Chapter 16
Many moons passed before Hermione crossed the threshold of St. Mungo's as a patient leaving the hospital, rather than one imprisoned within it. Time flowed differently in the sterile, white wards—it stretched like rubber, contracted to a point, blurred at the edges. Sometimes days felt like years, other times weeks flashed by like minutes.
Everyone visited her. Harry, whose green eyes never stopped being vigilant, always looking for a spark of the old Hermione in her empty gaze. Ginny, bringing flowers that changed colors depending on mood—they always remained pale and dim. Luna with her strange stories about creatures no one had seen, but which—she said—"can feed on pain and turn it into small twinkling lights." Neville, shyly sitting by her bed, often silent, but his presence was like an anchor.
Even the Weasleys came—Molly with warm food she couldn't swallow, Arthur with gentle smiles and comforting words, George who never joked in her presence as if he'd forgotten how, Bill and Fleur, Percy, Charlie. They all carried the same kind of pain in their eyes—pain of loss—but their pain was clean. Hers was contaminated with guilt that pulsed through her veins like poison.
"We found him," Molly said one day, when the healers claimed Hermione was making "progress." "We found the place where... where you buried him." She spoke these words with such effort, as if each letter was a shard of glass in her throat. "We're waiting for you, Hermione. Waiting until you're ready to... to say goodbye to him again. Together with us."
She didn't answer. Her voice was like a bird that had forgotten how to fly—grounded, useless, and every attempt to rise ended in a fall.
Days merged into weeks, weeks into months. Her body, that traitor, began to heal. Her fingernails, torn and broken to bleeding from digging Ron's grave, grew back—even, smooth, perfect. The word "Mudblood" that Bellatrix had carved into her forearm faded to a barely visible trace—like the memory of a nightmare dreamt long ago. Broken ribs mended, without a trace of fractures. Wounds—the visible, physical ones—healed, leaving no scars.
"It's a miracle," the healers said. "We've never seen such regeneration after... after what she went through."
But it wasn't a miracle. It was irony—cruel, merciless irony. Because while her body rebuilt itself, cell by cell, her heart remained shattered into thousands of pieces. Each breath, each heartbeat tore her apart from the inside. Every memory of Ron—his smile, his voice, his laughter, his final moments—was like a knife being driven between her ribs.
"You're almost ready to leave," the healer said, reviewing her chart. "Physically... you're in perfect condition."
Perfect. That word sounded like mockery. How could one be perfect when half of one's soul had been ripped away and buried with a boy with red hair and a warm smile?
The day of her discharge was sunny—the sky cloudless, the air warm and smelling of spring. Nature, that ruthless force, didn't care about her pain, continued its cycle as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn't lost Ron Weasley.
Harry and Ginny came for her. They brought new clothes—simple, comfortable, but new. The old ones had been destroyed, burned, as if they wanted to erase every trace of what she'd been through. As if a new robe could cover old wounds.
"Everything's ready," Harry said, handing her the discharge papers. "You can... you can live with us, if you want. Or with your parents. Or with anyone. You don't have to be alone."
She didn't answer. Words were too heavy, and her lips too weak to lift them.
She left St. Mungo's on her own strength—her legs were strong, her back straight, her breathing even. Passersby on Diagon Alley didn't turn to look at her—they didn't see a victim, didn't see suffering. They only saw a young, healthy woman.
They didn't know—no one knew—that her heart was still bleeding, that her soul was still screaming, that her mind was still haunted by images no person should see. They didn't know that part of her had died with Ron and was buried in that shallow grave, that every step, every breath was an act of will, a fight against the desire to simply cease existing.
They had no potion for a broken heart. They knew no spell against despair. Their wands and mixtures could repair bones, skin, muscles—but couldn't touch the emptiness that filled her from within. Emptiness that had the shape and name of Ron Weasley.
She was physically healthy. Perfectly healed.
And completely broken.
* * *
Hermione woke slowly, awareness returning to her in waves. First warmth—unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Then a scent—familiar, but not triggering the usual anxiety. And finally consciousness—she wasn't alone.
She opened her eyes and froze, seeing Draco's face right next to her. He was sleeping half-sitting, leaning against the headboard, one hand still resting on her shoulder. In the pale morning light, he looked different—younger, more vulnerable, stripped of that mask of cold control he usually wore.
Memories of the previous night hit her with the force of a spell. The storm. The nightmare. Her scream. His arms.
Shock left her momentarily unable to move. Their closeness wasn't anything new—but this kind of closeness? Without desire, without violence, without mutual humiliation?
She should move away, get up, leave—in panic she thought only of escape. But her body refused to obey, as if part of her recognized that here, in this strange bed, for the first time in months she hadn't woken up drenched in cold sweat, with her heart beating frantically.
Her hands. Her hands weren't trembling.
This realization caught her breath in her throat. She always woke with shaking hands, with a desperate need for the potion that would dull the memories and pain. Always, for years.
And now—nothing.
Draco stirred in his sleep, his fingers tightening slightly on her shoulder, as if subconsciously checking if she was still there. Hermione froze, but he didn't wake up, just sighed quietly, his face relaxing even more.
She looked at him—really looked—and saw things she hadn't noticed before. A thin scar crossing his eyebrow. A few silver hairs among the platinum ones, prematurely gray. Shadows under his eyes, speaking of a night spent keeping watch.
Who was this man? This one who held her during a nightmare, who didn't run when she screamed, who looked at the scars of her soul and didn't turn away?
This wasn't the Draco she knew. This wasn't the man she met in seedy motels, in whose eyes she saw a reflection of her own hatred.
This was someone else. Someone she never expected to meet.
She should get up, she should move away, she should take the potion. But her body wasn't demanding it at all. Instead, against all reason, she allowed herself to stay. Just for a moment, she told herself. Just a little longer.
