HP: Redemption of The Platinum Boy

Chapter 209 209: The Long Way to Avignon

Hermione had finished drying her hair.

She listened — the living room was entirely silent.

What was Draco doing? Curious, she slipped out of the bedroom to find her boyfriend sitting at ease in an armchair opposite the sofa, elbow resting on the round table, leafing through a Muggle travel guide.

"Oh, you're done?" He looked up at her, a mild smile on his face.

Hermione studied his innocent expression and found her lingering resentment over being "discarded like a used hair dryer" quietly fading.

In the warm candlelight that filled the room, the boy met her shining eyes and gently ran his fingers along the spine of the travel brochure.

"Our clothes can't be returned so quickly," he said at last. "I ordered some food. I thought you might be hungry."

"I am, a little. Thank you." Hermione looked radiant as she took a seat on the sofa. Her gaze swept across the twenty-odd dishes of various sizes arranged on the table, and then settled into mild concern. "Draco, what possessed you? Honestly — you've ordered far too much. We can't possibly eat all of this."

"I didn't intend for you to eat all of it," he said.

"Then why order so much?" She noticed the pair of swan-shaped napkins on the table and coloured slightly.

"Eat whatever appeals to you. I had no way of knowing which dishes you'd like." Draco, his ears going pink, set the travel guide aside and attempted to hand her one of the swan-shaped cloths with an air of perfect calm.

Hermione shook her head inwardly. This was quintessential Draco Malfoy — spectacular in the most unnecessary way — but she forced herself to stay composed as she received it and spread the cloth across her lap.

The last person she'd seen behave quite like this — so magnificently over the top — had been Sirius Black.

He had apparently been planning to install a Quidditch pitch in the back garden of the Black family home for Harry, along with a dedicated broom room stocked with more than a dozen new broomsticks.

"Sirius, is any of this truly necessary?" she remembered asking, genuinely baffled. "Are you trying to form an entire Quidditch team?"

"Just for fun," Sirius had said cheerfully, shrugging.

Hermione sighed, faintly surprised to discover something she hadn't expected to find in common between Draco and Sirius: an occasional flair for the extravagant.

The boy heard her sigh, glanced quickly at her face and then at her bathrobe, and said in a low voice, "You can't really expect a Malfoy to offer his girl something modest, can you?"

"Draco, I appreciate the gesture. But you do realise that while you're wasting food, there are people in the world going hungry," she murmured.

He shrugged and held out the bread basket. "Then try a little of everything and do justice to it all — it can hardly be sent back now."

The girl still pouted and didn't reach for the bread. Draco regarded the ends of her hair and said, with evident reluctance, "I'll be more careful next time."

That seemed to do the trick. She took a slice of bread, looked at him, and smiled.

He promptly reclaimed the bread basket, his gaze sliding elsewhere, and said, without quite meeting her eye, "Oh — I've picked out all the olives for you. They're set aside."

"Thank you." She looked at him, though something still seemed slightly off.

Since drying his hair, Draco seemed to have closed in on himself again.

He was still considerate and attentive — but his gaze kept darting away, and he wouldn't look her in the eye.

Was he hiding something? In the short time it had taken to dry his hair?

She glanced at him with mild suspicion and spread apricot jam across her bread, casting about for another subject.

Clearing her throat, Hermione asked, "So — how exactly did you get here?"

She had been wanting to ask him this since the moment they had met that morning.

Discussing anything to do with the wizarding world in front of passing Muggles had been far too risky.

Now that they were finally alone in a quiet, private space, the question could no longer be contained.

"It's a rather long story —" Draco said, drawing out each syllable with theatrical suspense.

"We still have the whole afternoon," she replied, cutting off any possible retreat.

"Aren't your parents worried about you? Won't they come looking?" He glanced at her at last, only to redirect his attention promptly back to the steak beneath his knife and fork.

"We're meeting tonight. We've agreed to respect each other's individual interests for the day," she said, with evident satisfaction, adding her best guess: "Dad's probably deep in conversation at his book club. I'm not sure where Mum is, but I expect she's thoroughly enjoying herself with the friends she made at that medieval costume seminar."

"Good." A quiet, satisfied smile crossed Draco's lips.

And so, with no reason to hold back, he opened up — his tone carrying just a hint of self-satisfaction.

"As you know, my grandfather happened to visit us at Malfoy Manor just before you left for France. He decided on a whim to have me accompany him as he continued his visits to friends in Europe."

It hadn't truly been a whim, of course.

The whole thing had unfolded through an intricate combination of calculated effort and fortunate coincidence.

Draco Malfoy had never ceased corresponding with his grandfather. A little youthful curiosity in one's letters, a measured degree of filial piety and concern for an elder, and Grandfather's travel arrangements became entirely legible — a solved puzzle, not a mystery.

