HP: Redemption of The Platinum Boy

Chapter 214: The Book of Prophecy of Danmas

The Grangers were not particularly alarmed when the boy appeared beside Hermione.

After the initial surprise, they tried with great enthusiasm to keep Draco with them — he had walked Hermione right into them at a restaurant, after all, and there was no graceful escape from that.

They became even more insistent when they learned he had "no other plans" for dinner.

It was evening. The rain had stopped, the sky had cleared, and thin wisps of orange-red cloud drifted across a deep purple horizon.

Mrs. Granger stood at the restaurant entrance, smiling at Draco, and said, "...Of course you must dine with us! What a coincidence — it's so rare to meet one of Hermione's friends this far from home. You always take such good care of our daughter at school — she's told us so herself."

"It's my pleasure," he said, his expression mildly embarrassed.

"Oh, son, we'd truly love to express our gratitude. We can't do much in that world we're not so familiar with, but at least we can treat you to a meal in this one, can't we?" Mr. Granger picked up where his wife left off, smiling kindly at him. "This restaurant is quite difficult to book — our friend was very lucky to secure a reservation for us..."

Draco smiled politely, his expression hesitant, without yet giving a reply.

As the clean, fresh air that followed the rain swept away the oppressive summer heat, Draco Malfoy suddenly became conscious of his own roguish nature, and an unfamiliar flicker of shame crossed his heart.

He felt a little guilty. The couple watched him with such open kindness, entirely unaware that he had spent the afternoon doing something rather wicked to their beloved daughter — had very nearly—

When the guilt surged through his mind like the Fontaine des Fleuves at the Place de la Concorde — Draco glanced furtively at the girl beside him, eyes downcast — how could he possibly accept their hospitality again?

At that moment, Mrs. Granger said to Hermione in an unquestionable tone, "Peanut, talk to him."

Little Peanut — that was what her family called her.

Oh, indeed.

Pretty little peanut — whose shell he had spent the afternoon peeling away.

He raised his eyes again and gave Hermione a quick, discreet glance.

For reasons she couldn't quite name, a light blush rose to her cheeks.

"Mum, I don't want to force him." Hermione stole a glance at him — which was immediately caught by a pair of grey eyes — and she could still feel the warmth radiating from the spot beneath her skirt where he had reapplied the ointment.

The ointment from the first application had long since worn off.

Thinking of his fingers — unhurried, drifting, impossibly gentle — she suddenly couldn't bring herself to look at him.

As if to antagonise her, Draco watched her face grow increasingly red, let his gaze drift briefly around the entrance, and then abandoned all pretence of hesitation, turning to give Mrs. Granger a bright, easy smile.

"Actually, it's no trouble at all... Monica, thank you."

The little witch who had spent the better part of the afternoon bossing him about now couldn't quite remember how to spell "comfortable."

Draco, naturally, couldn't miss such an opportunity. A thoroughly mischievous urge took hold — he wanted to watch her squirm a little more.

Besides, observing the Granger family dynamic had always been one of his quiet pleasures. The easy warmth that never graced the Malfoy dinner table made him want to draw closer, to sit within it a while longer.

And so Draco joined the cheerful family, working through escargot, braised beef, and roasted leg of lamb while Mr. Granger delivered a passionate critique of Shakespeare's literature and drama.

Mr. Granger, it seemed, was always particularly animated on the subject of theatre.

"You went to see Romeo and Juliet?" Mr. Granger said with genuine regret. "I had been meaning to go myself, but in the end I was drawn to Hamlet instead."

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he feigned indignation. "When I mentioned that play yesterday, a certain girl seemed rather uninterested!"

Hermione drew out her father's name with fond exasperation: "Daddy—"

"Sir, that's entirely my fault." Draco stepped in smoothly. "She took me to see the play to introduce me to Shakespeare — the timing simply worked out."

