On a sunny morning in mid-July, the hilltop village of Èze was still quiet—most of its tourists asleep, the jasmine and lavender scent of the southern French coast drifting undisturbed through its medieval streets.
A girl was already out.
She was fourteen or fifteen, wearing a black baseball cap and a fitted white knit top with black jeans, a DSLR camera on a strap around her neck. She had stopped beside the road to photograph a lily-of-the-valley flower beaded with morning dew, adjusting her settings with practiced focus, backing up for a better angle—completely unaware of the steps behind her.
Her foot found nothing but air.
She tipped backward—and an arm caught her.
The black baseball cap tumbled off. Hermione, suspended with her eyes tightly shut and one hand gripping the lapel of a grey silk shirt, was otherwise unharmed. A fall of thick brown hair draped across the arm holding her, a few strands catching on the face of its owner.
"Are you attempting to break your neck like a Muggle tourist?" The platinum-blond boy frowned as the hair tickled his cheek. He looked down at the pale-faced girl—limp as a startled cat, heart clearly going at a speed she wasn't yet ready to admit.
Like something out of a dream. The thought arrived vaguely.
Hermione opened her eyes. A flash of surprise, then recognition, then something lighter. "Draco! What are you doing here?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing." He set her steadily on her feet, picked up the cap from the uneven stones, brushed it off, and—with a slightly malicious smile—placed it back on her head at a deliberate angle.
She gave him a look of patient suffering. She reached up to fix it. He caught her hand.
"It looks fine," he said.
She left it.
He kept hold of her hand as they moved toward a less treacherous section of the cobblestone path. "I'd suggest not wandering unsupervised on this sort of terrain."
"I was paying attention to my shot, not the ground." She reclaimed her hand, frowning with the mild indignation of someone who knows they have a point but also knows they just nearly fell down some stairs. "Don't treat me like a child."
"Then I suggest having someone with you when you take photographs." He glanced at the camera she was already raising again, with the expression of someone who has accepted that this is simply how things are going to go.
"It's a Muggle camera. The people in the pictures don't move," she said, as if this were an important clarification.
"So I see." He gestured, gently, at the cobblestones in front of her.
They walked on. The alleyway opened into a slightly wider lane—green vines spilling from doorways, shuttered windows, the distant pale blue of sea between the rooftops. The morning light was clean and clear.
"I didn't know Bath had a wizarding community," Hermione said after a moment, absently photographing a worn stone lintel. "And now Èze. I really should find a book on magical historical sites."
"This town has a history of two and a half thousand years," Draco said, with genuine interest. "It goes back to the Phoenicians. Even the name is interesting—"
"—from Isis, the Egyptian goddess." She lowered the camera.
"Yes. 'Woman on a throne.'" He gave her a look of quiet appreciation. "Did you see the map at the village entrance?"
"The phoenix-and-bone symbol. Bottom right corner." Her eyes brightened. "Death and rebirth."
"I've always thought the symbolism has a certain resonance with wizarding ideas. Egypt had its own magical traditions—there may well be wizards somewhere in this village." He scanned the increasing foot traffic with practised, unobtrusive attention.
She nodded, falling into step beside him with the settled ease of someone who has found a conversational frequency and has no desire to change it.
"So why are you here?" she asked.
He glanced at her. It had been over a month. She was taller—a few centimetres, perhaps—and the pallor of last summer had been replaced by a healthy warmth she'd clearly earned from spending time outdoors.
"A family trip, combined with some business," he said. "And you?"
"We planned this trip for last year," she said, "and then I met you in Bath and spent the summer making potions instead. My parents were owed a holiday." She looked up at him—and then quickly looked away. "You've grown."
"Have I?"
"You were barely taller than me in first year." She frowned at him. "What has your family been feeding you?"
He smiled. "Standard diet. You're just not paying attention."
"I always pay attention," she said, and then appeared to regret this. She turned to photograph a doorway.
"Where are your parents today?"
"They overdid it in Nice yesterday and caught a chill. They're resting." She shrugged. "I was told to explore nearby and not get into trouble."
"How's that going?"
"I was doing perfectly well before you showed up." But there was no edge in it.
"Since we've run into each other," he said mildly, "is there anywhere you'd like to go?"
She looked at him for a moment. The brightness in her eyes was the same as it had always been, and something about it made the morning feel lighter. "I want to walk the Nietzsche Trail."
He tilted his head slightly. "'Whoever will one day set the lightning ablaze—'"
"'—must long wander in the clouds,'" she finished.
They looked at each other.
"Thus Spoke Zarathustra," she said, with the satisfied expression of someone who has just confirmed a hypothesis. "Draco. You read Muggle philosophy."
"I've read a number of things," he said. "Philosophy and magic have more in common than people usually acknowledge. Pythagoras, for instance, has direct relevance to arithmantic theory. We keep a substantial philosophy section at the Manor."