When you pleased Abraxas, his discretion became rather like an African elephant's belt — which is to say, extremely loose — especially with his beloved grandson.

Draco had known, with very little effort, precisely which lodgings his grandfather would occupy on which days.

Calculating the arrival time of a letter against an owl's typical flying speed was hardly a challenge for a student who excelled in both Arithmancy and Divination.

He had known that once his grandfather received the letter and gifts, he would most likely return home at once; and that the prospect of an improved Smallpox Remedy would prove irresistible to a man as acquisitive of talent as Abraxas.

Meanwhile, "returning to Malfoy Manor" was no difficulty whatsoever for his grandfather — he had only to use the right key, and he could arrive in an instant.

So Draco Malfoy had carefully calculated the time of his grandfather's return and engineered a deliberate confrontation over a particular topic — one that he knew would provoke his father. And Lucius had been, that day, somewhat beyond rationality, performing magnificently, making the resulting "father and son at each other's throats" scene even more memorable than usual.

There were many things Abraxas Malfoy could overlook and step back from, but "a real risk of the family falling apart" was not among them.

The former head of the Malfoy family had always placed immense value on family unity, and he would inevitably do whatever he could to soften the conflict and prevent any lasting damage between "father and son who were intent on destroying each other."

In most cases, as he had done before, his grandfather would take his aggrieved and rebellious grandson away from Malfoy Manor for a short trip, which was the usual remedy for such situations.

There were precedents.

During the summer after third year, when Lucius had reprimanded Draco for spending too much time with the Weasley children, his grandfather had done something similar — extended an invitation for Draco to stay in Bath for a while.

And so, through a great deal of calculation and a measure of luck, Draco Malfoy had found himself travelling to Europe with his grandfather, drawing a little closer to Hermione.

He hadn't genuinely expected to find her; he had thought, at most, that he might manage to reach her through the ring — though they were still, unfortunately, not quite within range, and the ring had remained cold.

Until one day, quite unexpectedly, something had gone differently.

Fortune had smiled on him, and he had managed to reach her side.

Draco looked at the small flame on the table, and in that moment a great many thoughts moved through his mind all at once.

This whole business involved the complicated internal politics of his family — far too tangled to explain simply — and he suspected Hermione's understanding of the Malfoy household would require some significant reconstruction before any of it would make proper sense. Besides, certain episodes of father-son conflict were hardly the sort of thing any self-respecting young man would want to recount to the girl he was fond of. Nobody, however proud, wanted to admit that his father had once hurled a teacup at him.

He decided to proceed gradually. There was no need to force everything into her understanding all at once.

Hermione hadn't questioned what he'd said, but she kept pressing for more. "So where did you go?"

"At first, Austria. There happened to be a wizarding academic conference at the Austrian National Library, and my grandfather brought me along to see it," Draco said. "The wandless magic forum there was genuinely interesting. Babajid Akinbade taught me a great deal."

"Wandless magic —" The words were enough to make her sit forward with immediate interest. "That sounds fascinating."

"It is fascinating. And extraordinarily difficult." Draco shrugged. "Very few people master wandless magic; only a handful ever become truly proficient. In the British wizarding world, most of those who excel at it are at Hogwarts. You've probably noticed Professor Dumbledore using it quite regularly?"

"Certainly — I've seen him use wandless magic to summon a horde of cockroaches in the Headmaster's office," Hermione said with great enthusiasm. "And Professor McGonagall sometimes uses it to distribute beetles to students."

"Professor Snape is probably no less capable; he occasionally uses wandless magic to manipulate the fire under a cauldron," Draco said thoughtfully.

"Yes, I noticed that once or twice — he simply waved his hand and Neville's ruined potion was cleared away," she said. "Neville was so convinced he was being hexed that he went to Luna for advice on dispelling dark spirits."

"Rather than dispelling dark spirits," Draco said, spreading his hands with great seriousness, "I would recommend he simply take a Memory Potion. Or a Wit-Sharpening Potion, if he can manage not to melt the cauldron in the process."

Hermione shook her head, giving up on Neville as a topic of discussion.

"By the way — wizards who master the Animagus transformation probably know some wandless magic too, don't they?" She returned to the subject at hand, thinking it through. "Otherwise, how would they change back from animal form to human? They can't use a wand when they're an animal."

She found herself thinking of the conversation she'd overheard between Fleur and Sirius on the second floor of the Black family home. Both of them had, apparently, mastered the Animagus transformation. They were genuinely extraordinary.

"Your reasoning is sound. Animagi aren't necessarily proficient in wandless magic, but they'd need some grasp of it," Draco agreed. "Rita Skeeter even attempted to escape using wandless magic, as I recall."

"Speaking of her," Hermione said, suddenly remembering, "what did you do with her in the end?"

"As you wished — I made her agree to stop writing for a year. She'll have learnt her lesson by then," Draco said lightly, glancing at her.

"Is it really as simple as that?" Hermione asked, not entirely convinced.

"You're welcome to ask her yourself." Draco wore an expression of complete innocence. "What would I gain by lying to you?"

Rita Skeeter would, of course, never breathe a word about the Unbreakable Vow.

As for the "year off from writing" — he had deliberately kept that provision out of the vow itself, so that it wouldn't arouse Hermione's suspicion if she ever thought to confirm it.

He could be the kind of person who answered cruelty with cruelty when the situation called for it.

There was no need for her hands to be dirtied in the process, Draco thought, as he cut his steak with practised efficiency.

"Then, what about Babajid Akinbade —" Hermione pressed on with her questions.

She noticed that he didn't seem to be evading them; on the contrary, he seemed genuinely patient.

But he still wouldn't quite look at her. Why did his eyes always drift away? she wondered.

"He has a long-standing friendship with my grandfather, and he is now a member of the International Confederation of Wizards," Draco said.

"Did he tell you anything particularly interesting about wandless magic?" she asked.

"He told me that African sorcerers cast spells using only their fingers or gestures," Draco said.

"I believe that! I remember reading in a book at Grimmauld Place that wands were a European invention, and African wizards didn't adopt them as standard tools until the twentieth century." Hermione's interest was immediate. "I'd always wondered how African wizards cast spells before that — now I understand."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. He realised, with some surprise, that the tension he'd been carrying since their earlier exchange had eased considerably as they fell into this kind of conversation.

He was the one who spoke first this time. "Do you know that many of them still prefer wandless magic even now?"

"Why?" Hermione asked in surprise. "Isn't a wand a means of concentrating a wizard's power? Wouldn't it produce more precise, effective results?"

"European wizards generally believe so, yes — that wands help focus and direct a spell with greater accuracy," Draco agreed. "But African wizards, particularly the students at Uagadou — the school Babajid Akinbade attended — don't necessarily share that view."

"They actually prefer wandless magic?" She studied his expression with a puzzled look as he gave a slight nod. "What's the reason?"

"When they're accused of breaching the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, they can look perfectly innocent and say they simply waved their hand," Draco said, with an expression of transparent delight. "Nobody can formally charge them for that, can they?"

"The students at that school seem to make rather a habit of bending the rules," Hermione said, frowning.

"It's remarkably effective, though. They're completely untouchable." Draco seemed genuinely entertained. "Consider it: they can transform into elephants and cheetahs at will, anywhere, without warning, and face no consequences whatsoever because they didn't use a wand."

"I do hope no Muggles are witness to it," she muttered. "The fact that no one's held them accountable doesn't mean they should actively court the risk."

"Oh, they haven't escaped entirely unnoticed," Draco said. "At one International Animagus Conference, a Derian Tutley filed a formal complaint with the International Confederation of Wizards against those very students."

"On what grounds?" she asked, looking startled.

"Derian Tutley's Animagus form is a gerbil." Draco gave her a significant look. "I imagine even an experienced adult wizard might find himself momentarily unnerved by a group of fourteen-year-olds who've just transformed into elephants and cheetahs."

Hermione laughed.

Then she caught herself.

"Draco, you never do anything without a reason. Why were you spending so much time talking to Babajid Akinbade? Were you trying to study wandless magic? Wait —" Her eyes narrowed. "You've been secretly practising new magic on your own again, haven't you?" she said accusingly. "I want to learn too!"

"Of course you do — you're never not ambitious, are you?" He smiled, looking at her properly for the first time in a while. "We can learn it together."

Wandless magic was something Draco had never pursued in his previous life.

But why waste the time he had now? Mastering this skill could offer an additional measure of security.

If he could cast spells wandlessly, there was no possibility of his wand being stolen.

Which meant that the risk attached to the Elder Wand might, at long last, be significantly reduced.

"But why didn't you tell me sooner? I'd wager you already know most of it by now, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up." Hermione pouted, staring at him with an expression of righteous indignation.

He raised an eyebrow at her and smiled.

She pressed on. "You always do this — work hard to surprise me, and then act terribly smug about knowing more magic than I do!"

"The reason I didn't say anything sooner was because I assumed you were busy discovering all sorts of diversions at Grimmauld Place," Draco said mildly, lowering his gaze as he turned his attention back to his steak.

He thought, privately: if she had found even one or two of those rare volumes scattered throughout the corners of the Black family home — books that Sirius wouldn't have given a second glance — she would have felt as though she'd struck gold.

In all of Grimmauld Place, it seemed only she would truly appreciate the value of those books — not counting Kreacher, the pure-blood house-elf who was obsessively devoted to preserving everything his late masters had owned.

"There's certainly no shortage of things to occupy me there — every day is like a treasure hunt. I've found so many books I'd never read before." Hermione smiled, her warm brown eyes settling on him.

