Accio, Love!

After the harrowing encounter with the snallygaster, Hermione and Draco stumbled a few feet away from its lair, their breathing ragged but relieved. The air was damp and cool, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth. A few paces ahead, Hermione’s sharp eyes caught sight of a lone wooden bucket lying on its side, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

“Well, looks like we’re not done yet,” Hermione murmured, brushing dirt off her robes.

Draco scowled, his hair still slightly mussed from the earlier scuffle. “Another one of your brilliant Portkeys, I assume?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Hermione knelt by the bucket, her fingers brushing against its surface. “Ready for another adventure?”

Draco sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Define ready.”

She offered her hand, her grin widening despite his reluctance. With a resigned shrug, Draco took it. The moment their fingers entwined and touched the bucket, a familiar rush of wind and magic swirled around them, pulling them into a kaleidoscope of light.

When the dizzying sensation subsided, the pair found themselves on the cobblestone streets of a bustling French city. Golden lamplight bathed the quaint, narrow streets in a warm glow, and the aroma of freshly baked pastries mingled with the cheerful hum of conversation.

Hermione straightened, her eyes scanning the festive surroundings. Colorful banners hung from every corner, and the sound of music and laughter filled the air.

“Seems we’ve arrived during a celebration,” Hermione observed.

Draco arched an eyebrow, his gaze landing on a bright poster pinned to a lamppost. “A carnival,” he muttered, squinting to read the French text. “What’s the occasion? Muggle frivolity?”

Hermione smiled, brushing past him. “We’re not here to judge Muggle traditions. Besides, blending in will give us the chance to gather information. Magical creatures don’t exactly announce themselves.”

Draco sighed. “And what’s your plan? Glamour charms? Polyjuice Potion? Or are we walking in as ourselves and hoping no one recognizes the great Hermione Granger and the infamous Draco Malfoy?”

“Neither,” Hermione said, rummaging through her ever-reliable beaded bag. “We’ll go unnoticed by not using magic.”

Draco frowned. “How is that even possible? If not magic, then what?”

She pulled out a collection of wigs, accessories, and face paint, holding them up triumphantly.

“You can’t be serious.” Draco’s tone was flat as his gaze shifted between her and the items.

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” Hermione replied, handing him a short blonde wig and a fake mustache.

Draco held up the wig with disdain, as if it were some cursed artifact. “You expect me to wear this?”

Hermione was already securing a ginger wig over her hair and smearing freckles across her cheeks with a small makeup brush. “Unless you’d like to explain to the locals why Draco Malfoy is wandering around a Muggle carnival, yes.”

Draco sighed heavily, shoving the wig onto his head and awkwardly adjusting it. The fake mustache followed, though it didn’t sit right over his lip.

“How do I look?” he asked, arms crossed.

Hermione tilted her head, trying not to laugh. “Like a disgruntled Frenchman.”

“Charming,” Draco muttered. “And you?”

“I’m unrecognizable,” she said brightly, spinning in place.

Draco rolled his eyes, and the pair made their way toward the heart of the carnival.

The carnival was a feast for the senses. Brightly lit stalls offered sugary confections, handcrafted trinkets, and games of chance. Jugglers, fire-breathers, and stilt-walkers performed along the cobbled streets, drawing cheers from the crowd.

As they moved deeper into the carnival, Hermione’s attention was caught by a large, vibrant tent surrounded by a chattering audience. A sign above the entrance read, Le Spectacle des Bêtes Magiques!

“Magical Beasts Show,” Hermione whispered, her heart skipping a beat.

Draco followed her gaze and frowned. “This is supposed to be a Muggle carnival. What’s magical about it?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed his arm and dragged him closer.

Inside, the air was thick with excitement. Spectators filled the seats around a small arena where the show was already underway. A magnificent phoenix soared above the crowd, its fiery wings illuminating the tent as it performed loops and dives.

“That’s not a magical simulation,” Hermione murmured. “That’s a real phoenix!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And it’s not the only one.”