She turned off the lens cap and tucked the camera under her arm. The tourist side of her had given way to something more focused. "That's the most interesting thing you've said about your family home."
"Then you'd find the library itself extraordinary."
They spent the morning walking upward—the trail winding through scrub and rock, growing hotter as the path climbed, until the village fell away below them and the Mediterranean opened out in every direction, flat and intensely blue under the July sky. Hermione photographed everything. Draco stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, patient and mildly amused, occasionally pointing out a detail of the town layout or the coastline.
By midday, they had found a table at Château Eza, a restaurant perched near the top of the village with a view of the mountains and the sea. The waiter had been lingering at the entrance hoping for a long idle morning; it did not survive their arrival. A generous tip from the boy resolved whatever reluctance remained, and they were shown to a window table.
Draco pulled out her chair before the waiter could. She sat down. He pushed it in smoothly, then settled across from her with the unhurried composure of someone who has been doing this since he could walk.
The waiter, recalibrating his assessment of them rapidly, brought sparkling water and menus and withdrew to a respectful distance.
Hermione was looking at the horizon. Draco called the waiter back and ordered the recommended dishes for both of them without particular fanfare.
"Can I see your photos?" he said, when the waiter had gone.
"Of course." She passed the camera across—then amended this when it became clear he didn't know the controls. "Come around here."
He stood behind her chair, hands braced on either side of it, and leaned over to look at the screen. The sunlight was bright; he had to bend fairly close. She scrolled through the shots at his direction—stone walls, arched windows, the specific quality of the light on an old door, a long coastal view, an oil painting spotted in a museum somewhere before Èze.
"You have a genuine compositional instinct," he said. "Even the architectural shots—there's a deliberate point of view in each one."
She turned her head to say something, and found his face considerably closer than expected. The pale grey of his eyes was very clear in the light.
Her back went rigid.
"Oh," she said, which was not what she had intended to say. "I—my mother says something similar. I thought she was just being encouraging."
"She wasn't." He straightened up, moved back to his seat. He appeared not to have noticed anything. "If you weren't a witch, you might have been drawn to art history."
"I've thought that actually." She set the camera down and concentrated on the view, breathing at a normal pace. "If I hadn't gone to Hogwarts, I think I would have studied ancient history. Or conservation. Something old."
"Then you'd find the Manor interesting for entirely different reasons." He picked up his water glass. "Several centuries of accumulated objects, and no one with the patience to look at them properly."
"Are they all magical items?"
"Some are. Most aren't—just old. Antiques, portraits, furniture that predates the current building. We also have electric lighting in the main corridors and a gravel drive for vehicles." He watched her expression shift through surprise toward something more complicated. "I know how that sounds, coming from a family with our reputation. But the Malfoys have never limited themselves to the wizarding world in practical terms. My father claims pure-blood convictions; the family's investments have always included Muggle enterprises."
Hermione set her fork down. "You're involved in Muggle investment?"
"We're currently acquiring a perfume factory here in the area, actually." He said it in the tone of someone reporting something ordinary. "Entirely Muggle-owned. As always, I'd ask you to keep that between us—I doubt the Ministry would appreciate the optics."
She stared at him for a moment. Then she picked her fork back up. "Your father," she said carefully, "doesn't come across as someone who would invest in Muggle businesses."
"My father is a pragmatist underneath the ideology. He also has a wife who loves French perfume, which is perhaps more immediately relevant." A faint smile. "He needed a reason to get her out of the house. Acquiring the factory gave him one."
Hermione looked at him, then at the sea. "You're a very strange family," she said.
"Probably," he agreed.
They ate as the afternoon light shifted and softened. When they had finished, they climbed the last stretch of path to the botanical garden at the summit, where enormous cacti stood in the heat like patient old men, and wandered back down as the temperature finally began to drop and the evening tourists began to emerge from their hotels.
The souvenir stalls had materialised along the lower road, and Hermione worked her way slowly along them.
"What are those small things?" Draco asked, at a display of painted tiles and small objects.
"Fridge magnets." She picked one up and demonstrated: the tiny flat magnet snapped cheerfully against the metal display plate. "A souvenir. You put them on your refrigerator—that's an appliance for keeping food cold, like a Preservation Charm but electric—and they remind you of places you've been. My mother collects them. She prefers unusual shapes."
Draco examined the display with an expression suggesting he was filing this information away under 'inexplicable but harmless.'
"I'm not finding anything particularly good," Hermione said, moving on. Her eyes continued scanning doorways and windows.
Then they both saw it.
The shop was set back slightly from its neighbours, older-looking, its signage faded—a mottled door with a rusty iron sign reading Boutique de souvenirs, and beneath the words, a phoenix perched on a bone. What was strange was the quiet. The shops on either side were busy with tourists. Not a single person stopped in front of this one. Not one person glanced at it.