Her gaze was steady — he could feel it without even looking up.

Her voice became more sincere. "Draco, I have to thank you. Sirius told me some of what you did for me without my knowing — you've been so thoughtful."

Draco couldn't help but look up. He lifted his eyes and was immediately caught by hers.

She was smiling at him — openly, genuinely — the candlelight dancing in her pupils, her lips curved into a warm, pink smile.

He couldn't help but think of the passionate kiss they'd shared on the street that morning, and the way she had stopped things before he'd quite had his fill.

"It was nothing at all." His cheeks flushed slightly.

He pressed his lips together, and his heart began to pound again.

"You still haven't explained why you came here, specifically," she said, persistent as ever.

"When I was attending the Wandless Magic Forum, my grandfather went to reconnect with a few old acquaintances. His circle is remarkably varied — all sorts of people. A wandmaker in Paris, a wizarding businessman who has always wanted to break into the British market with flying carpets, a Healer from St Mungo's who had come to the forum to exchange expertise... and so on."

"That does sound interesting. But how did you end up in Avignon specifically?" Hermione, having waited patiently through the preamble, finally steered him toward the point. "Is there some sort of wizarding conference being held here as well?"

"No, nothing of the sort. My grandfather made a new acquaintance at one of the forums — the Divination one, as best I can tell," Draco said. "People called him Nostradamus the Second. He apparently had a celebrated Seer in his family line, and my grandfather took a keen interest in him."

As he spoke, he watched the girl sip freshly squeezed orange juice through a straw, her eyes crinkling contentedly, and lost his train of thought for a moment.

Under her bright, curious gaze, he suppressed the lurch in his chest — silently cursing himself for being irredeemably distracted — and continued. "Once the academic exchange finished, my grandfather unexpectedly changed his plans, postponed his trip to visit Nurmengard, and followed this young Mr Nostradamus — Danmas, his actual name — all the way to where the man was conducting his research. Avignon."

Draco had been simultaneously puzzled and quietly delighted by his grandfather's changeable travelling habits.

"So he is now —" Hermione had already guessed where Draco's grandfather had gone today.

"Yes. He's travelling to a monastery twelve kilometres away to get better acquainted with Mr Danmas and pursue his interest in Divination," Draco said, making a deliberate effort to focus on the spoonful of creamy mushroom soup in front of him rather than on the straw she was sipping through.

"Divination? Like Professor Trelawney's class?" Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Making vague, melodramatic pronouncements into a crystal ball, predicting doom and disaster?"

"Perhaps he's marginally better than Professor Trelawney," Draco said, thinking of the hundreds of eccentric prophecies she had produced over the years, and then her one genuine prediction about the Dark Lord — the one that had truly shaken the wizarding world. "Or perhaps not quite as good. I don't especially believe in prophecy, but I do choose to treat the subject with a degree of respect."

"I remain thoroughly sceptical," Hermione said, lifting her chin. "Our fate is in our own hands. It will never rest with some charlatan muttering vague nonsense into a Prophecy Orb."

Then she thought of her maternal grandfather, and her expression softened slightly. "That said, I suspect most older people develop a certain superstition. My grandfather was no different — as he got older and his health declined, he became more and more drawn to that sort of mysterious thinking."

"That's one way to understand it." Draco had no desire to pursue this topic further.

Fate was a strange and impossible thing.

He had yet to fully make sense of it, and most of the time he approached it with an uneasy mixture of doubt, respect, vigilance, and apprehension.

In his previous life, he had been precisely as dismissive of such things as Hermione was right now. He had taken Professor Trelawney's class purely because she was easy to fool and the grades were straightforward.

But seen from the vantage point of someone who had lived once before — who could compare what had happened against what she had predicted — he had to concede that Professor Trelawney had genuine merit, and the fingerprints of fate were visible everywhere.

Oh, fate.

It was the toad that Neville Longbottom forever lost and forever found again; the inescapable scratch on the portrait of the Fat Lady; the prisoner that Azkaban could never quite hold; the Portkey that carried Harry and Cedric to the graveyard, again and again.

Amid the fresh wind brought by the butterfly's reborn wings, there always lingered a faint, familiar scent.

Draco had felt the weight of fate's hand over the previous four years — felt it thoroughly enough that claiming complete indifference to it would have been dishonest.

And after respect came vigilance, and then a profound wariness. He did not want anyone who could interpret the language of fate to see through him.

And so he had quietly removed himself from Professor Trelawney's Divination classes for the remainder of his time at Hogwarts, doing everything in his power to avoid coming face to face with the descendant of the great Seer Cassandra Trelawney.

Merlin knew how many times he had taken a sudden turn down a different corridor upon catching sight of her.

It was better to keep a safe distance — who knew what she might say to him?