From behind the curtain, handlers brought out a pair of mooncalves, their wide eyes glowing like lanterns under the dim light. They performed a synchronized dance, their movements slow and mesmerizing.

Hermione’s stomach churned as she realized the creatures were shackled with enchanted chains.

“This is wrong,” she said, her voice tight.

Draco crossed his arms. “I don’t disagree, but what are you planning to do about it? Free them in front of an entire audience?”

“Exactly.”

Draco blinked. “I was being sarcastic.”

Hermione ignored him, already moving toward the edge of the arena.

Chaos erupted mere minutes later.

Hermione had managed to sneak backstage, where she found several other magical creatures confined in cramped cages: a niffler, a bowtruckle colony, and even a baby manticore. Using a simple unlocking spell, she began freeing them one by one.

The creatures, sensing their newfound freedom, immediately caused havoc. The niffler darted toward the audience, snatching jewelry and coins from startled onlookers. The bowtruckles climbed onto the ropes supporting the tent, sending them swaying precariously.

Draco, who had reluctantly followed Hermione backstage, was now dodging a flurry of panicked mooncalves. “Granger, what have you done?”

“I’m saving them!” Hermione snapped, wrestling with the lock on the phoenix’s cage.

The show’s keeper, a burly man with a wand tucked into his belt, burst onto the scene, shouting angrily in French. He drew his wand, but Draco reacted first, sending a Stinging Hex his way.

The hex missed, hitting a barrel of fireworks instead. The resulting explosion sent sparks flying in every direction, lighting up the tent like a Christmas display.

“Subtle, Malfoy!” Hermione shouted, pulling the phoenix free.

“You’re the one who started this!” Draco shot back, narrowly avoiding a manticore’s tail.

The phoenix took flight, its cry echoing through the chaos as it soared above the arena. The audience erupted into screams and cheers, mistaking the pandemonium for part of the show.

Hermione grabbed Draco’s arm as the tent began to collapse. “Run!”

They bolted through the crowd, dodging panicked spectators and fleeing creatures. The phoenix led the way, its fiery form cutting a path through the night sky.

Once they were safely outside the carnival grounds, Hermione and Draco collapsed onto a grassy hill, their disguises askew and their breaths coming in gasps.

“That… was… insane,” Draco panted.

Hermione smiled, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. “But we saved them.”

Draco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Next time, warn me before you decide to incite a magical riot.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hermione's teased.

Draco glared at her but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips.

As the phoenix disappeared into the horizon, its fiery glow fading into the night, Hermione felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Despite the chaos, they had made a difference.

The night air crackled with tension as Hermione and Draco raced through the narrow streets of the city. Behind them, the sounds of chaos—the shouting crowd, the distant screeches of magical creatures, and the occasional crash—grew louder with every step.

“Arrêtez-les! Ils sont responsables!” Someone bellowed, their voice echoing off the cobblestone walls.

Draco’s head snapped back, his face grim. “They’re saying we’re responsible. Shocking, really.”

“I gathered that much,” Hermione gasped, trying to keep up. “What else are they saying?”

Draco yanked her down a twisting alley, his eyes darting for an escape route. “Something about the Kappa being missing. Lovely. They’re blaming us for that, too.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Kappa? As in drown-you-in-a-pond Kappa?”

“Yes,” Draco snapped. “But lucky for us, we’re not near a pond. Just Muggles, angry handlers, and a horde of magical beasts running amok. Great job, Granger!”

Hermione shot him a glare but didn’t waste time arguing. They rounded a corner only to find themselves face-to-face with a trio of men, all pointing accusing fingers at them.

“Regardez! Les criminels!” one of them yelled, lifting his wand.

Draco cursed under his breath. “Criminals. Brilliant.” He shoved Hermione behind a stack of crates, raising his own wand.

“Draco, don’t—” Hermione started.

“I’m not attacking them,” he hissed. “Just buying us time.”