Hermione's hand found his sleeve. "Draco. Is this like the Leaky Cauldron?"
"Possibly." He observed it for a moment. "A magical shop hidden in plain sight."
"Should we go in?"
She was watching the door with the expression of a cat encountering a closed cardboard box—cautious, compelled, entirely committed to investigating regardless.
He smiled at her. "It's a souvenir shop. Shouldn't be dangerous." He pushed the door open; wind chimes rang softly above them.
His interest died approximately thirty seconds later.
Not a dark magic shop. An ordinary wizarding curiosities shop—raw crystals, tarot cards, magical oils, dried herbs in jars, pendulums, a shelf of pocket divination guides. It had the chaotic visual energy of a Divination classroom, with additionally tropical-green walls and an excess of brightly coloured decorations that reminded him of nothing so much as a Gypsy wagon.
Behind the counter stood an elderly witch—face powdered extremely pale, lips very red, moving her mouth soundlessly as she polished a singing bowl with artless indifference. She didn't look up when they entered.
"Bienvenue," she said, in a tone that meant the opposite.
Draco kept his face neutral, mostly because Hermione was already at the bookshelf.
Naturally.
He leaned against a support post with his hands in his pockets and watched her work her way through the titles. She was going to buy something. This was inevitable. He had accepted it.
"Draco!" She turned, holding up a dusty volume from the corner shelf. The cover showed the phoenix-and-bone symbol. "Look—the same mark."
He hummed noncommittally.
Hermione addressed the witch. "What does the image on this cover represent?"
The witch finally looked up. Something shifted in her expression when she registered that Hermione was genuinely interested and not merely browsing. She became, abruptly, warmer.
"The symbol of Èze—the origin of local magic." Her English was accented but clear. "The earliest wizards here can be traced back two and a half thousand years. They came from Egypt, brought their magic with them. The most powerful tradition they carried was the magic of resurrection."
"Resurrection?" Hermione's face lit up with a dozen competing impulses. "But that's—that's theoretically impossible. Even for a wizard—"
"Most say it is legend." The witch smiled slyly. "But it is all in the book. If you are interested, you can read it yourself."
She came around the counter, her long skirt swaying, bracelets jingling.
Draco took two steps and placed himself between her and Hermione.
"Hermione," he said. "Let's go."
Hermione didn't move. She had already opened the book to the first page. She closed it, made a decision, and held it out to the witch.
The witch wrapped it neatly in brown paper, tied it with twine, and slid it across the counter. Draco put down several coins before Hermione could reach for her purse, took her by the arm with minimal ceremony, and steered her out through the tinkling wind chimes and back into the evening crowds.
Hermione pulled her arm free. Her eyes were bright with irritation. "What was that? You practically dragged me out. And I can buy my own books—"
"She had no feet," Draco said.
Hermione stopped.
"Under the skirt. Nothing there. She's a ghost." He kept his voice quiet.
Hermione looked back at the shop. There was only a blank wall. She stood there for a moment in silence. "I didn't notice. I was too caught up in the book."
He looked at the brown paper parcel in her hands. "Not all ghosts are like the ones at Hogwarts. She probably didn't mean you harm, but—" He frowned. "Just be careful with that. Before you open it properly, cast Aparecium and then Specialis Revelio. Check for hidden spells or curses."
"I will." She tucked the parcel carefully into her bag. There was a short pause. "I yelled at you. I'm sorry—I misunderstood."
"It doesn't matter." He was already looking at her with something that wasn't quite puzzlement and wasn't quite worry. Something had shifted since Bath. She was careful with him in a way she hadn't been before—precise little distances, eyes that slid away from his. Like a door that had been standing open and was now, not slammed, but gently, carefully closed.
Had something changed while he wasn't paying attention? Had he done something wrong?
"I want to look at the fridge magnets again," she said softly, and turned back toward the stalls.
He watched her go—animated as ever, pausing to look at everything, occasionally lifting the camera—and felt the particular frustration of someone who cannot identify the obstacle.
In this small village of flowers and stone and old light, with the sea glittering below them and the evening coming on, Draco Malfoy found himself encountering, alongside Hermione Granger, the specific bewildering trouble that belongs to fourteen-year-olds.
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Extra Chapter 7 – A Heart-to-Heart Talk
(From the Grangers' Point of View)
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It was the day Mrs Granger collected her daughter from King's Cross.
She turned around in the passenger seat before the car had fully cleared the station, eyes bright. "Tell me everything. Every exciting, frightening, interesting thing. You never write enough, Hermione—you always leave out the best parts—"
"We're very curious," Mr Granger agreed from behind the wheel, catching his daughter's eye in the rearview mirror with a smile.