And so, motionless and quiet, with Draco Malfoy's hand on her shoulder, she breathed the calm morning air, wondering how it was possible that the greatest peace in years she had found in the arms of her enemy.
"Oh Merlin," she muttered after a while, when true understanding came. She had let him see her at her worst moment—vulnerable, broken, wailing. All her carefully cultivated façade had been washed away by one night of nightmare, one memory from the dungeon.
She had to get out of here. Now.
Carefully, she slid out from under his hand, trying not to wake him. When she finally stood on the floor, she looked frantically around the room. Her clothes, still damp from yesterday's storm, hung on a chair by the window. Her wand lay on the small bedside table.
Draco stirred in his sleep, and she froze, holding her breath. If he woke up, she would have to talk to him. Face what he had seen. What she had said. What she had felt.
She wasn't ready for that. Maybe she never would be.
Quickly but silently, she dressed in her still damp clothes, wincing as the cold material touched her skin. She took her wand and was about to head for the door when her gaze fell on the sleeping Draco.
She took a deep breath, feeling something in her chest tighten painfully. This wasn't how it should be. Any of it. Their relationship. This night.
"What are you doing?" Draco's voice, hoarse from sleep, pulled her from her thoughts. "Running away?"
She jerked her head up. He was watching her from under half-closed eyelids, but his gaze was alert. She wondered how long he'd been awake, observing her clumsy escape attempt.
"No," she lied smoothly. "We need to get going if we want to make the afternoon sessions of the Symposium."
Draco sat up slowly, running his hand through his disheveled hair. His gaze never left her face, as if searching for something in her expression.
"Granger," he began, his tone unusually careful. "About what happened last night..."
"Nothing happened," she cut him off quickly, raising her hand in a defensive gesture. "I had a nightmare. You helped. Thank you. End of story."
"That wasn't an ordinary nightmare," he said quietly, still staring at her intently. "It was a memory. A real memory. From the dungeon."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn't expected him to be so direct. To immediately go to the core of what she had shown him that night.
"I don't want to talk about it," she replied firmly, gripping her wand so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Never. With anyone. Especially not with you."
He looked at her silently for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he nodded.
"All right," he said simply. "But if you ever change your mind..."
"I won't," she cut him off.
For a moment silence fell in the room—tense, full of unspoken words. Hermione felt her heart beating faster. Her hands began to tremble—slowly, barely noticeably, but she knew it was just the beginning.
A change had occurred. She needed the potion. Immediately.
She reached for her bag but froze mid-motion when she saw Draco's eyes tracking her movement. She didn't need another lecture about her addictions.
"I'll go check if there's a bus stop nearby," she said, desperately wanting to get out of the room, even for a moment. "The hosts are probably awake by now."
Draco didn't answer immediately. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't read—and she had grown accustomed to thinking she knew every one of his expressions, every mask he wore.
"I'll wait here," he said finally.
She felt his gaze on her as she left the room. She closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, trying to calm her breathing.
What was happening to her? What was happening to them? The entire dynamic of their relationship, so familiar and predictable, was now disrupted. And she didn't know what was more frightening—the memories that returned in the night, or the fact that Draco Malfoy had seen her completely vulnerable... and hadn't used it against her.
There was no one in the hallway. With a quick movement, she pulled out a vial of potion. Her hands were already visibly trembling as she unscrewed the cap. She tilted the vial to her lips, feeling the familiar, bitter relief spreading through her body. A few deep breaths later, the trembling stopped, and her mind became sharp and focused again.
Now she could face this day. Paris. The Symposium. And Draco, who was looking at her with an expression she had never seen on him before.
On her way to reception, she tried to organize her thoughts, which had become sharper after the potion but still circled around the previous night. Behind the counter she found the same older woman who had assigned them their room yesterday.
The hostess brightened at the sight of her. Hermione greeted her in French, feeling a strange relief that she could momentarily escape into another language, as if distancing herself from yesterday's events and the English words that had revealed too much.
Unfortunately, the news wasn't good. In this village forgotten by the world, there was no bus stop or any form of regular transportation. The towns scattered throughout the Black Forest lived to their own rhythm, cut off from the hustle of the modern world. Hermione felt her heart sink—they needed to reach an Apparition point, and that was in a larger town, a good dozen or so kilometers away.
However, the hostess, seeing her concern, immediately offered a solution. Her son, as it turned out, was heading to that very town in less than an hour—he was taking fresh produce to the local market. He would be happy to give them a ride in his old but reliable car, if they didn't mind the smell of cheese and fresh herbs on the back seat.
Hermione felt a wave of gratitude for this woman, whose kindness was so spontaneous and genuine. But at the same time, the awareness that she would have to spend another hour in an enclosed space with Draco—this time on the back seat of a rural car—made her stomach clench in a nervous spasm.
Returning to the room, she wondered how she would survive this journey, when even a brief conversation with him had thrown her off balance. But she had no choice. They had to get to Paris.
Back in the room, she found Draco already fully dressed, with a fresh shirt and perfectly styled hair—he looked again like the Malfoy she knew from the Ministry, as if the previous night had never happened. Only the shadows under his eyes revealed that his night hadn't been the most peaceful.
"What did you find out?" he asked without preamble, fastening the cuffs of his elegant, though wrinkled shirt.
"I have good news and bad news," she replied, leaning against the doorframe. "The good news is that in less than an hour we'll have transportation to a larger town."
"And the bad?" Draco frowned, sensing a catch.
"We'll be traveling in a Muggle car. The hostess's son is taking goods to the market and can give us a ride."
Draco's face went through several phases—from disbelief, through outrage, to cold resignation.
"You're joking, right?" he growled, and his voice carried the old disdain. "I'm supposed to ride in some... Muggle contraption?"
"Do you have a better idea? Perhaps you'd prefer to walk those fifteen kilometers? Or wait until your wife sends a search party?"