With a flick of his wrist, Draco muttered, “Confundo!” The spell hit its mark, leaving the men blinking and disoriented.

“That won’t last long,” Hermione warned as they darted past the group.

“You don’t say,” Draco quipped, his tone sharp.

As they sprinted deeper into the alleyways, Hermione realized the shouts behind them had grown even louder. “They’re not giving up,” she muttered, panting. “And why do they keep saying ‘Kappa’? What exactly happened back there?”

Draco shot her a sideways glance, hesitating. “I might’ve accidentally released the Kappa while trying to free the mooncalves.”

“You might’ve?” Hermione asked, incredulous.

“It wasn’t intentional!” Draco snapped. “The Kappa wasn’t even supposed to be there! Who keeps a water-dwelling creature in a Muggle carnival, anyway?”

Hermione groaned but didn’t have time to lecture him. They turned another corner, only to skid to a halt as a large, skeletal Thestral blocked their path.

The creature stood silently, its wings partially spread as if to bar their way. Its dark eyes gleamed with eerie intelligence, and it let out a low, mournful sound.

Hermione’s heart clenched. “Oh no. It’s frightened.”

Draco stared at the creature, his wand still in hand. “Frightened? Granger, it’s staring us down. What do we do?”

Hermione stepped forward cautiously, raising a hand to stop Draco. “Don’t scare it any more than it already is. It’s probably confused from all the noise and chaos.”

Draco lowered his wand reluctantly. “Fine. But if it decides to charge, don’t expect me to stand here and chat with it.”

Hermione ignored him and crouched slightly, keeping her movements slow and deliberate. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice calm. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The Thestral tilted its head, its bony frame shifting slightly as it studied her. Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a small pouch of dried meat.

Draco frowned. “You carry snacks for magical creatures?”

“Of course I do,” Hermione whispered, tossing a small piece toward the thestral. “I am a magizoologist.”

The Thestral sniffed the offering cautiously before snapping it up. It relaxed slightly, its wings lowering.

“See?” Hermione said, her tone triumphant. “No need for panic.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Great. You’ve made a friend. Now can we leave before the mob catches up?”

As if on cue, voices erupted behind them. “Là-bas! Ils sont près du thestral!”

“What now?” Hermione asked, glancing at Draco.

“They’re saying we’re near the Thestral,” he replied, gripping her arm. “Which is no longer a safe place to be. Move!”

Hermione reluctantly backed away from the creature, giving it one last reassuring glance before following Draco.

The chase resumed with renewed vigor. The alleyways twisted and turned, and it seemed like the entire carnival had joined the pursuit.

“Why are they so relentless?” Hermione panted as they ran.

“Because you unleashed their prized magical menagerie,” Draco said dryly. “And apparently, letting a Kappa loose is a capital offense.”

“Oh, like you weren’t involved!” Hermione snapped.

“Details,” Draco muttered, dragging her into yet another alley.

This one opened into a small courtyard where a group of bowtruckles clung to a lamppost, chittering nervously. Hermione paused, her heart aching at the sight.

“We can’t leave them like this,” she said.

“Granger,” Draco growled, “this is not the time—”

“They’re frightened!” Hermione protested. “Look at them!”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Do your thing, but hurry up!”

Hermione reached out her hand, speaking softly to the bowtruckles. They hesitated for a moment before climbing down, skittering toward her. She gently guided them toward a nearby cluster of trees, where they disappeared into the shadows.

“There,” she said, brushing off her hands. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Now can we please get out of here?”

They darted back into the alleyways, but the shouting behind them was growing louder.

“I don’t think we can outrun them forever,” Hermione admitted, glancing over her shoulder.

“Then we’ll have to outsmart them,” Draco said, his eyes scanning their surroundings. “Quick, in here!”

He pulled her into a small, dark shop with a cluttered interior. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with a thick mustache, looked up in surprise.

“Pas de problème ici,” Draco said quickly, his French smooth and authoritative.

