Chapter Text
Draco scowled as he stuffed another Pierre Hermé macaron into his face. He scowled all the way from the Pierre Hermé in Pigalle, a stone’s throw from Sacre Coeur, to the Pierre Hermé at Tuileries. Which was convenient, because today really was a two-boxes-of-macarons sort of day.
“Pardon,” mumbled a man who bumped into Draco, barely looking up from his phone. Draco resisted the urge to violate the statute of secrecy by turning the man’s black trenchcoat into an extremely gauche flamingo pink. A war crime, by French standards. He settled for shooting a near lethal glare at the man’s departing back and continued munching his macaron with a vengeance.
Barely 6 weeks into his posting as the new envoy to the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France, Draco felt that London was looking rather good again. Sure, everyone there might look at him like… well, like his father had aided and abetted the rise of a genocidal maniac. But at least they weren’t French people.
Draco gazed out over the Seine and contemplated how his day could have gone so horribly wrong.
* * *
“A package ‘as arrived for you, Monsieur Malfoy,” drifted in a careless voice from outside his office door. It was soon followed by Hugo, one of the interns for the Département des Affaires Internationales, carrying said package.
“Finally. I was expecting it about 4 days ago,” Draco said, promptly tearing the box open as it landed on his desk.
“Ah bonne, because it arrived 4 days ago,” Hugo added, crossing his arms and leaning against Draco’s doorframe, looking for all the world as if he had nothing better to do than lounge around watching his boss open his mail.
“Four– four days?” Draco sputtered incredulously. “Does the Ministère always take four days to security check their packages?”
“Yes, luckily there was no grève in the postal department this month, so things are moving quite quickly lately,” this was added with no hint of sarcasm, and Draco had to take a deep breath and remember not to cause an international incident. Murdering a smug Beauxbatons student was generally not allowed by either the Ministry of London or France (except of course in the case where a certain flaming goblet granted its consent for said murdering).
“I am grateful that the Ministère is taking my security status seriously,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “There are many who don’t believe in ever forgiving my past.”
“Yes, it is hard for us to forget,” Hugo shrugged, still darkening Draco’s doorway, but now with a conjured cigarette twirling between his fingers. Draco winced. To one raised in the culture of British aristocracy, Draco often felt that Parisians were intolerably uncouth when speaking of matters that should only be mentioned sideways and euphemistically. Before Draco could attempt to address the Dark Mark-shaped elephant in the room, his intern continued.
“Breaking the heart of ‘Arry Potter so tragically,” he nodded. “It is difficult to leave that sort of story behind, even when one does flee their homeland.”
Ignorant of Draco’s jaw, which was currently lying somewhere on the floor, Hugo turned and walked away, presumably to take his well-deserved smoke break after his productive morning of turning Draco’s world upside down.
After spelling the door closed and casting a melodramatically strong silencing spell, Draco let his head thunk onto his desk and groaned. He was immediately nostalgic for the time 30 seconds ago when he thought the whispers following him in the hallways of his new office were about incidents more than 3 months ago. He should have known better. The Prophet, and presumably apparently, the tabloids of Paris, had only just stopped printing photos of Potter moping around London – tragically, as Hugo had so tactfully put it – side by side next to photos of Draco looking aloof and unbothered.
You’ve faced down the stuff of literal nightmares, Draco admonished himself. Surely, you can handle some gossiping Parisians.
Strike 1, and his day was off to a strong start.
* * *
“Who knows, maybe you’ll fall in love with a bloke from a yoga class, or in a French cinema,” came the suggestion from Pansy’s head, from the nook of Draco’s office fireplace. “Or maybe you’ll meet a croissant that makes you realize that love is only a pastime for those cursed to not live in Paris.”
Draco felt the corner of his lip quirk up at that. Pansy caught it and smirked at her successful best-friending.
“You’re going to be fine, love. Just let time do its thing,” she reassured him before disappearing in a wisp of flame.
Draco sighed and reclined at his desk. He munched thoughtfully on the cookies that Molly had sent him in the post 4 days ago - under stasis charm, of course - and let his thoughts drift homeward. He resisted the urge to check the tabloids for the latest published Potter stalking.
“Monsieur Malfoy? Everyone is already in the meeting. Should I tell them you’ve been delayed?” Hugo’s head popped back around the corner just in time to catch Draco cursing and shoving himself away from his desk. He all but sprinted down the hall to the conference room, which opened itself up at the sign of his magical signature.
“--therefore it is the opinion of the Deutsch Ministerium that European Union border policy be extended to all magical creatures who can understand such policies. It simply is not sustainable anymore to overlook the migration of centaur tribes and mer-covens from Southern regions,” declared the portly wizard at the front of the room. His words were met with nods around the room. “Ah, Mister Malfoy, good to see you. Does the British Ministry have a stance yet on the proposed border policy changes?”