"Quite right! Everyone ought to encounter Shakespeare at least once in their lifetime! The profundity of his thought, the richness of his feeling, the precision of his language!" Mr. Granger's attention was immediately seized, and he even forgot to tease the young couple before him.

He gestured with great enthusiasm; anyone watching could see his genuine love for Shakespeare.

"You find every facet of human nature and every ill of society in his works — love, hatred, virtue, cruelty, compassion, jealousy, freedom, bondage, power, desire... love, friendship, family... poetry, rhythm, imagination..."

After a while, Mr. Granger concluded his analysis and turned to the young man across from him. "So, Draco — what is your opinion of Romeo and Juliet?"

"Undeniably moving," Draco said after a moment's consideration, "but I don't care for the ending."

"I expect young people generally find tragedy hard to stomach. You ought to see The Merchant of Venice tomorrow — a friend gave me tickets." Mr. Granger chuckled. "I personally love that comedy. I think one of the most remarkable characters is—"

"Darling, let them breathe for a moment," Mrs. Granger said with an understanding smile, nudging the central pot of Provençal stew toward Draco. "Draco, do have some more. I've noticed you've taken quite an interest in this dish."

"Yes — the broth has a subtle sweetness of fig," Draco said, glancing at Hermione from the corner of his eye before smiling at Mrs. Granger again. "Thank you."

Fig —

Hermione glanced at him sideways; his profile, caught in a sudden fall of light, was sharp and inscrutable.

She couldn't tell, for a moment, whether he was implying something.

She focused on her fish, absently pushing her side dish around with her fork, and barely participated in the conversation.

She had to maintain absolute composure in front of her parents. That meant she couldn't look at him — not once — and she absolutely could not look into those expressive grey eyes.

She felt as though she had lost her mind completely today, and his eyes were entirely to blame.

After finally pulling herself from that reckless afternoon, truly waking up to what they had done, she had almost bolted.

But she was wholly ensnared — caught fast in the quiet, careful trap that was Draco Malfoy.

And she hadn't the strength to escape regardless.

She felt like overworked dough — soft, limp, and completely without backbone.

She had told herself she would remain in control, as she always was, that everything was safely in hand. But those infuriating, captivating eyes had slowly dismantled her reason, and she had let him. Had actually let him.

Yes — at this moment she was absolutely certain: the danger had never been the bed. It was Draco Malfoy himself.

He was the danger.

All right, stop. Stop thinking about it. If she kept on like this, she would be in real trouble, Hermione warned herself sharply.

She did her best to maintain a nonchalant expression, stabbed a piece of fish with her fork, and turned her attention back to the table.

"...I think we shouldn't limit ourselves to classical drama. This city has so many forms of art — stage, gallery, street performance — each with its own kind of charm." Mrs. Granger's expression was notably bright, finally breaking out of the unusually quiet manner she had kept for most of the meal.

"Oh? Monica, do tell me — what strange and wonderful things happened to you today?" Mr. Granger asked.

"This afternoon, when the rain changed my plans, I ducked into a cinema and found a wonderful old film. Afterwards, I stumbled upon a rather extraordinary puppet show on one of the side streets..." Monica shared the highlights of her afternoon. "The most important thing isn't to resist the unexpected — it's to embrace it."

Draco nodded, looking genuinely persuaded, his smile now more natural than polished.

Though Mrs. Granger was a Muggle, she had an uncanny habit of saying unexpectedly insightful things, and Draco found himself curious about her — genuinely so. He was always quietly interested in the woman who had raised Hermione Granger, in what her words might reveal about where Hermione's sharpness had come from.

Hermione watched Draco's profile as he spoke with her parents — so pleasantly and so appropriately — and felt that the world had taken on a slightly surreal quality.

Even now, she sometimes found it difficult to reconcile the boy who wore such aloof disdain before the pure-blood wizards at the Slytherin table with the one who could smile so warmly at any Muggle.

Even when those Muggles were her parents.

Who had taught him this? Certainly not his prejudiced parents and elders.

