raised from the parchment in his hands, and he smiled. There were few things that justified an early morning filled with parchments covered in scarcely legible penmanship, but he put the time he'd spent with Harry this week in the column with those few things.
His eyes lowered. It was Friday. Potter would be returning to England, probably that very day, and it was unlikely they'd ever see each other again. It did not escape Draco's notice that after two years with François, knowing he'd never see the other man again didn't stir a single regret.
Resolved to focus on his work, Draco turned his attention back to the task at hand: the new groups the students would practice in starting on Monday. Prior to the start of the school, he'd made preliminary groups based on the position parents had filled in on the enrolment forms, but as he'd expected, there'd been a few students who'd come to camp wanting to focus on one particular position but, after having practiced all of them for the past four days, had changed their minds. He saw it every year with his First Years. It had as much to do with trying something different as being away from their parents telling them which position they liked best. On their own for the first time, the kids could answer for themselves. There were also recommendations from the retired players who'd been coaching the kids as to which position a child might show a particular talent for and comments on skill levels to consider.
Draco had spent possibly twenty minutes on organising the children as best he could before the final day of general practices when a house-elf popped into his office with a note for him. From one of the retired players, the creature informed him before vanishing.
If this was from Mallard or Lafarge with another perceived slight, Draco swore he would—
Does it still count as breaking public decency laws if the dressing room door is closed? the note read.
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.~*~.
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"Good morning, Meester Potter," greeted Émilie as they met each other on their way out of the dining hall.
"Bonjour," Harry responded. "You've not seen Draco—Monsieur Malfoy—this morning, have you?" he asked.
Émilie's eyes sparkled mischievously. Harry watched her from the corner of his eye. Teddy might only be ten—still a few years away from being a teenager—but Harry already knew to be leery of a look like that. "I 'ave not. You are looking for 'im, yes?" she asked in English.
"Stupid really, but I'm just realising I've no idea about making arrangements for returning to England. The week's gone by so fast, I didn't really think about it till this morning."
Émilie stopped and gaped at him. "But, you are not leaving today?"
"Well, er, yeah. Viktor'll be here on Sunday."
"But, who wants Viktor Krum?" she asked.
Harry laughed. "Just about everyone."
"No, I don't think so. The students, they do not care about Viktor Krum. He is their parent's hero. You have been here all week, working with them and helping them. It is you the students know. It is you they want."
Harry didn't know about that, but it was nice to hear, and he thanked her for saying it.
"And you have enjoyed your time here with us at Beauxbatons, have you not?"
"Very much so." So much so, he'd forgotten to find out how he was going to get back home.
"Ah, I almost forgot," Émilie said. "If you must leave us today, I have something for you to remember us." She pulled a photograph from her robe pocket. "My Uncle Pierre is a photographer in Paris. He takes holiday-makers around the city on tours and teaches them about photography. Sometimes, when he does not have customers, he takes me out to the places he does his tours and teaches me. I like taking photos. I took this of you and Monsieur Malfoy at the Lac des Champs Elysées."
Harry took the photo she held out to him.
"It is good, no?"
The photo was of Draco and him sitting at the hotel's terrace restaurant. Rather than showing the hotel behind them, it showed the lake and the meadow in the distance. It hadn't been taken from the spot near the lake where the group of chaperones and students had settled themselves, but from on the terrace. She must've taken it before she'd come up to tell them the carriage was preparing to board. It was a wizarding photo, and the image captured formed a four or five second loop which began with both Draco and him looking at something else, but then they both suddenly looked at each other and smiled.
Harry watched the loop repeat itself over and over.
"I have photos of Teddy from the lake, and at other times as well, for him to remember his time here at Beauxbatons. I have been taking photos of everyone here at the school for them to take home with them. I thought they would like it. And for us as well. I thought I would make a photo album for Monsieur Malfoy. The photo, it is good, no?" she asked again when Harry didn't comment.
With a shock as if cold water were dumped down his back, Harry came back to the present. He couldn't remember the exact moment shown in the photo. Looking back to that evening, there were too many moments like the one in the photograph to know precisely when it had been taken. In the photo, he saw two men in an idyllic setting looking at each other and smiling, and he saw what he hadn't seen before: he saw how their smiles had looked to the world around them.