At the mention of Celestine, Draco's face hardened. For a split second, he looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead pressed his lips into a thin line.
"A car," he repeated, as if the word was particularly unpleasant. "Is it at least... safe?"
His voice broke slightly on the last word, which immediately caught her attention. She looked at him more carefully and noticed something she hadn't expected—genuine terror lurking in his eyes.
"Malfoy," she began slowly, "are you afraid of Muggle cars?"
Draco straightened up abruptly, his cheeks covered with a slight blush.
"Of course not! It's just..." he made a vague gesture with his hand. "I've heard... things. About those metal boxes racing without magic. Do you know that thousands of Muggles die in car accidents every year? Thousands!"
Hermione raised her eyebrows, not quite sure how to react to this unexpected phobia.
"It's just a short ride on a country road," she said gently, as if to a frightened child. "There's really nothing to be afraid of."
"I'm not afraid!" he denied firmly, though his hands clenched on his bag betrayed otherwise. "I just think it's irrational to rely on a device that can break down for a thousand different reasons. What if it explodes? Or falls off a cliff? Or..."
"Draco," she interrupted, using his first name almost unconsciously. "There are no cliffs around here. And the hosts' car looks solid, though old. It's unlikely to explode."
Malfoy swallowed hard, looking like a man being led to execution.
"And this... person... their son... does he know how to drive it? Does he have any... certificates? Permissions?"
"It's called a driver's license," she explained, barely suppressing a smile. "And yes, I assume he has one. Muggle authorities take unlicensed driving rather seriously."
Draco walked to the window and looked out at the yard, where an old, well-used Citroën was already waiting for them, rusty and covered in mud.
"By Merlin," he whispered in horror. "That's supposed to take us? It looks like it would fall apart at the first turn!"
She couldn't hold back and burst out laughing. The sight of Draco—that lofty, controlling everything, arrogant man—terrified of an old country car was simply too absurd.
"Don't laugh!" he hissed, turning away from the window. "This isn't funny! I don't understand how Muggles can voluntarily lock themselves in these... death traps!"
"If it makes you feel better," she said, trying to adopt a serious tone, "these 'death traps' are much safer than flying on a broomstick. Statistically speaking."
"Statistics!" he snorted. "What do Muggles know about statistics! Do they account for magic in them? Magic protects against falling! What protects Muggles in those cans?"
"Seat belts," she answered simply. "And airbags."
"Air-bags?" he repeated, pronouncing each syllable separately. "Sounds like something that would suffocate you before you hit a tree!"
Hermione folded her arms and looked at him with amusement.
"We really don't have another choice," she said. "Unless you'd prefer to stay here and wait until someone from the Ministry finds you? It'll probably only take... a few days?"
Draco looked as if he was considering this option, but eventually shook his head.
"No," he muttered reluctantly. "Celestine would go crazy if I didn't show up at the symposium. And Potter would probably think I ran away because I'm guilty in the Claritas affair."
"So?"
"So I'll ride in that cursed car," he sighed with resignation. "But if we die, it'll be your fault."
"Noted," she replied gravely, then added: "We have half an hour. Let's eat something before we leave. The host mentioned breakfast."
Draco nodded, but his gaze kept darting toward the window where their death machine awaited. Hermione would never have guessed that a former Death Eater, a man who had witnessed the cruelties of war, could fear something as mundane as a car.
This awareness changed something in her perception of the man standing before her, pale and nervous. Suddenly he appeared more human, more vulnerable. And strangely endearing in his irrational fear.
Eating breakfast in the small, cozy dining room took them barely fifteen minutes. The room was simple—two wooden tables covered with linen tablecloths, a few chairs, an old coffee maker standing on a dresser, and a bouquet of wildflowers in a clay pitcher. Besides them, there were no other guests.
The hostess served them fresh bread, homemade cheese, and wild berry jam. Draco ate in silence, repeatedly glancing through the window at the car that would take them. Tension was written on his face, as if he were preparing for battle rather than a journey down a country road.
Hermione, seeing his state, decided not to irritate him with additional comments. She had enough of her own problems—the effect of the potion was beginning to weaken, and his presence at one small table was disturbingly intense. Too many unspoken words hung between them after that night.
When they finished, she approached the counter to pay, spending the last Muggle money she had with her.
"Let's go," she said, returning to the table. "The car is waiting."
Draco rose reluctantly, picking up his bag with an expression as if he were going to his execution. When they went outside, the morning sun was timidly breaking through the clouds. The air was crisp and smelled of wet earth after yesterday's downpour.
A young man was bustling around the rickety blue Citroën—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied in a casual ponytail. He was perhaps in his mid-twenties, and his face was tanned by the sun and marked with light stubble. When he saw them, he smiled broadly, revealing even, white teeth.
"Bonjour!" he called cheerfully, then to their surprise, switched to broken but quite understandable English. "Good morning! You English, yes? I am Jean-Pierre. Mother said you need transport. Very pleased!"
He extended his hand in greeting, first to Hermione, who shook it with a smile, then to Draco, who hesitated for a fraction of a second before doing the same. She noticed that despite his aristocratic aversion to Muggles, Malfoy had enough good manners not to show it openly.
"Thank you for your help," she said. "It's very kind of you."
"No problem!" replied Jean-Pierre, waving his hand. "I go to market anyway. I have cheese, best cheese in region! My goats, very good milk they give."
"Fascinating," Draco muttered under his breath, but the young Frenchman either didn't hear or chose to ignore the sarcasm.
"Get in, get in!" he encouraged them, opening the rear door of the car. "Luggage can go here, on floor. Just watch for cheeses, they in basket."
Hermione got in first, sliding to the middle of the back seat. Draco hesitated, looking at the car's interior as if it were the entrance to a cave full of venomous snakes.
