Chapter Text
For the first time in over a decade, Draco was torn on this decision. No matter how he spun it, he was completely and utterly screwed. And the feeling was distinctly uncomfortable.
"You see, when one survives the rather unique experience of ending up on the wrong side until the very last possible moment," he explained to Pansy, not for the first time. "One tends to make all future decisions carefully. With pro/con lists, numerous consultations, the weighing of options both responsibly and with caution."
"For fuck's sake, Malfoy. First and foremost," she demanded, holding up her glass. "Stop referring to yourself as one. And secondly, shut up. Can't you see that I have not consumed enough of this wine to listen to you yet? Oh, I'm Malfoy, and my completely resurrected life has too many wonderful things happening to make a decision."
He grumbled a rather uncharitable word at her and picked at her chips as she sipped. Technically, she had a point (not that he'd ever admit it). He was lucky to be stuck in this particular sticky pudding. And, if he could put his pride aside, and turn his arrogance down just a notch, he'd be fine.
While she drank, Draco considered the options again. For the millionth time, he came to the same conclusion. He could not win.
On the one hand, he really needed this promotion. The increased responsibility, the chance to publish under his own freaking name for once, the prestige he may be able to take back for the field of ancient curses and legacy potions. Not to mention the significant pay bump, which the roof of his ridiculous 1960s house could really use. But, on the other hand?
Potter.
The idiotic, paltry nature of Potter’s research was what really pissed Draco off. The fact that his research had earned them the grant, and that Potter got to come along despite his redundant, derivative thesis.
Well, that, and the fact that Potter’s original term in the history department had stretched on and on, from three months to six, to seventeen and counting. Not to mention that for every single one of those months, Potter had been trying to get on Draco’s good side. With his disarming conversational style and his ludicrous, oversized jumpers, and his too-long-for-any-real-style hair, it had definitely not been working.
Definitely not.
Three months ago, Potter had started turning up every day with pastries. Two months ago, he’d begun including coffee that he left beside the pastry box on Draco’s desk, as though an excuse to come and chat once Draco was seated and reading, trying to jumpstart his foggy brain. Last month, Potter had added a rather hideous chair to Draco’s side of the office, so that he could ‘have a seat while we have our breakfast’. The our of that sentence irked Draco in the pit of his stomach in a way that was absolutely just irritation.
Probably.
When, two weeks ago, Potter had started to add small bits of trivia about France to this uncomfortable morning constitutional he was forced to endure, Draco had been instantly suspicious. His little tidbits eventually became relentless;
‘Did you know that Paris’ oldest remaining house is the Flamel house? It’s got to have some alchemic magic left, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Apparently, if you can get to Montmartre at the full moon, the ghost of Saint-Denis will tell you really rude knock-knock jokes. That would be a laugh, no?’
Finally, in the middle of chastising Potter’s pronunciation of Denis, Draco’s brain clicked into place. “Alright,” he’d demanded, “out with it. What is going on here?”
“Don’t freak out,” Potter had replied.
And so, of course, Draco had freaked out. Potter had submitted Draco’s last paper on Ancient Alchemists in old cities alongside his research proposal for the study of magical signatures in underground architecture. Without asking, naturally. But it got so much worse.
“We won the grant, Malfoy.”
“We didn’t win anything. You submitted my work without my fucking consent. It must be illegal. At the very least it's academic...indecency!”
Potter at least had enough grace to be chagrined. “Well, I know...and I’m sorry, but...it was already published and...and then I realised the possibility of our research going hand in hand and it was a group proposal and I didn’t think you’d want to....”
Draco had glared until Potter shut up and cleared his throat. “Well, the point is, I am sorry, but we won the grant. We get to take the grad student. Go to Paris for a month, all expenses. Possibility for an extension.”
Draco hadn’t softened his gaze. “Yes, well. You’re forgiven, I guess. Have fun. Don’t fuck up that research now that you’ve put my name on the line.”
At which point, Potter had sputtered for a second while he picked at the croissant he’d balanced on a napkin on Draco’s desk. Draco's carefully arched eyebrow and calculated arm cross got Potter to explain.
“Well, you see...you, um. You have to come? You’re the senior researcher. The grant is conditional on...on us working together to publish.”
"Publish."
Under Malfoy. Be first on a paper.
Pansy shook her head. "And you are confused about this decision why? I have had to listen to you talk about being Published with a capital P for nearly five fucking years."
"But, with Potter. In France. In Paris, of all places."
A city that held all of Draco’s heart and most of his soul and was currently his least favourite place on planet Earth. Which Potter absolutely wasn’t allowed to know.
“So what the fuck do I do Pansy?” he said, slamming down his beer and leaning his head on his hands. “I obviously can’t go to Paris.”
“Or,” she countered, “you could go to Paris and stop being quite so melo-dra-draco.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t make my name into words.”
“Well, you’re earning it,” she sighed. "And Paris has done nothing wrong. Go on the stupid sabbatical, Draco Malfoy."
He sighed. "Fine. Then I'm blaming you for everything that happens there."
"Oh dear me, how shall I survive."
When you visit it, Paris isn't really a place. It's more of an emotion, a feeling. It's strolling around the Seine and being accosted by the cart vendors with tiny Eiffel towers. It's lining up to take a turn staring at famous art and long-dead relics. It's eating pastries and remembering the basic French words you learned one time in school. It's touching the same walls as the poets and the characters, it's eating in restaurants that used to be the opium dens before taking in a Cabaret.
As a visitor, Paris readjusts your soul and buries itself in your heart. Though it smells and is loud, and sometimes feels dangerous or illicit, it is ultimately still Paris and you never want to leave it.
Paris, when you live in it can take a different sort of turn. When you stay long enough, Paris reminds you it is a big metropolitan with big-city problems.
It is expensive and always either too hot or too cold. The Metro is crowded and breaks down often, and the system is not nearly as comprehensive as the native Parisians would have you believe. It is hard to find work, even when your French is of the impeccable version of formality that was ingrained at birth. There is dog shit and a pickpocket on every sidewalk, and the church steps are packed with teenagers who throw glass and swear words around like ammunition.
Paris is long hours but is closed on Sunday. Paris is delicious food and wine but at the cost of your sanity. It is loud and unapologetic, and it is never, ever gentle.
Paris requires grit.
When he moved after finishing his seventh year, Draco was sure that he possessed all the grit one human could muster. His fingernails were etched with the scraping and eeking out of a smidge of reputation, enough to get into a Master's program hosted by the Ministry. Enough to move through the world without apologising every second of the day.
But Paris, when Draco was twenty? It had nearly killed him.
So, when he stepped off the plane with Harry Potter, his once arch-nemesis and current irritating business associate, Draco's sigh went deep into his bones and found itself a home of sadness. He sighed so loudly, so full of dread, that Potter turned to look at him with concern.
"Don't," Draco warned, heading towards the terminal and the metro and the streets he was not ready to go back to. "Let's go. The sooner we get started, the sooner I can go home."
He stood outside their appointed flat—in the ninth arrondissement, where he would be surrounded by opera and the ghosts of drugged-up ballerinas for the next month—and sighed again.
"Paris," he announced. "Did it have to be Paris?"