"The light, it was very good, you see? The hour before the sun sets is a very good time to take photos. The light, it is very soft," Émilie said, nervousness creeping into her voice.
"It's great," Harry said, forcing himself to sound normal. The truth was, the photo had unsettled him. Never would he have thought he and Malfoy could look like that together—like they were together together. "The light's great."
Émilie beamed. "I am glad you like it. Have you taken many photos of Paris on your visits with Monsieur Malfoy?" she asked.
"Er, only a couple." Harry told her about the pictures he'd taken—one of the Eiffel Tower and one of the Arc de Triomphe, and of the few he'd got over the mountains Sunday night. He felt rather stupid now. How could he not have taken any photos over the past few days? He thought of the lake and the view they'd had at lunch yesterday with regret. Too late now, though.
The kids for his first practice session of his last morning were being led towards him, and Harry found himself wishing he wasn't leaving that day.
"You should stay another day. Or two, perhaps. My Uncle Pierre speaks English very well, he can take you around Paris. You and Monsieur Malfoy. You cannot leave France with only two photos of Paris. Uncle Pierre can help you take magnificent photos. My family's home is on the Floo network. I can ask my mother to see whether he is available."
Why not? Harry found himself wondering. What did he have waiting for him in England that wouldn't still be there in a couple of days? He could book a room at the Hotel de la Rose Rouge. He imagined having breakfast overlooking the view from the hotel's roof. And if there were tours for photography, there were probably loads of different sorts of tours. He wouldn't have to find his way around on his own.
Or, maybe he and Draco could just wander the streets and eat out on the pavement somewhere. It was the weekend, surely Draco would have some free time?
But would he want to spend what free time he got with Harry?
"Do you think your uncle would have any time open this weekend?"
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.~*~.
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"Non, Monsieur! Il n'est pas question que je reste ici une minute de plus en sa présence. C'est elle ou moi!" shouted Mathilde Mallard. The infamous rivalry between her former teammate and she had reached the boiling point. Draco had no idea what had set her off this morning, nor did he particularly care. He'd lost patience with the both of them. Mallard was threatening to leave if Lafarge stayed, and Draco fully expected to be confronted by an irate Madame Lafarge vowing the same at any moment.
Either that, or she was off somewhere on the grounds congratulating herself. Come to think of it, Draco felt that option was the far more likely.
He rubbed his temples. A headache was forming behind his eyes. Thoroughly fed up with both Chasers, he calmly said, "Très bien, Madame Mallard. Si vous ne pensez pas pouvoir rester une semaine de plus, je respecte votre choix. Je trouverai quelqu'un pour vous remplacer, et il ou elle finira la dernière semaine avec Madame Lafarge." Draco turned away from the stiff figure storming furiously across his office, and opened the bottom drawer on his desk. His face blocked from her line of sight as he leant down rummaging through the drawer, Draco allowed himself a brief smile before resuming an appropriately regretful expression. Threaten him, would she?
Pity, really, that Potter'd never had a secret career as a Chaser, Draco told himself. He could kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Mallard and keep Harry.
Shaken at the random thought, Draco sucked in a breath sharply. Rubbing his eyes, he called himself every kind of stupid. He couldn't believe he'd just thought that.
Returning to the present problem, Draco's mind again turned to Potter, though in a more practical manner. A personal request from him might very well get someone out here to replace Mallard for the second week of the school, should she make good on her threat.
All the while Draco had been thinking to himself, Mallard had been spluttering indignantly at his unexpected agreement. She'd clearly not expected him to agree with her that if she felt she could not support returning on Monday, then, by all means, she should not. The added suggestion that he could replace her easily had also hit its target.
"Je suis sûr que les enfants et leurs parents comprendront. On ne peut malheureusement pas vous demander l'impossible," he added to further his agreement, but also to give her a way to take back her threat without losing face. As out of his hands as it had been, he'd already lost Krum for a week—though that had seemed to matter far more to the parents than it had to the students—and easier though it would make the second week of the school on him, he didn't want to lose a second high profile player. The two Chasers really were adored by their fans throughout France.
Of course, that was only because the fans throughout France didn't have to work with them.