"Come on," Hermione whispered to him. "You can do it."
With a martyred look on his face, Draco slid onto the seat next to her, clutching his bag tightly on his lap. Jean-Pierre slammed the door behind them, then walked around the car and took his place behind the wheel.
"Ready?" he asked, turning to them with a broad smile. "Will be super journey! I show you beautiful views on way!"
Before they could answer, he turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, shuddered, then roared to life. Draco jumped, and his hand instinctively grabbed Hermione's, squeezing it so hard she almost cried out.
"It's all right," she said quietly, leaning toward his ear as Jean-Pierre turned on a lively French melody on the radio. "That's normal. That's how cars work."
He didn't answer, but he also didn't let go of her hand as the Citroën pulled away, bouncing on the bumpy road.
The car bounced along the rough forest road, and each violent jolt caused Draco to twitch nervously. His pale fingers still gripped Hermione's hand, but she didn't try to free herself. Part of her was amused by his fear, but another part—the one that had seen his care the previous night—felt a strange need to reassure him.
Jean-Pierre proved to be an exceptionally talkative travel companion. Driving the car with the nonchalance of someone who knows every turn and bump by heart, he told them about the region's history, about life in a small village, and about his beloved goats that provided milk for "the best cheese in France, I swear!"
"Magic everywhere here," he said suddenly, gesturing energetically toward the forest surrounding them. "Old stories say spirits live in these forests. People sometimes see lights between trees. Hear voices. My grandfather said he once saw woman in white, walking on water in lake. But that was after three glasses of wine, so..." he laughed heartily.
Apparently Draco had been right, and for centuries this had been a place of strong magical concentration, though Muggles interpreted it as supernatural phenomena.
"And your plans in Paris?" asked Jean-Pierre, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. "Tourism? Romance?" he winked playfully.
"Business," Draco replied stiffly, his face taking on a light pink tinge. "But if you could focus on the road instead of our plans, I'd be grateful."
Jean-Pierre just laughed, as if Draco's comment were an excellent joke, then indeed turned forward—but only to reach with one hand for the radio and turn up an energetic French song.
"Oh no," Draco groaned quietly as the car veered slightly onto the shoulder, then returned to the middle of the road. "He's going to kill us."
"Everything's fine," she assured him, though she herself felt a pang of concern. Jean-Pierre's driving style was... relaxed, to put it mildly.
The road wound more and more, delving deeper into the forest. Trees on both sides created a green tunnel through which single rays of sunlight penetrated. In other circumstances, she would have found this scene picturesque, but now she felt growing anxiety—not because of the car ride, but because the potion's effect was weakening. The familiar symptoms—slight trembling of hands, dryness in the mouth, growing tightness in the chest—were beginning to return.
She glanced sideways at Draco. He seemed somewhat calmer but was still holding her hand as if he'd forgotten he was doing it. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, his brows furrowed in an expression of intense concentration, as if by willpower alone he could keep the vehicle on the road.
Suddenly Jean-Pierre braked sharply, and the car stopped with squealing tires. Draco let out a muffled cry, and his grip on Hermione's hand became painful.
"What's happening?!" he exclaimed, looking around wildly.
"Fox!" Jean-Pierre explained cheerfully, pointing to the red animal that had run across the road and disappeared into the bushes. "Beautiful, yes? Many wild animals here."
"Wonderful," muttered Draco, breathing heavily. "Could you perhaps warn us next time before you decide to stop this machine in half a second?"
"Ah, sorry," Jean-Pierre looked genuinely contrite. "Didn't mean to scare. But foxes are so rare, so shy... I very much like watching them. They like little forest ghosts."
They set off again, this time a bit slower.
"Just few kilometers more," Jean-Pierre announced. "Soon we leave forest and will see town. There is bus station, train station, everything you need. Maybe you want to see my cheeses at market? I have stall with best cheeses in region!"
"Thank you, but we're in a hurry," Hermione replied, while Draco made an indeterminate sound that could be interpreted as confirmation.
The car finally emerged from the forest, and before them stretched a view of a small town situated in a valley. It was much larger than the village they had come from—with a church tower rising above the red roofs of houses and a busy square where market stalls were just being set up.
"We're almost there," Draco said, and the relief in his voice was so evident that Jean-Pierre laughed again.
"First time on country road?" he asked kindly.
Draco didn't answer. It was strange—seeing someone as controlling and self-assured as Malfoy completely lose his composure over something that was commonplace for her.
When the car finally entered the cobbled square in the center of town, Draco at last released her hand, but he didn't move away, staying close as if her presence gave him comfort. Hermione felt her own body demanding another dose of potion—sweaty palms, accelerated pulse—but she had to endure.
"We are here!" Jean-Pierre announced triumphantly, stopping the car at the curb. "Bus station is there," he pointed to an unassuming building across the square. "You will surely find transport to Paris there."
"Thank you," Hermione said as they got out of the car. "You really saved us from trouble."
"No problem!" Jean-Pierre shook their hands goodbye. "Was nice to meet you! If you ever come back to this area, my mother always has free rooms, and I always have good cheese!"
They watched as he drove off toward the market, waving cheerfully goodbye. Draco looked as if he had just experienced the most exhausting ordeal of his life.
"Well," Hermione said, looking at him with a sidelong smile. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"
"You mean the death ride through the forest with a madman who stops to admire foxes?" he replied, but there was no longer anger in his voice, rather a kind of resigned amusement. "I've survived worse things. I think."
She looked around discreetly, then slipped her hand into her pocket and took out her wand. Hidden in the folds of her coat, it was invisible to casual passersby. She quietly muttered a simple levitation spell, aiming at a small stone lying at her foot.
Nothing happened.