Hermione was stroking Crookshanks in her lap. She considered this. "It was fairly quiet, actually," she said. "There was a situation with Crookshanks and a rat. Our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor turned out to be a werewolf." She paused. "Nothing particularly out of the ordinary."
She had never liked worrying her parents.
"A werewolf." Mr Granger's voice was very even. "Was he—is he dangerous?"
Even Crookshanks looked up.
"He's resigned," Hermione said. She patted Crookshanks' head. "Everything's fine."
Mrs Granger studied her daughter. Hermione was stroking the cat with rather too much focus. "Peanut. Something's bothering you."
"Is someone causing you trouble?" Mr Granger's tone shifted, going up a precise register.
"No, no one's bullying anyone." Mrs Granger waved a hand. "I'm not worried about that—I saw that boy of yours on the platform. White shirt, stood perfectly straight, and I caught him watching the barrier for about five minutes waiting for you to come through." She gave Hermione a knowing look. "Something to do with him?"
"Mum. Please."
"I think he might be fond of you."
"He told me he thinks of me as a little sister," Hermione said, in the voice of someone reciting a fact they have been working to accept.
A small silence settled over the car.
The traffic light changed to red. Mr Granger took the opportunity to glance back at his daughter. She was picking at the side of her fingernail—the specific nervous habit she'd had since she was six, which she only did under genuine strain.
"Lobster tonight?" he said. "And we could go to the British Museum tomorrow. The Egyptian collection—I know you've been wanting to see the mummies."
"Really?" She looked up. "I've wanted to go for ages."
The couple in the front seat exhaled slightly.
But by nightfall, when the house was quiet, Hermione had gone still again.
She was lying on her bed staring at the ceiling when her mother slipped in with a candle, arranged herself under the covers beside her without asking permission, and put an arm around her.
"Mother-Daughter Heart-to-Heart Night," Mrs Granger announced. "Tell me about the boy. The real version."
"I don't want to talk about him."
"You'll feel better if you do."
A long pause. Then: "I'm so embarrassed," Hermione said, into the pillow. "I completely misread everything. It was mortifying."
"I will not laugh at you," Mrs Granger said solemnly. "Do you remember when your father and I were in New York in February and we stayed out past midnight and tried to kiss the Statue of Liberty? We nearly froze our tongues to the railings."
Hermione considered this. "That's quite embarrassing."
"Thank you. Now you."
So Hermione told her: how something had started to feel different without her noticing or choosing it; how she'd wondered if she was coming down with something because Potions didn't fix it; about the forehead kiss—and the fact that he'd apparently forgotten it by the next morning—and the small careful attentions, and the way he looked at her sometimes; and how, when he'd said the word 'sister,' she had punched him in the arm.
"Good for you," Mrs Granger said.
"And then, about three hours later, he stood in front of a werewolf to shield me," Hermione said. The pillow muffled most of this.
"He—" Mrs Granger paused. "I thought you said the werewolf wasn't dangerous."
"It was an accident. Professor Lupin forgot his Wolfsbane Potion. Nobody was hurt—I pulled Draco away, there was some advanced magic involved, it's complicated." She turned over. "The point is I can't stay angry with someone who does something like that, can I? And now I don't know how to be around him. I don't know which version of him is the real one."
"Oh, my darling." Mrs Granger tucked a strand of hair back from her daughter's face. "They're both the real one. That's how people work."
Hermione made a despondent sound.
"Can I tell you what I think?" Mrs Granger said. "From what you've described—the way he acts, not what he says—I don't think he thinks of you as a sister. I think he said that because he didn't know what else to say. Boys his age often don't know what they're feeling before it's already happened to them."
"He's a year younger than me."
"Exactly. Give him time." She squeezed Hermione's shoulder. "And in the meantime—don't wait. Go about your life. Talk to other people, meet other boys, let him see that you're not standing still on his account. It's good for you and it might be good for him."
"I don't want to meet other boys," Hermione said, with the firmness of someone who has already had this argument with themselves.
"I'm not saying fall in love with anyone else. I'm saying don't become so focused on one person that you stop looking outward entirely. You need to understand how different people work—boys included—because the world is full of them, and that education is worth having regardless of what happens with Draco." Mrs Granger paused. "Also, it won't do him any harm to realise the world doesn't revolve around his schedule."
Hermione was quiet for a while, thinking about this.
"Maybe," she said at last, which was as close to agreement as she was likely to get before sleep.
Mrs Granger looked at her daughter—the girl who had once been small enough to carry, now entirely her own person, bewildered and brave and very nearly a young woman—and smiled.
She thought about the boy on the platform. The white shirt. The way he'd tracked the barrier with his eyes.
She thought: give it a year. Maybe less.
And she held her daughter until she fell asleep.