Madame Mallard's posture changed. Her tantrum and histrionics over, she studied him shrewdly, as if looking for the best way to turn the situation around to present herself in the best possible light. Apparently having come to a decision, she raised her head proudly and looked down at him with heavily-lidded eyes, and after a length of time—during which Draco was sure she was choosing her words carefully—she condescended to return the following week, ". . . dans l'intérêt des enfants" and swept from his office with a dramatic flurry of robes.
Draco rubbed a hand over his face. He had enough gold in his vaults to live a comfortable life of leisure if he so chose. So why was it again that he wasn't lazing around his villa?
Oh, right. He'd wanted a sense of purpose.
Only moments after Mallard's dramatic exit, there came a knock on the door, and Draco sighed. He straightened up and prepared to deal with Madame Lafarge. Madame Mallard must've tripped over her rival in the corridor outside his office and shoved her magnanimity down Lafarge's throat.
"Entrez!" he called out.
Sticking her head in the door, Émilie said, "Excusez-moi Monsieur Malfoy. Monsieur Potter voulait vous voir."
Something inside Draco twisted itself in uncomfortable knots. His eyes fell to his desk, and unconsciously, he straightened his things—parchments were shuffled into neat piles, his quill was placed neatly beside his ink pot—as he said for Potter to come in. The note Potter'd sent him that morning suddenly sprang to his mind, which had no trouble producing images to go along with it.
Potter stepped into his office almost shyly, and Émilie withdrew. This was to be it, then. He'd come to say good-bye. In his lap, Draco's hand clenched and twisted the edge of his robes. He should not be minding Potter's leaving nearly as much as he did, he told himself.
"I, er," Potter began. His ineloquence made Draco want to grin. "Stupid, really, but I've only just realised this morning I've no idea about returning to England—how to make arrangements, I mean."
"Oh," Draco said, realising he wasn't being his most eloquent himself.
"You're free to—" Draco began to say just as Potter said, "I think I—"
"Sorry," Draco said as Potter smiled. "You were going to say?"
"Only that I've decided to stay on a couple days. In Paris, I mean," he hastened to explain. "I thought I'd take a room in that hotel. Émilie was telling me this morning she's got an uncle who takes tourists on photography tours in Paris. And—stupid of me, really," he said for the second time, "but I've got all of two photos of Paris and the ones I took Sunday evening over the Pyrenees."
"I've never met her uncle, but her parents are lovely people. I'm sure you'll enjoy . . ." Draco's voice trailed off. He felt irrationally jealous at the thought of someone else taking Harry around Paris. His quill wasn't quite parallel to his ink pot, and he adjusted it.
"You've met her parents?" Harry asked.
"Muggle parents are invited to the palace for the weekend before their child beings their first year, and twice a semester after that. Madame Maxime wants them to understand the world their children are becoming a part of. The professors meet with the parents and explain what their children are studying and how they're progressing. The students demonstrate their spell casting." It must be utterly terrifying for Muggle parents, learning their children were witches and wizards and sending them off to some school they'd never seen, nor even heard of, to learn things they'd not thought were real. If Draco ever had a child, he didn't think he could do it. "It gives them some peace of mind."
Harry didn't respond. He stood there, as if in a trance, looking at Draco. The look on his face reminded Draco of someone seeing another person and knowing they know the person from somewhere, but being unable for the life of them to think where.
Coming back to himself, Harry asked, "Was that Mathilde Mallard in the corridor just now? She looked ready to rip someone's head off."
"Only one specific someone," Draco responded dryly.
"Uh-oh. What happened?"
Draco explained what had transpired.
"What brought that on?"
"Who knows. Maybe Lafarge's omelette looked fluffier than hers this morning. There doesn't need to be a reason with those two. She bluffed. I called the bluff. I'd say I won, but as I had the chance to be rid of one of the two of them and blew it, I'm not sure I did."
"Poor Draco," Harry consoled. He looked down at his shoes, and then, head still lowered, he looked at Draco. "I, er, I could buy you lunch, you know, to, er . . ."
His heart beating faster than it had any reason to, Draco stumbled over his reply nearly as much as Potter'd stumbled over the invitation, offering only a rather pathetic, "Er, okay."
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.~*~.
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"Émilie mentioned her uncle taught her the hour before sunset was a good time to take photos outside. Good light," Harry commented as he broke off a piece of sliced baguette and helped himself to brie. He'd teased Draco when the cheese tray had been brought to them, threatening to ask for crackers, and had received a death glare in return, but the truth was, he was going to have to find himself somewhere in London to buy some really good cheese and a nice baguette when he returned.