Hermione frowned. “What did you just say?”

“I told him there’s no problem,” Draco muttered.

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, returning to his work. Draco and Hermione crouched behind a shelf filled with old trinkets, listening as the sound of footsteps passed by outside.

After a few tense moments, Draco let out a breath. “They’re gone. For now.”

Hermione leaned against the shelf, her heart still racing. “That was close.”

Draco smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Next time, try not to release any more creatures, Malfoy.”

“Hey! Told that to yourself as well,” he said with a shrug, his grin widening.

As they stepped cautiously out of the shop, the distant cries of the carnival still lingered in the air. Despite the chaos they’d caused, Hermione felt a flicker of hope. The creatures were free, and they had made it out alive.

But she had a feeling their adventure in France was far from over.

The streets had quieted as the chaos of the carnival faded into the distance. After narrowly escaping their pursuers, Hermione and Draco found themselves in need of rest. Hermione rubbed her temples, her head still buzzing from the evening's events, while Draco led the way down a cobblestone street, scanning the signs of nearby inns.

“Here,” he said, nodding toward a modest establishment with a flickering lantern by the door.

The innkeeper, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, greeted them warmly. “Bonsoir! Vous cherchez une chambre pour la nuit?”

Draco stepped forward, his expression smug as he replied in perfect, lilting French, “Oui, madame. Deux chambres, s'il vous plaît. Nous avons eu une journée très fatigante.”

The woman’s eyes lit up at his flawless accent. “Ah, mais bien sûr, monsieur. Vous parlez si bien le français. C’est un plaisir!”

Hermione stood behind him, arms crossed, trying not to roll her eyes. The way Draco always seemed to find opportunities to show off was both predictable and mildly irritating.

When Draco handed over the payment, the woman beamed. “Ah, mais vous êtes un couple! Très bien. Vous avez une chambre parfaite pour vous deux. C’est exactement ce qu’il vous faut.”

Draco opened his mouth to correct her, but the woman was already bustling toward the staircase, motioning for them to follow.

“What did she just say?” Hermione asked, her suspicion mounting.

Draco hesitated. “Uh… she said she’s giving us a room. That’s all.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t press further.

The room was small but cozy, with warm wooden beams and a large window overlooking the quiet street below. However, Hermione’s gaze immediately landed on the single, very large bed in the center of the room.

She turned to Draco, her arms crossed. “One bed? Really? You said you asked for two rooms.”

“I did,” Draco said, shifting awkwardly. “But apparently, she thinks we’re a fighting couple in need of… resolution. Together.”

Hermione blinked at him. “She what?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, she said something about how couples shouldn’t sleep apart when they’re arguing. Or something like that. I didn’t exactly get a say in the matter.”

Hermione groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. “This is ridiculous.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s not my fault Muggles are obsessed with reconciliation through forced proximity.”

“You could’ve tried harder to explain,” Hermione snapped, already digging through her bag for her pajamas.

Draco didn’t respond, instead wandering over to the window and settling himself in the small chair beside it. He pulled out a small notepad and pen, his brow furrowed in concentration as he began to scribble.

Hermione glanced at him suspiciously as she tied her hair back. “What are you doing?”

“Merlin-knows-what,” Draco replied vaguely, not looking up.

Hermione sighed heavily, muttering under her breath as she changed. Every now and then, she cast a glare in Draco’s direction, but he didn’t seem to notice—or pretended not to.

By the time she crawled into bed, thoroughly annoyed and exhausted, Draco was still scribbling away, the faint sound of his pen scratching against the paper the only noise in the room.

“Just don’t snore,” Hermione muttered, turning her back to him.

Draco smirked, finally looking up. “No promises, Granger.”

🔍

The days following the chaos at the carnival were spent tirelessly gathering information about the mysterious handlers and their illegal use of magical creatures. Hermione had insisted they stay in the small French town for as long as it took to uncover the truth, and much to her surprise, Draco had agreed—though not without his usual complaints about the quality of the local food and accommodations.