She frowned and tried again, this time a warming spell. The tip of the wand remained cold and dead.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking if magic works yet," she replied in a lowered voice. "But it looks like the interference extends further than I thought. We're still in a dead zone."
"Wonderful," Draco sighed, looking around with reluctance. "What now? Another death ride with some Muggle lunatic?"
"We have a few options," Hermione said, pointing to the bus station. "We can check if there's a direct bus to Paris. Or a train. Or we can simply walk until we find a place where magic works and apparate from there."
Draco's face at the mention of a bus took on a suffering expression that, under other circumstances, would have made Hermione laugh to tears. He looked like a child who'd been told he had to eat a whole plate of Brussels sprouts.
"Merlin, give me strength," he muttered, then announced more loudly: "All right, let's see this... station. But if anyone mentions 'fascinating foxes,' I'm out."
They headed toward the unassuming station building. The market square was becoming increasingly crowded—locals were setting up stalls, tourists were walking between the stands, and the aroma of fresh pastries mixed with the smell of smoked cheese. The place was buzzing with life, so different from the magical world.
They were almost at the station when they passed a narrow alley between a bakery and an antique shop. Suddenly Draco stopped abruptly, his body becoming still, like a predator that had sensed prey.
"Wait," he said quietly, grabbing Hermione by the elbow. "Do you feel that?"
Hermione looked at him, confused.
"Feel what?"
"This..." he gestured uncertainly. "Something like... a tingling. In the air. Like magic."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, staring at the unremarkable alley. At first glance, it looked like any other passage between buildings—narrow, somewhat neglected, with garbage bins and an old bicycle leaning against the wall.
"Are you sure?" she asked, but Draco was already moving in that direction with determination written on his face.
"Absolutely," he replied. "My father always said that Malfoys have an unusual sensitivity to magical energy. I thought it was just his arrogance, but..." he broke off, pointing at the wall. "Look. Here. This pattern on the brick."
Hermione moved closer and saw what Draco had already noticed—on one of the bricks was a barely visible symbol, so subtle it could be taken for an ordinary crack. But when she looked more carefully, she saw that it formed the outline of a small wand.
"Merlin," she whispered. "This must be like the passage from the Leaky Cauldron to Diagon Alley."
Draco reached out and ran his fingers over the symbol. At that moment, the air in front of them rippled gently, like the surface of water into which someone had thrown a stone. The wall at the end of the alley, which a second earlier had been solid, now flickered and became semi-transparent.
"I knew it," he whispered with satisfaction.
They looked around to make sure none of the Muggles were paying attention to them, then quickly walked through the alley. When they reached the shimmering wall, Draco hesitated.
"Ladies first," he said with a shadow of his old, ironic smile.
Hermione took a deep breath and stepped forward. For a fraction of a second, she felt slight resistance, as if passing through a thick layer of fog, and then... she was on the other side.
Her eyes widened in amazement. They were on a narrow, cobbled street, so different from the Muggle market square that it was hard to believe only a magical barrier separated them. On both sides stood old houses with sloping roofs and colorful facades. Shop signs floated in the air, shimmering and changing colors. Wizards and witches in robes strolled calmly, talking and shopping.
"Rue des Merveilles," Hermione read on a wooden sign at the entrance. "Street of Wonders."
Draco joined her, and the expression of relief and satisfaction on his face was so genuine that she couldn't suppress a smile.
"Well," he said, looking around with approval. "This is more my style."
Hermione, wasting no time, grabbed his arm and concentrated on the image of Paris—the square in front of the French Ministry of Magic, where she had once been with a delegation. She turned, expecting the familiar feeling of compression, darkness, and disorientation.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, this time concentrating even harder on the destination, putting all her magical strength into it.
Again, nothing.
"Bloody hell!" she growled, releasing Draco's arm. "Why isn't this working? We're already in a magical space!"
"Calm down, Granger," he said, clearly amused by her frustration. "Perhaps your apparition skills have gotten rusty? After all, you usually travel by Ministry Portkeys, don't you?"
"My skills are perfect," she replied through clenched teeth. "It must be something about this place."
She left him standing with his ironic smirk and approached an elderly witch in a dark violet robe who was arranging flower bouquets in front of a small florist shop.
"Excuse me," she began, trying to sound polite despite her growing frustration. "Could you tell me why one can't apparate from here?"
The witch looked at her with a smile and shook her head, as if the question amused her.
"Ah, tourists," she said with a strong French accent. "Always the same story. No, my dear, you cannot apparate here. Nowhere in the vicinity of the Black Forest."
"But we're in the magical part of town," Hermione pressed. "Wands work, spells are visible..."
"Oui, oui," the woman nodded, arranging another flower in the bouquet that was levitating before her. "Basic spells work without problem. Levitation, illumination, even some transfigurations. But stronger magic? Apparition, powerful charms, advanced transfigurations?" she shook her head. "No, no, no. Not in this place."
"And why is that?" she asked, as Draco joined her, evidently interested in the conversation.
"It's because of the forest," the witch pointed in the direction they had come from. "The Black Forest has its secrets, its magic. Old, wild magic. Even before the goblin wars, this place was known for magical anomalies. And then... oh, terrible things happened here during those wars. Dark curses, experiments, rituals. The earth remembers. Magic remembers."
"But is there some way to get out of here?" Draco interjected. "Without using... Muggle transportation?"
He pronounced the last words with such disgust that the witch giggled.
"Of course, mon cher," she replied. "We have one fireplace connected to the Floo Network. In the shop at the end of the street. 'Tissus Enchantés'—Enchanted Fabrics. You can't miss it. Madame Laurent, the owner, charges a small fee for using the fireplace—five sickles per person."
"Thank you," said Hermione, somewhat calmed by the prospect of quickly reaching Paris. "That's very helpful."
"Always at your service," the witch replied with a smile. "But if I may offer some advice... don't rush so much. Rue des Merveilles has its charm. Our apple pastries at 'Chez Margot' café are incomparable to any others. And the antique shop across the street has items you won't find even in Knockturn Alley."
"Unfortunately, we must hurry," Draco said. "We have an important meeting in Paris."
"Ah, young people," the witch sighed nostalgically. "Always in a rush. Life escapes when you hurry, you know?"
They thanked her once more and headed toward the indicated shop. The street was much longer than it initially seemed—winding and full of nooks where they constantly discovered new, fascinating shops or cafés.
"'Always in a rush,'" Draco mimicked the older lady when they were out of earshot. "Easy for her to say, she doesn't have to present herself at the International Potions Symposium as a representative of the largest company in the industry."
"And the British Ministry," Hermione added, involuntarily glancing at the display of a bookstore they were passing. "Kingsley will be furious if we miss the official opening."
Draco grimaced slightly.
"Celestine is probably furious too," he muttered.
"Well, we had no control over the Portkey sabotage," Hermione replied, shrugging. "But the sooner we get there, the better. There's the shop," she said, pointing to a building that stood out with an intensely lavender façade. Behind large display windows stood elegant mannequins dressed in the most fashionable wizard robes. When passersby weren't looking, the dummies changed poses—straightened their collars, turned to show the back of the outfit, or brushed invisible dust from their shoulders.
Crossing the threshold of "Tissus Enchantés," they were greeted by the delicate sound of silver bells. The interior of the shop proved to be much more spacious than the façade suggested—with a high, vaulted ceiling and mirrors that enlarged the already impressive space. Shelves and racks were bending not only under wizard robes but also under a variety of outfits—from elegant suits and evening gowns to everyday clothes with magical additions.
A distinguished middle-aged witch approached the counter, her hair arranged in a perfect bun and her robe in the same shade of lavender as the façade of the shop.
"Bonjour," she greeted them with a professional smile. "How may I help you?"
"Good day," Hermione responded in French. "We need to use the Floo fireplace. We're on our way to Paris."
"Of course," the woman nodded. "The fireplace is at your disposal. The fee is five sickles per person."
While Draco reached into his pocket for change, Hermione looked around the shop. Suddenly she realized she had nothing to wear to the evening banquet ending the first day of the Symposium. Her official dress, carefully selected and prepared, was lost along with the suitcase Draco had thrown away.
"I might also..." she began, hesitating. "I need a gown for an official banquet. Our luggage... was lost on the way."
"Of course," the owner's face brightened. "We have a wonderful selection of evening gowns. Please follow me."
She led her to the back of the shop, to the section with elegant attire. Draco followed them casually, but his eyes scrutinized every detail of the decor, as if estimating the value of the business.
"This is our newest collection," said Madame Laurent, pointing to a row of exquisite gowns. "Perhaps this one?" she indicated a simple, black dress with a classic cut. "It's a universal choice, suitable for any official occasion."
Hermione nodded, touching the material. The dress was elegant, understated, and—most importantly—looked relatively affordable. A perfect, practical choice.
"I'll take it," she said, but at that moment her gaze fell on another dress, somewhat hidden among the others.
It was pastel azure—delicate, ethereal, like the spring sky at dawn. The material had something ethereal about it, seemed almost to shimmer in the light, as if woven from the most delicate brush strokes.
"And this one?" she asked, unable to resist touching the unusual material.
"Ah, 'Ciel de Paris,'" the owner sighed appreciatively. "One of our masterpieces. Made from the rarest moonlight silk, collected only during the full moon."
Hermione reluctantly tore her gaze from the dress to glance at the price tag. When she saw the price, she immediately withdrew her hand.
"It's beautiful," she said sincerely. "But I think I'll take the black one after all."
"An excellent choice, madame," replied Madame Laurent with a professional smile. "Both cuts are timeless. Shall I wrap it right away?"
"Yes, please," she nodded, taking money from her bag.
"Take the sky blue one," Draco suddenly said, with that irritating self-confidence of his.
Hermione turned, frowning.
"It's absurdly expensive," she replied quietly, so the owner wouldn't hear. "Besides, black is more appropriate for an official meeting."
"You're at the Symposium as a Ministry representative, right?" he asked, moving closer. "So you should look like a representative of a leading magical power. Not like a secretary."
"That's sexist," Hermione hissed.
"It's practical," he replied. "And besides, I promised to replace everything that was in the suitcase."
"I don't want you to buy me anything," she said firmly. "I have my own money."
"And you're wasting it on something that doesn't do you justice," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "In that azure dress you'd look much better."
"I don't need your opinion on my appearance," she retorted, feeling a blush rising to her cheeks.
"Yet you're listening to it," he smiled with irritating confidence. "Listen, Granger, I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I threw away your suitcase, so I should pay for its contents. That's fair."
"Since when do you care about fairness?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Since yesterday," he answered quietly, and a strange glint appeared in his eyes. "Since I realized I owe you something."
Hermione froze, unsure what to say. Was he talking about the nightmare? About how he held her all night when she cried? Was this his form of payment for seeing her in such a vulnerable state?
"I don't want your charity," she finally said.
"It's not charity, Granger. It's an obligation," he replied calmly. "If you don't let me pay for this dress, I'll have to find another way to repay the debt. And believe me, you don't want that."
"Are you threatening me?" she asked incredulously.
"I'm stating a fact," he shrugged. "Malfoys always pay their debts. One way or another."
For a moment they measured each other with their eyes. Hermione knew she should be sensible, take the black dress, and end this ridiculous discussion. But some part of her—the one that noticed how his eyes sparkled when he looked at the azure creation—wanted to give in.
"I'll take the black one," she said firmly to the owner. "And I'll pay for it myself."
"Absolutely not," Draco replied just as firmly. "Madame," he turned to the shopkeeper, "please wrap the sky blue dress. And prepare the fireplace."
"You have no right to make decisions for me!" Hermione protested.
"And you have no right to refuse repayment of a debt," he replied calmly.
The shop owner watched them with discreet amusement, which she tried to hide under a mask of professionalism.
"Perhaps you'd like to use the fireplace first?" she suggested. "The dress can wait. Or I could send it directly to your hotel in Paris? We offer such a service."
"Please wrap the black dress," Hermione said firmly, ignoring Draco. She counted out the appropriate number of galleons. "And please send it to the Hotel Enchantement under the name Hermione Granger."
She placed the money on the counter, looking defiantly at Draco. She wasn't going to yield—not this time.
Madame Laurent, sensing the tension, quickly collected the money and nodded.
"Of course, mademoiselle. The black dress will be waiting at the hotel reception. Now the fireplace is at your disposal. This way, please."
Draco looked as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end he just shook his head with irritation.
"Stubborn as always, Granger," he muttered, but there was no real anger in his voice.
Madame Laurent led them into the back of the shop, where behind an ornate screen stood an elegant marble fireplace. Next to it, in a crystal bowl, was an intricate silver box with Floo powder.
"The Paris Branch of the Floo Network is located on Rue de la Paix," she informed them. "From there it's close to the main hotels in the magical part of the city."
"Thank you," said Hermione. "And I'm sorry for the... disturbance."
"There's nothing to apologize for," Madame Laurent smiled. "It's always a pleasure to serve such determined customers."
Hermione was the first to reach for the Floo powder, threw it into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green, and clearly stated the address. Before she disappeared into the flames, she gave Draco one last warning look.
She landed smoothly in the Paris Branch of the Floo Network—a spacious, elegant room with a marble floor and crystal chandeliers. A second later, Draco emerged from the adjacent fireplace, brushing nonexistent dust from his robe.
As soon as she found herself back in a magical space—real, normal, functioning magical space—she felt energy returning to her. For the first time since yesterday, she could use any spell without limitations, which gave her a sense of security she hadn't even known she was missing.
But along with magic, anger returned as well. Pure, intense anger at the man who now stood beside her with that irritating self-confidence.
"The hotel is two blocks from here," Draco said, as if everything were perfectly fine. "We can—"
"I know where the hotel is," she interrupted him icily. "I've been to Paris more times than you have."
"I doubt it," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "But if you prefer to believe that..."
She ignored him, heading for the exit. Her mind was boiling with accusations that had been accumulating over the past twenty-four hours. It was because of him that she got stuck in some godforsaken hole forgotten by Merlin. He was the one who threw away her suitcase, forcing her to improvise with clothes. He was the one who ended their... whatever it was, with a cold, dispassionate letter, only to suddenly become a caring guardian during a business trip when she had a nightmare.
And now, as if that weren't enough, he was trying to impose his will on her regarding the dress, as if he had any right to do so.
"We don't have to go together," she said sharply as they stepped onto the busy magical street of Paris. "I'm sure your wife is already worried."
"It was a Ministry Portkey, Granger," he replied calmly. "We're both official delegates. It's our duty to check in together."
"Fine," she hissed, quickening her pace. "We'll check in, and then you can attend to your business, and I'll attend to mine."
They reached Hotel Enchantement in a silence that seemed heavy with unspoken words. An elegant doorman in a scarlet livery opened the ornate doors for them, bowing slightly.
The interior of the hotel was as impressive as its reputation—a huge marble hall with crystal chandeliers floating under the vault, gilded details on columns, and elegant furniture that still remembered the Belle Époque era.
Hermione approached the reception desk, where a wizard in a perfectly tailored suit greeted them with a polite smile.
"Bonjour. Hermione Granger from the British Ministry of Magic," she said in an official tone. "And Draco Malfoy from Malfoy Industries," she added reluctantly, pointing to her companion. "We have reservations as part of the International Potions Symposium."
"Ah, oui, oui," the receptionist nodded, looking through a large book. "Mademoiselle Granger, room 418. And Mr. Malfoy..." he glanced at another page. "Mr. Malfoy is already checked in. Room 312, along with Madame Malfoy."
"Of course," Hermione muttered, feeling another wave of irritation. Draco was already checked in by his perfect French wife. Who probably didn't have a single hair out of place.
"The key, mademoiselle," the receptionist handed her an ornate brass key. "A package arrived just now. It has been delivered to your room."
"Thank you," she replied, immediately heading toward the elevator, not looking back at Draco.
"Granger," he called after her, but she ignored him, quickening her pace.
She entered the elevator, where an old house-elf operated the lever, and closed the doors just as Draco was about to join her. The last thing she saw was his irritation mixed with something that might have been concern.
Room 418 turned out to be a spacious suite with a view of the magical part of Paris. Under different circumstances, Hermione would have appreciated the elegance of the decor and the comfort it provided. Now, however, all she wanted was to close the door, cast a strong locking spell, and not see anyone—especially Malfoy—for the next few hours.
As soon as she was inside, she slammed the door and leaned against it, feeling sudden exhaustion. The emotional roller coaster of the past twenty-four hours had finally caught up with her. Everything—from the nightmare, to discovering that Draco had seen her at her weakest moment, to his attempt to control her choices in the shop—was too much.
She walked to the bed and sat down, noticing that two things were already waiting on the dresser: the black dress from the boutique and a message from Kingsley requesting an immediate report about the delay.
Hermione sighed deeply. She would have to meet with the minister and explain what went wrong with the Portkey. She would have to report everything—find out exactly what went wrong, whether it was an accident or sabotage.
But first, she needed a moment of peace. A moment to gather the scattered pieces of her carefully constructed facade.
* * *
Draco watched as the elevator doors closed in front of his nose, cutting off his view of Hermione Granger—angry, closed off, and completely irrational.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, ignoring the receptionist's surprised look.