"Yes, she mentioned the same to me," Draco responded.
Harry's eyes shot to Draco quickly then darted away just as fast. In contrast, he chewed the crusty bread with deliberate slowness and touched his napkin to his lips after he swallowed. Émilie'd told him she'd been going to put a photo album together for Draco, but he'd been so focused on the photo of them she'd taken, he'd scarcely been listening. Had she given Draco a copy of the same photo? What had he thought of it, Harry wondered? Had he thought the same as Harry had?
"Did she, er, give you a—"
"Photo? Yes. Yesterday. I take it she—"
"Gave a copy to me to? Yeah. This morning."
Their eyes met, and neither looked away until someone nearby dropped a glass, and the noise it made as it shattered made them both jump. After that, an uncomfortable silence settled over them for the first time since Monday evening. The air around him felt charged with electricity, and Harry felt gooseflesh cover his arms. He sipped his wine, more for something to do than because he wanted it.
Draco glanced all around the terrace, his eyes never landing on one particular thing. "You're lucky her uncle was able to fit you in. Summer is the busiest time for tourists," he said in a rushed way that made Harry think he'd said it just to break the silence.
"Luckily, he had a cancellation. She said he has different areas he takes clients to. Er, Montmartre, I think she said? And, er, something St Antoine, I forget—"
"Faubourg St Antoine?" Draco suggested.
"Right, and er, Le Marais. That's where we went—"
"Monday night, yes."
"One or two other places, the covered passages we went to yesterday, or she said he could focus on the main tourist places."
"Did you have any idea—"
"Er, yeah. I thought I'd stick to the main tourist places. I thought, if he could help me get some good shots of those places, then maybe," Harry's stomach squirmed with nerves, "you and I could explore some of the other places this weekend. If you've got time."
Draco licked his lips. Harry could see his chest rising and falling with every breath he took. "I've time," he said. "Other professors are going to oversee things over the weekend."
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.~*~.
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Harry looked out over the rooftops of Paris. After they'd eaten, he'd taken the opportunity to walk around the terrace and get a few shots of the Parisian skyline. It gave him the chance to catch his breath. Sitting across from Draco had made him feel as if he were flying in a race and he'd suddenly realised he was lost—flooded with adrenaline but with no idea where he was.
His camera had given him the time-out he'd needed to correct course, so to speak. Novice though he was, he attempted to play around with composition, capturing both the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe from different angles. Looking at the photos he'd taken on his camera's LCD screen, he thought they were pretty good. There was one shot he quite liked. It was a photo of the Eiffel Tower, but the tower was not the focal point. Rather, at first glance, the photo appeared to be of roses growing along a trellis, but then one saw the tower visible in the distance, as if it had just happened to be there by chance. On his way to return to their table, he saw Draco sitting with his coffee, looking off at the horizon. His posture was relaxed, and the expression on his face was wistful. Quickly, Harry raised his camera and snapped a photo.
Sometimes it was better to just let oneself get lost and see where one ended up.
"Émilie said her uncle would meet us in front of the Louvre at three," he said as he retook his seat. Glancing at his watch, he saw that they had a little over an hour.
"We could just walk around, if you'd like," Draco suggested.
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.~*~.
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Leaving the Hotel de la Rose Rouge, Draco lead Harry down the Avenue de George V towards the Seine. It had been one thing for Harry to be willing to spend his afternoons and evenings with Draco when it had been spend them with him or spend them alone, but this was entirely different. Harry had chosen to stay in France for a few days longer for no reason other than because he'd wanted to, and it was him Harry had asked to join him.
They were near the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, and just like there, the Avenue de George V was lined with expensive Muggle designer shops, but it was far less crowded.
"I don't think I've ever said," commented Harry, knocking his hand against Draco's, "but you've really done a brilliant job with the school."
Gratified by the compliment, Draco thanked him.
"It must've been a monumental job. Organising something like this for kids from so many different countries and getting all the retired players you did. Then arranging all the Beauxbatons students to work as assistants and chaperones and planning all the afternoon trips for the kids. Scheduling everything so everyone got to work with each coach and go on each of the trips."
"Madame Maxime appealed to the retired players to participate personally, and the excursions were planned by the Transfigurations and Herbology professors. It was simple enough to rotate the groups, really. There's a scavenger hunt tomorrow, which the Grounds Keeper is at the palace now laying out. Then Sunday, there's a match between the Beauxbatons Quidditch players. Kids who normally play against each other will be teammates."
Harry grimaced. "Are you sure that's a good idea? It wouldn't have gone well when we played."
"To tell the truth," Draco said with a chuckle, "I think they're planning a little espionage—checking out the school-year competition whilst there's nothing at stake."
"Cunning."
"Aside from that, most of the weekend is free time. Dinner both nights will be a picnic on the grounds with some games the Beauxbatons students are planning. With this many kids, it's best to keep them busy to keep them out of trouble, but I didn't want to over-schedule them either. I thought it was best to keep the students in groups by nationality for the first week. Some would already know each other, and they would be attending the same schools in a year or two. Also, I thought the familiarity of their own language being spoken without the aid of the translation charms would make them more comfortable. Translation charms are great, but what your hearing not matching the movements of the other person's mouth can be a little disconcerting, especially for children."
"Just the casting of the translation charms alone must've been a huge job."
"It was, but the Charms professor handled that. He and his best students worked for days making sure everywhere open to the students was covered."
"Aren't you worried about the students venturing into other areas of the palace?"
"Warded, also thanks to the Charms professor and his students."
"Did the Muggle Studies professor do anything?"
"She came up with the idea. That was her contribution."
As they walked, Harry and Draco looked at various shop windows, their eyes sometimes catching and holding the other's gaze in their reflections, their fingers sometimes casually brushing the other's hand. The buildings lining the street were in the same elegant style as those on the Champs-Elysées, and Harry would stop now and then to snap a photo. One he particularly liked was of the elaborate, lace-like wrought iron of a Juliette balcony across the street, peeking out behind the bright green leaves of the tree in front of it.
For Draco's part, he liked the chance Harry's attention being on taking a photo gave him to ogle the man all he liked. Every picture he took, he showed to Draco, and every time Harry showed him a new picture, Draco took the opportunity to stand close enough that their arms pressed against each other. Harry smelled clean, like soap, and Draco breathed deeply, filling his lungs.
The Avenue de George Vended at the Seine, where the Eiffel Tower could be seen across the river, rising above the trees lining the Avenue de New York. Harry got a couple of photos of the tower framed by the trees, the tower seeming quite small in comparison due to the distance. On the corner of the Avenue de George V and the Avenue de New York, the French flag fluttered in the breeze, and Harry got a picture with the beautifully ornate building behind it as a backdrop.
They walked along the Cours Albert 1er and from there to the Cours la Reine to the Place de la Concorde with its fountains and Egyptian obelisk and through the Jardin des Tuileries to the Louvre.
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.~*~.
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Looking at the LCD screen on the back of his camera, Harry was pleased with the photo he'd taken. In the centre stood the sleek, contemporary glass pyramid, surrounded by the three wings of the Louvre. The juxtaposition of the ultra-modern and the several-centuries-old worked well, he thought, and he showed the image on the screen to Draco.
"Too bad there's so many people about, though," Harry commented. There were scores of other visitors walking around the courtyard.
"We could cast a few Muggle repelling charms, but I don't think the French Ministry of Magic would look too favourably on it."
Harry laughed. Once, a comment like that from Draco would've sent him into an indignant rage, but now, having got to know him better, Harry took it as the joke it was intended as—off colour though it may've been. Harry could imagine George Weasley saying the same thing and being scolded by his wife.
"We'd take them down once I got the shot, of course." Harry looked at the pyramid. "You know what would make a really cool photo? Looking straight down at it from above."
"I don't reckon the ministry would take any kinder to your flying over the main courtyard of the Louvre on a broomstick."
"If I wore my cloak and cast a Disillusionment charm on myself as well, just in case the cloak slipped or blew in the wind . . ."
"Excuse me, you are Mr Potter, yes?" asked a middle-aged man approaching them.
"Yes," Harry answered. "You're Émilie's uncle?"
"Pierre Renaud," said the man, holding his hand out, first to Harry then to Draco. "And you are ze Professor Malfoy we 'ear so much praise of from our Émilie."
"I hope it's okay if Draco . . .?"
"But, of course. Monsieur Malfoy is most welcome. Will you be taking photos as well, Monsieur?"
"No, not me," Draco said, taking half a step back. "Harry's the photographer."
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.~*~.
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Draco stood to the side and watched as Harry and Monsieur Renaud talked about what sorts of photos Harry hoped to take, and Harry showed the other man the photos he'd already got.
"Zees are very good, Monsieur. And you say you 'ave never taken a photography class?"
"No, never. But I think I may when I get back to England. I bought this camera years ago, fully intending on learning about all the features it's got, but all I've ever used is the automatic, point-and-shoot setting."
Monsieur Renaud agreed. "You most certainly should. You 'ave a natural eye for composition." He led them close to the pyramid, talking about the importance of light and the way it plays off different surfaces. From the right angle, he showed them how the Louvre reflected on the glass of the pyramid, and Harry got a shot of both the reflection and the building itself that he was thrilled with, if the way he beamed as he showed the photo to Draco was any indication.
For the next three hours, Monsieur Renaud led them around some of Paris' most popular sights, showing Harry how to capture them in out of the ordinary ways, and when they said au revoir at the end of the tour, Harry had some beautiful shots and a better understanding of how to use the manual settings on his camera. He'd even learned how to remove all the unwanted people from shots, like the one he'd got of the courtyard right before Monsieur Renaud had joined them, but it involved Muggle technology and Draco hadn't understood any of it.
"Feel like sitting a while?" Draco asked. Monsieur Renaud had taken them around all the main Parisian tourist attractions, from the Louvre to Notre Dame and they'd ended at the Eiffel Tower. It was clear Harry'd enjoyed the tour, but now that it was over, Draco was glad to have him to himself again.
"Yeah. And I could go for something to drink."
They walked in the direction of the Pont de l'Alma and then down what was once a highway on-ramp, the highway having been transformed into a riverside park. There were people sitting on wooden benches facing the Seine. An old man and a young girl sat together with fishing rods, and Harry commented he hadn't known one could fish in the Seine.
"I don't think I'd advise eating the fish, though," Draco responded humorously.
Just ahead, parents and a young child rode bikes, the child with training wheels. People relaxed on wide, wooden lounge chairs overlooking the river—one or two might've even been asleep. There were floating gardens reached via a floating bridge, and on the other side of the promenade were fenced in sand volleyball courts.
"This is brilliant," Harry said.
There were also numerous cafés, and after three hours of walking around Paris in July, they were both glad to claim a table at one beneath a canvas awning. A waiter soon approached and Draco ordered, "Deux diabolos menthe, s'il vous plaît."
"What did you order?" Harry asked. "Anything with diablos in the name sounds a bit strong."
Draco smirked and sat back. Stretching out his tired legs, he said, "Just you wait and see."
When their drinks arrived a minute later, Harry tasted his gingerly. "Oh, that's good."
"Limonade with a little mint syrup mixed in. And it's 'diabolo' not 'diablo."
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.~*~.
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After their drinks and a bit of people watching, Draco and Harry walked the length of the riverside park, and Harry got a number of photos—including a few of Draco when he was looking elsewhere that the other man wasn't aware he'd got. They were his guilty little secret. Souvenirs of the undeniable crush he'd developed on the last man in the world he'd ever have thought he'd develop a crush on. He was afraid that when he returned to England in a couple of days, he wouldn't believe the time he'd spent with Draco had ever really happened, and he wanted proof.
If Harry was being totally honest with himself, his decision to stay in Paris a little while longer had been influenced far more by his wanting to stretch out the time he got to spend with Draco than with wanting to see more of Paris. Had Draco said he wouldn't have any time that weekend to spend with him, Harry'd likely have given up the idea and returned to England
"Did you really understand what Monsieur Renaud was talking about with those Muggle computer things?" Draco asked.
"Yeah. I've got one. Spend too much time playing around on it, really. The one I've got now is just a little thing. They call the kind I've got a laptop, because you can set it on your lap."
"The Muggle Studies professor we had before Madame Canfield tried to show them to the staff once or twice. She set up one of those—what do they call them, pages?—for the school."