One lead had pointed them toward a black market rumored to operate in the shadows of the region. The market was said to deal in rare and illegal items, many of which were sourced from magical creatures.

Hermione sat at a small café table, poring over the notes they’d managed to piece together from whispered rumors and cryptic signs. Draco lounged in the chair opposite her, sipping an espresso with his typical air of nonchalance.

“So,” Draco began, tapping his spoon against the edge of his cup. “This black market… what exactly are we expecting to find there?”

Hermione glanced up, her expression grim. “If the rumors are true, they’re trading things like unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, occamy shells, and other items taken from magical creatures. Rare and valuable, but completely illegal if obtained unethically.”

Draco frowned. “And by ‘unethically,’ you mean…?”

“Poachers,” Hermione said darkly. “They capture magical creatures, keep them in horrible conditions, and exploit them for profit. In some cases, they kill them outright for their parts.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “What kind of parts are we talking about?”

Hermione hesitated, clearly reluctant to go into detail. But Draco’s steady gaze demanded an answer.

“Unicorns, for example,” she began, her voice tight. “Their blood is considered extremely valuable—it can keep someone alive, though it’s cursed to bring a half-life. Their hair is often used in wands, and poachers sometimes target them for their horns, which are believed to have powerful healing properties.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And occamies?”

Hermione swallowed. “Their eggshells are made of pure silver, and their feathers are prized for potion-making. If they’re killed, their hides can be used to craft magical protection items.”

Draco set his cup down with a clink. “So, essentially, these poachers are barbaric opportunists.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, her tone clipped.

Before either of them could say more, a woman approached their table. She was middle-aged, with tired eyes and a wary expression. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and her hands fidgeted nervously as she glanced around the café.

“Excusez-moi,” she said hesitantly, her voice low. “Vous êtes les étrangers qui cherchent les braconniers?”

Hermione blinked, her French faltering as she tried to process the question.

“She’s asking if we’re the strangers looking for the poachers,” Draco translated smoothly, rising from his seat. He turned to the woman. “Oui, madame. C’est exact.”

The woman’s face lit with relief, though her nervousness remained. She motioned for them to follow her. “Venez chez moi. Nous devons parler en privé.”

Hermione looked at Draco questioningly.

“She wants us to follow her to her house,” Draco explained, grabbing his coat.

Hermione hesitated, but the woman’s desperation was clear. After a moment, she nodded, and the three of them set off down a narrow street.

The alley Draco and Hermione followed Claudine through was narrow and winding, its cobblestones uneven from centuries of use. The high walls of the buildings on either side seemed to lean inward, casting long shadows that darkened the path even in daylight. Lanterns hung from wrought iron brackets, their light flickering in the gentle evening breeze. Small flower boxes sat on windowsills, filled with wilting geraniums and herbs that added a faint, earthy scent to the air. The occasional sound of distant laughter or the clatter of dishes filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters, reminding them of the bustling world just beyond the confined space.

Every now and then, the group passed heavy wooden doors, their peeling paint a testament to age and neglect. A stray cat darted across their path, disappearing into a pile of discarded crates. The atmosphere was a curious mix of eerie and quaint, the kind of place that felt secretive, as though it held stories hidden in its bricks.

The woman’s house was small but tidy, tucked into a quiet corner of the village, a modest stone structure with ivy creeping up its walls. The roof was shingled with terracotta tiles, weathered and moss-speckled from years of wear. A small wooden sign beside the door read La Maison Claudine, though the paint had long since faded, and the edges of the sign were chipped.

The interior was simple and cozy. The sitting room, where she led them, was a patchwork of rustic charm and personal touches. The walls were painted a pale, buttery yellow, adorned with family photographs and a few hand-drawn sketches pinned up with care. A pair of mismatched armchairs flanked a small fireplace, where a few embers still glowed faintly.