Always the same—one step forward, three steps back. Just when he thought something had changed between them, she erected a wall again. And he, like some damn fool, tried each time to break through that wall.
He summoned the second elevator and stepped inside, standing facing the doors with his hands clenched into fists. He was furious—at her, but also at himself. What had he been thinking? That one night of holding her in his arms during a nightmare would suddenly change everything? That she would forget how he had ended their affair with a cold letter?
"Third floor, monsieur?" the house-elf operating the elevator asked politely.
"Yes," Draco growled, not caring how it sounded.
He didn't know how he should behave in her presence after that night. He had seen her broken, wounded, vulnerable. He had heard her confessions about how she had buried Weasley with her own hands. It wasn't something that could simply be ignored or forgotten. He couldn't return to their old relationship—full of hostility, and then toxic passion. It was... impossible.
But what, then, was he supposed to do? Be nice to her? Show concern? That wasn't in his nature. And her reaction clearly showed she didn't want his concern. She didn't even want him to buy her a dress, though it was his fault she had nothing to wear.
The elevator stopped on the third floor, and Draco stepped out with an energetic stride. The corridor was empty, lined with a thick, red carpet that muffled his footsteps. He stood before the door to room 312 and took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. He should focus on the Symposium, on the presentation of research on Claritas, on meetings with contractors.
He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.
"Draco!" Celestine was at his side before he could close the door. Beautiful, elegant, perfectly groomed—as always. Her light, almost platinum hair was arranged in an intricate style, and her silk dress accentuated her flawless figure. "Mon Dieu, where have you been? What happened? I waited all night, there was no message!"
She threw herself at him, embracing him and checking if he was injured. Her hands wandered over his shoulders, back, face, and her eyes scanned him with concern and... something else he couldn't name.
"We had a problem with the Portkey," he replied, gently pushing her away. "It dropped us somewhere in the Black Forest. I had to spend the night in a village without access to magic."
"Oh, mon chéri!" Celestine pressed her hand to her lips. "That's terrible! I was so worried! The Symposium began this morning, everyone was wondering where you were, and I didn't know what to say..."
"What did you tell them?" asked Draco, moving further into the suite and noticing that his luggage had already been unpacked, and clothes carefully hung in the closet.
"That something must have gone wrong with the Portkey, of course. The British Minister sent a message that the two of you hadn't reached your destination," Celestine followed him, not taking her eyes off him. "But Draco, what exactly happened? How could you end up in the Black Forest? Ministry Portkeys are precisely calibrated!"
"I don't know," he answered honestly, sitting in an armchair and loosening his tie. "That will have to be investigated by experts."
"And how do you feel? Are you hurt? Hungry?" she inquired, sitting on the arm of his chair and lightly touching his cheek. "I'll order something from room service."
"I'm fine," he replied, feeling growing irritation. He didn't have the strength for her theatrical concern right now. "Where are my notes for today's presentation? What time is my talk?"
"Four o'clock," she answered immediately. "The notes are on the desk, I prepared everything. Draco," she leaned over him, looking deep into his eyes, "are you sure nothing happened? You look... troubled."
"I'm just tired," he lied, looking away. "I spent the night in a rural motel with a leaking roof."
"That must have been terrible," she sighed sympathetically, but her eyes still studied his face, as if looking for some sign, some evidence. "And Granger? Is she here too?"
"Yes," he answered curtly. "We arrived together."
"And... is she all right?" she asked with a strange tension in her voice.
"Of course," Draco replied, frowning. "Why wouldn't she be?"
"Oh, I was just wondering," she shrugged and stood up, feigning indifference. "After all, she is the official ministry representative, right? I heard there are some issues with their minister. Something about Claritas."
Draco looked at his wife with sudden suspicion. Her interest in Hermione seemed too intense, too... purposeful.
"What exactly did you hear?" he asked cautiously.
"Oh, just gossip in the corridors," she answered lightly, adjusting one of the flowers in a vase. "You know how it is at such meetings—everyone talks, and I have a good ear for languages."
Draco observed her carefully. Celestine was perfect—beautiful, elegant, with a good name and connections in the magical world of France. Their marriage was beneficial for both parties—she gained the prestige of the Malfoy name, he gained access to French markets. There was no feeling in it, only mutual respect and reciprocal benefits.
But now, for the first time in a long time, he wondered if he had overlooked something important. If he had underestimated her... ambitions.
His thoughts almost immediately returned to Hermione. The image of her face—first contorted in terror during the nightmare, then determined and resolute in the robe shop—appeared before his eyes so vividly that he almost forgot about Celestine's presence.
"...so Mr. Dubois mentioned that he greatly regrets your absence at the morning session," his wife was saying, adjusting flowers in a vase. "But I assured him that your presentation would make up for everything. You need to be particularly convincing about the safety of the potion, because there are certain rumors..."
He barely listened to her. A thought was forming in his head, initially unclear, but with each second becoming more crystalline.
Suddenly he stood up, interrupting Celestine mid-sentence.
"Draco?" she asked in surprise, her blue eyes widening. "What's wrong?"
"I need to take care of something," he said, heading toward the door.
"Now?" she followed him, her voice taking on a sharp note. "You have a presentation in two hours! You need to prepare, freshen up, review your notes..."
"I still have time," he replied, reaching for his wand and tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
"But where are you going?" Celestine pressed, standing between him and the door. "What could be more important than your presentation? This is the biggest magical symposium of the year!"
"I have an important matter to attend to," was all he said, gently but firmly moving her out of the way. "I'll be back in time."
"Draco!" she called after him as he was already at the door. "Does this have something to do with that Portkey? Or perhaps with Granger?"
He paused for a moment, surprised by her perceptiveness, but did not turn around.
"I'll be back in time," he repeated and closed the door behind him, cutting off further questions.