"Beauxbatons has a webpage?" Harry asked, in stunned disbelief. "The Ministry allows that?"
"For families of Muggle-born or half-blood students. I've never actually seen it, but I understand it . . . opens—is that the word?—to say that the page is under development for a fictitious private school at an undisclosed location in France, or some such thing, in case a Muggle should happen to find it, but families of Beauxbatons students are shown how to open the real page. Also, it helps bolster the cover story Muggle family members of Beauxbatons students give their family and friends, should any of them be too curious."
Harry scratched the back of his neck. Draco Malfoy knew what computers were. Everything Harry learned about the other man made him want to learn more.
"You like being at Beauxbatons?" Harry asked.
Draco said yes, very much. He liked teaching flying, and he talked about how he'd come to be hired. Shortly after his mother and he had immigrated following their trials, Madame Maxime came to him at the Malfoy Estate in la Côte d'Azur and asked him point blank what he was doing in France. "Apparently, she was satisfied, because she offered me the job on a trial basis. The old Flying Instructor wanted to retire." Draco dropped his head. He started to speak twice but remained silent until, finally, he said she'd told him she was giving him a chance in honour of Professor Dumbledore and not to disappoint her. "She believed he'd have wanted me to have a chance to redeem myself."
Harry brushed his hand against Draco's, letting the contact last longer than an accidental bump. Harry's skin tingled. "She was absolutely right," he said.
The sun had dropped low in the sky, and they returned to a restaurant at the foot of the Pont Alexandre III they'd walked passed earlier. Outdoor tables overlooked the Seine, where a glass enclosed boat passed beneath the bridge.
Harry said he could see why people fell in love with Paris. The glass dome of the Grand Palais could be seen across the bridge from where they sat, and from the other bank, he reckoned the Eiffel Tower would be visible.
"Do you ever think about going home?" he asked.
"Once the Quidditch school is over, I'll go home for a few weeks before the new term starts up."
"That's not what I—"
"Meant. Yeah, I know. But it's your answer."
"Yeah, I suppose it is."
A waiter came and took their orders. When he'd gone, Draco said, "I've lived in France for more than a third of my life. It's been a long time since I've thought of anywhere else as home. Mother and I speak French to each other. I think in French. I dream in French. This past week is the most English I've spoken in years."
"I guess I'm not surprised. Remember when we arrived and I asked if there were more kids coming from Britain? You said, 'No. Zere is not'."
Draco looked like something suddenly made sense. "Did I? That explains why your eyebrows shot up into your hair."
A group of noisy tourists passed by, and a baby who'd been sleeping in a pram at a nearby table began to fuss.
"I suppose all of Great Britain expected you to become Head Auror," Draco said.
"By the time I was twenty-five, on my way to becoming the youngest Minister of Magic in history."
"And producing half dozen ginger-haired, green-eyed children along the way."
"If not more."
"I'd have been surprised if you had—Auror and Minister, anyway. I'd fully expected the ginger-haired children."
"You'd've been the only one surprised. Even I thought I wanted it. To be an Auror, anyway. Went into training that summer."
"Why'd you—"
"Drop out? Because once I'd started, I realised I didn't want it. Didn't want to admit it, though, because it was what I'd wanted since Third Year. But after almost a year of training and trying to make myself want it, Arthur and Molly—Mr and Mrs Weasley—sat me down one day and told me even though they weren't my parents, they could see when one of their children was miserable. I . . . came out to them then, too."
Their waiter brought their wine.
"I like to think my father would have accepted me." Draco said into his glass, so softly Harry wasn't sure the words were meant to be heard.
"He would've."
Draco opened his mouth—to protest, judging by the look on his face.
Harry grazed his fingers across the back of Draco's hand. "I saw him the night of the final battle. I heard how he begged to be allowed to enter the castle. He came up with pretences and excuses, but all he cared about was finding you. And I saw him in the Great Hall, both your mother and him, running through the battle, trying to find you. I can't say whether he'd have been happy about it, but I do believe the man I saw that night would've accepted you as you are."
Draco turned his hand over, and their fingers slipped between the other's. Their eyes met, and neither looked away. Were they not in crowded terrace, Harry would've reached across the table and kissed him.