A woven rug covered the creaky wooden floorboards, and a low table bore a stack of books alongside a delicate porcelain teapot and two chipped cups. On the windowsill sat a cluster of potted plants, their leaves drooping slightly but still vibrant enough to suggest they were cared for. The room smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke, with a hint of something sweet—perhaps baked goods that had long since been eaten.

The home was clearly well-loved, though modest in every sense. It felt safe, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow in the way Claudine moved, her hands often lingering on objects as if seeking comfort from the memories they carried.

She ushered them inside quickly, glancing over her shoulder as though expecting to be followed.

“Merci,” she said, closing the door behind them. “Je m’appelle Claudine. Vous devez m’aider.”

“She says her name is Claudine and she needs our help,” Draco translated, glancing at Hermione.

Hermione smiled reassuringly at Claudine. “Of course. We’ll do what we can.”

Claudine led them to a modest sitting room, where she gestured for them to sit. Once they were settled, she began speaking rapidly, her hands wringing together as she explained her situation.

Draco listened intently, nodding occasionally. Hermione, meanwhile, sat with growing impatience, her curiosity barely contained.

“Draco,” she said finally, “what is she saying?”

Draco held up a hand, silencing her as he focused on Claudine’s words. When the woman finished, he turned to Hermione with a sigh.

“Her husband, Pierre, got involved with the poachers after falling into debt. Apparently, he gambled away a significant amount of money—money that wasn’t his—and couldn’t pay it back. The poachers took him in as a form of repayment, likely forcing him to work for them.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible. Why didn’t he go to the authorities?”

Draco shrugged. “According to her, he was too ashamed to admit what he’d done. And considering their… less-than-legal operations, the poachers probably didn’t give him a choice.”

Claudine spoke again, her voice trembling.

“She says he’s been missing for weeks,” Draco continued. “She believes he’s being held at one of the poachers’ hideouts, possibly near the black market we’ve been investigating.”

Hermione turned to Claudine, her expression resolute. “Tell her we’ll help.”

Draco hesitated. “Are you sure, Granger? This could get messy.”

Hermione shot him a pointed look. “These people are exploiting magical creatures and using human lives as collateral. We can’t just ignore this.”

Draco sighed but nodded. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He relayed Hermione’s promise to Claudine, who clasped her hands together in gratitude.

“Merci, merci beaucoup,” Claudine said, tears welling in her eyes.

“Ask her if she knows anything about where the black market is located,” Hermione said.

Draco translated the question, and Claudine nodded. She reached for a small notebook on the table and flipped through its pages before handing it to Draco. Inside were scrawled notes and a rough map of the area.

“She says this was Pierre’s,” Draco explained. “He wrote down some information about the poachers’ movements before he disappeared. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Hermione examined the map, her brow furrowed. “This could lead us straight to them.”

Claudine spoke again, her voice breaking as she clutched a hand to her chest. Draco’s expression softened further as he listened.

“She says…” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “She says she’s pregnant.”

Hermione gasped softly.

“She doesn’t want her child to grow up fatherless,” Draco continued, his voice quieter. “She’s terrified Pierre won’t come back, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if the poachers… if they…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Claudine grabbed Hermione’s hand, speaking earnestly.

“She’s begging us to bring him back,” Draco said, his tone softening. “She says she’ll do anything if we can save him.”

Hermione squeezed Claudine’s hand. “We’ll do everything we can,” she promised.

Draco cleared his throat, standing up and tucking the notebook under his arm. “Right, then. We’ve got a trail to follow.”

Hermione glanced at him, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. Despite his usual snark, Draco seemed genuinely invested in helping Claudine and her husband.

Claudine saw them to the door, her hands clasped tightly as she whispered a quiet prayer. As they stepped back onto the cobblestone street, Hermione turned to Draco.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Draco smirked. “Don’t get used to it, Granger. I’m not exactly a saint.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. Together, they set off toward the unknown, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead.