Sunlight poured in through the balcony door, the soft clink of cutlery on china and gentle murmurs of conversation from the cafe across the street drifted in stirring her from her slumber. A scooter roared down the narrow passageway and out onto the street and somewhere in the distance a car blew its horn. Hermione had missed the Parisian atmosphere, however she wasn't aware of the longing for the city until she had stepped out of the Ministry entrance and onto the Place de la concorde when they arrived 5 days ago. Every morning had been the same; the sounds of the cafe woke her up and she would quietly shower, dress, and slip out of the penthouse suite before Malfoy rose. She had rolled her eyes when he pressed the button in the elevator on their first morning.
"What?" he smirked
"Bit obvious don't you think?" she tutted, turning away from him.
"Only suite they had, Granger" he grinned, leaning casually against the back of the elevator.
She greeted the waiter like an old friend, her French impeccable and her manner casual, sitting at one of the tables on the pavement. She ordered the same thing every morning, and read that day's editions of Le Monde and Les Echos that she had picked up in the lobby of the hotel before slipping out. Sipping her black coffee and nibbling on her tartine she soaked up the atmosphere while making sure she kept up to date with local and financial news in case it gave away any leads. She wasn't particularly interested in financial news, however Les Echos provided a suitable cover for her copy of that morning's edition of Le Prophète which a French Ministry Owl delivered through her open balcony door promptly at 6:15 each morning. She was guaranteed that no one would lean over trying to catch a glimpse at the latest gossip and accidently catch sight of the moving images of the wizarding newspaper if she was seen to be reading a boring newspaper with nothing more entertaining than the latest price of oil.
Malfoy didn't know what he was missing she mused, thinking about how he was lazing around in his room of the suite, indulging in a lie in. So far this week he had yet to rise before 10.30 which gave Hermione plenty of time to enjoy her petite breakfast in a relaxed fashion.
There was nothing of any relevance to the case in either the muggle nor the wizarding paper and, she noted, so far the Ministry had managed to keep a lid on their presence in Paris and their involvement in the case. On both sides of the channel as far as the press was concerned there had only been one murder. Interpol had made it clear to the liaisons at both the British and French Ministries that they wanted the Black Notice to remain classified and that not a single word about the case was to end up in the media of either country. In any format, Muggle or Wizarding.
On a personal level Hermione was pleased that so far the society pages of Le Prophète seemed blissfully unaware the most famous former Death Eater and one third of the Golden Trio were in town.
She thanked Merlin that it seemed Rita Skeeter didn't have a French doppelganger.
Across the street, on the top floor of the building opposite, a blonde man stood on a balcony, casually leaning against the railing, sipping coffee. For the last 4 mornings, he had woken up to the gentle sound of water running and soft feminine humming in the room next door. The water stopped but the humming continued as he listened to the movements in the adjacent room, not rising from his bed. He heard the door open and listened as the girl next door crossed the next room and the soft click of the main door as it shut. Only then would he get up, grab a precise 210 second shower at 75 degrees Fahrenheit. He would then grab a towel and dry his hair for 15 seconds, his body for 10 seconds and then slip on a crisp monogramed tailored shirt, and black trousers. This would take no more than 50 seconds exactly. He would then summon a coffee with his wand and step out onto his balcony, and lean over the railing in time to see the young girl exit the building holding what appeared to be two newspapers, but he knew in fact to be three. The girl would then cross the street, a gentle skip in her step and she would greet the waiter in a flawless accent, her grasp of the language fluent. She ordered the same breakfast each morning: a cup of black coffee and tartine. He watched her as she read her papers, soaking up the Parisian ambience, and the most beautiful smile he had ever seen on her face.
Every morning, she would sit there and he would quietly watch her, occasionally scrutinising the rest of the clientele of the cafe, remembering his boss' motto, passed down by his own mentor: constant vigilance.
At exactly 10.20 she would fold up her newspapers, leave the exact amount of muggle Euros plus tip on the saucer with her bill, and he would hear her call au revoir to the waiter, giving him a friendly wave as she left. She would cross the street, and he would return to his bedroom. 3 and a half minutes later, he would hear the click of the door as she came into the room beyond his bedroom door. He would then go into the ensuite bathroom, turn on the shower and leave it running while he spent 2 and a half minutes shaving. For good measure, he would damp his hair and run a comb through it. Exiting the bathroom, he would do his tie, put on his shoes, and close the balcony door quietly. Then he would exit the bedroom and greet the girl as if he had only just dragged his lazy behind out of the shower.
"Morning, Granger"