An old man with steel-grey hair and an age-worn face came boldly up to their table. He held himself tall and proud as he looked at the two of them sitting so close together, their hands touching, his almost Dumbledore-like blue eyes moving from one to the other. The old man spoke slowly and softly but with passion, and Harry grit his teeth together. He didn't need to know French to know what the man was saying. He'd have liked nothing more than to grab Draco by the collar of his shirt and kiss him full on the mouth just to give the old man and anyone else who cared to look a good shock. He wished he could speak French if for no other reason than to tell the man where he could shove his homophobia, and it killed Harry a little inside that as the man spoke, Draco sat quietly and listened to whatever vitriol he was spitting at them. All Harry could do was curl his fingers around Draco's in silent support to him and in visible contempt to the old man.
When the old man finished his speech, Draco spoke one short sentence just as softly and slowly as he had, and Harry was horrified when he thought he heard the word désolé. Didn't that mean "sorry?" Draco hadn't just apologised . . .
The man said something else as he looked back and forth between the two of them again before walking off.
"Please tell me you didn't just apologise to that—"
"It wasn't what you think—"
"I know exactly what it was," Harry said in disbelief. "You think I haven't heard it before?"
Draco looked at him, and the pained look in his eyes made Harry fall silent.
"His said his brother was gay," Draco said in a quiet, hoarse-sounding voice as he looked at the table in front of Harry, "but no one ever knew, not until he died last month." Draco passed his hand over his lips. "They found letters, going through his things. There was a man. They were in the resistance together when they were eighteen, he said. For over fifty years, they loved each other with no one close to them ever knowing or even suspecting. The other man was like extended family, always at holidays and important events. No one thought it odd, not after what they'd been through during the occupation, their lives depending on each other. They were like brothers, their families both thought. The man died several years ago, and his brother suffered the pain of losing the man he'd loved all his life without being able to share his grief with anyone. He said he was ashamed that his brother had not felt he could confide in him. He said," Draco paused a moment, "it did him good to see us together. He said he didn't want anyone else live in hiding the way his brother had." Draco looked at Harry. "I didn't have the heart to tell him we weren't . . ."
"No. Of course not," Harry said. He felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach by a hippogriff. He wanted to follow after the old man and apologise for what he'd been thinking.
Their waiter brought out their starters.
They both ate quietly. The old man's story was weighing heavily in Harry's mind, and he was sure it was in Draco's as well. Other diners were likely staring at them, but Harry didn't care. He'd been looked at and pointed at and whispered about since he was eleven. He did worry, though, that the nosey attention of strangers might matter more to Draco than it did to him.
"This is very good," Draco said decidedly when they'd almost finished their starters. Beneath the table and out of sight, his foot pressed against Harry's and didn't move away. Looking at Harry, he asked, "Try it?" and held his fork out for Harry to take.
"It's very good," Harry agreed. He speared one of his honey-glazed grilled scallops on the fork and handed it back, his foot returning the light pressure.
"So, er, if you didn't expect me to become an Auror, what did you think I'd do?" Harry asked. His stomach was twisting itself in knots, and he felt a thrill sweep through him. The atmosphere around them shifted. It pulsed with energy, raw and alive.
Draco sipped his wine, and Harry's eyes were fixed on his lips pressed against the glass, his fingers holding the stem, and he was sure Draco was perfectly aware of it. Their conversation stayed on everyday topics, but questioning and answering looks passed between them, and they found every opportunity to brush hands they dared.
"To be honest, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd become a Hogwarts professor."
"A professor, really?"
"Break the curse on the Defence position. That crew you taught and trained up in Fifth Year knew how to handle a wand damn well when it came to it."
They finished their starters, and their waiter brought their mains.
"I think I might study French when I get back home," Harry said.
Draco laughed. "What brought the sudden interest on?"
"Hearing you speak it redefines the term oral sex," Harry said bluntly throwing caution to the wind, although he did keep his voice down, even if he didn't overhear any fragments of English being spoken around them.
Smirking, Draco said seductively, "Lundi mardi mercredi jeudi vendredi samedi dimanche. Dix vingt trente quarante cinquante."
"What did you say?" Harry asked.
Draco sat back and grinned. "Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday. Ten twenty thirty forty fifty."
Harry laughed so hard, if other diners weren't already casting them sidelong glances, they were now.
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Hope you liked chapter 8!