Draco smiled awkwardly at the gathered envoys as he took a seat. He cleared his throat and considered his words carefully. “My apologies for my late arrival, Herr Matthäus,” he began. The German envoy inclined his head curtly, accepting the apology. Draco took a deep breath.
“At this time, our Minister of Magic is considerably in favor of reduced restrictions on the movement of magical creatures,” he began. “Indeed, the British Ministry has been negotiating with our Muggle counterparts for a more lenient immigration and refugee policy for wizards and muggles as well, and we hope that our continental counterparts gathered here today will consider doing the same.”
The room burst into whispers as Matthäus harumphed.
“Yes, well, Minister Granger is known for her.. hmm.. particular ways with magical creatures,” he said sourly.
Draco felt a burst of pride in his friend. The first muggle-born Minister of Magic in Britain, and already creating waves in international policy. All in a day’s work for Hermione Granger.
The afternoon progressed, rather more tensely after Draco’s pronouncement. There were envoys from most of the European Union, along with Norway, Switzerland, and of course Britain. Most of the delegates, naturally, were disinclined to publicly declare a strong opinion, but Draco caught more than a few discrete correspondences sent from the room to home offices.
Draco let himself be lulled by the self-assurance of his work. Just as Draco’s nerves were unclenching from his awkward morning, he felt a hand drop onto his shoulder.
“I’m hurt, Draco,” murmured the silken voice of Blaise Zabini. “Not even an owl to tell me you’d be in town.”
Strike 2 for Draco’s Thursday.
* * *
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Give me 30 seconds in a room with this Matthäus, that’s all I’ll need.”
Draco matched her eye roll with one of his own.
“Granger, I’m busy enough avoiding the existing international crises without you adding another one.”
“Please, Draco, just one,” Hermione pleaded. “What’s one more international crisis these days?”
Draco chuckled into his glass of wine. He looked at his friend, her amused expression coming through under the glamor she was wearing for their dinner out.
“Thanks for visiting, Hermione,” he said, gently changing the tone of the conversation.
His friend’s eyes softened and Draco had to look away.
“We miss you, you know. Well, Ron wouldn’t say it like that, but Luna and Rose would,” she said with an earnestness that still took Draco by surprise every time. “Plus, I needed a night out, and Paris is just a few apparitions away.”
Draco shook his head at Hermione’s casual admission of feats of magic that were near impossible for the average witch or wizard. Draco himself preferred a hopscotch of portkeys or even the muggle Eurostar (first-class, naturally) to hop over the channel.
The conversation meandered warmly, a balm to Draco’s homesickness. They talked about Rose and Teddy at Hogwarts (straight O students, but rather prone to taking Gryffindor and Slytherin’s house points into negatives at times). They recapped Ron and Ginny’s quidditch rivalry (a rather tense subject, now that Ginny was dating a Hollyhead Harpy). Neville and Luna had apparently just moved in, often with a rotating guestlist of polyamorous partners (when asked, Luna would meander onto a tangent about love being as free as a Wrackspurt’s migration path, while Neville’s expression fell into a sort of happy bewilderment).
“You’ll never believe who’s interning with the Italian envoy’s office though,” he paused dramatically. “Zabini.”
He was then delightfully witness to the Minister of Magic caught in the dignified act of choking on her chicken.
“Oh no, Draco,” Hermione said once her coughing had subsided. “If you tell me that you hexed him on the spot, but you won’t let me near Matthäus, I will never forgive you.”
“Please, Hermione, just once,” Draco batted his eyelashes. “What’s one more international crisis these days?”
Hermione laughed. Then she sighed and her expression turned grave. Uh oh.
“Speaking of exes…”
“We weren’t, Hermione,” Draco deadpanned. “We were not speaking of exes.”
“He misses you too, you know.”
And there it was. Draco felt the twist in his stomach and suddenly his food seemed much less appetizing. Honestly, leave it to Hermione to adapt perfectly to the Parisian culture of being as direct with gut-punching as the Whomping Willow.
They fell silent for a while as the admission hung in the air. Draco swilled his wine listlessly.
“I can’t do anything about that, Hermione,” he said quietly. “We both just have to feel like shit for a while and take our space.”
Hermione winced and Draco’s stomach fell again.
“About that,” she began.
Oh no.
“I may have another reason for my visit,” Hermione said, suddenly looking rather shifty in her seat. “I thought you should hear it from me in person…”
Oh no.
“Kingsley decided after your report from the last meeting to increase your diplomatic security detail…”
Oh NO.
“And with Seamus and Dean both on parental leave, there was really only one field team available. They’ll be rotating,” she added hastily as Draco’s expression grew stormy. “No one will be abroad for more than a week at a time.”
Draco could suddenly hear his blood rushing in his ears as if a sudden vacuum had appeared.
““Harry-is-going-to-be-working-your-security-detail-until-further-notice,” Hermione said between breaths, downing the rest of her wine.
Strike 3, and Draco was out.