Even if some of it was performance, even if he wasn't entirely sincere in every gesture, he was still markedly different from the other Slytherins.

Four years at Hogwarts had taught Hermione one undeniable truth: pure-blood Slytherins didn't merely look down on Muggles and Muggle-born wizards — they didn't even bother to pretend otherwise, let alone take the trouble to learn anything of Muggle customs or habits.

Draco Malfoy — a pure-blood wizard if ever there was one — ought to know nothing of the Muggle world. Yet he seemed to understand its basic workings well enough.

Not perfectly, certainly. But enough to navigate it.

He booked Muggle hotels without fuss and tipped the staff generously. He had mentioned once that the Manor had electric lights and a proper driveway; that his family held investments in the Muggle world, and that his parents had been known to holiday among Muggles.

The more she learned, the more it became clear that the Malfoys were far from entirely cut off from the Muggle world.

But then why did the Malfoys — who so readily enjoyed the conveniences Muggle society offered — despise Muggles and everything connected to them with such fervour?

Hermione was still turning the question over as she walked with her parents back to the hotel called La Divine Comédie. The logic was fundamentally flawed — the contradiction too glaring to be coincidental. Something, somewhere, had gone very wrong.

By this time, it was fully dark.

In the dim light, Mr. Granger stole a glance at his daughter walking a few paces ahead — she had been rather absent-minded since parting ways with the boy — and tugged at Mrs. Granger's sleeve. "How much do you think they genuinely like each other? They didn't seem very... warm, to me."

"Oh? How have you arrived at that?"

"It's plain to see — they barely spoke to each other all evening, and hardly paid each other any attention."

"Darling, are you being deliberately oblivious?" Mrs. Granger shook her head at her husband, who was always one beat behind. "She was simply shy! Did you not notice how many times she blushed — how many times she glanced at him all night?"

"I was rather caught up in Shakespeare," Mr. Granger said, scratching his head sheepishly. "And what's so surprising about her being shy? Our daughter has always been reserved. But what about the boy? He didn't seem shy at all. He was perfectly at ease all evening — yet he didn't speak to her much either."

"Did you notice how he pulled out her chair for her? Did you notice that they instinctively chose to sit side by side rather than across from each other?" Mrs. Granger gave him a look. "His expression was perfectly attentive all evening, as if he were hanging on your every word — but did you notice his fork? He quietly picked the olives she dislikes out of her side dish, right under your nose. He even transferred all the strawberries from his chocolate cake onto her dessert plate. You do remember how she loves strawberries."

"He did? When?" Mr. Granger said, bewildered. "I didn't see any of that—"

"Darling." Mrs. Granger regarded her husband with fond exasperation. "The most telling thing is that he came all the way to Avignon to see her. You don't suppose that was coincidence?"

"Hang on — now I understand why you were so quiet at dinner tonight." Mr. Granger made a face at his wife. "My lady, you're something else entirely. You used my passion for Shakespeare as cover while you quietly observed the two of them!"

"You've only just realised?" Mrs. Granger smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Congratulations — and thank you for the compliment."

"So their feelings aren't as lukewarm as all that?" Mr. Granger smiled at his wife and glanced at his daughter ahead — lost, it seemed, in some deep and private thought.

Whatever she was puzzling over, the slight smile on her lips must have something to do with that boy, the father thought, with a faint and unavoidable touch of melancholy.

"It isn't the coldness of their feelings I'm worried about," Mrs. Granger said quietly. "Rather the opposite. Their feelings run as hot as this city's summer air."

"Do you think it could lead to trouble?" Mr. Granger said softly. "The boy seems quite gentlemanly, in any case."

Monica, however, was thinking of the embrace the two had shared when parting at the hotel entrance earlier.

It was the only moment of physical contact the young couple had allowed themselves in front of them.

The way their eyes had met, the tenderness between them, the unguarded ease with which they had touched each other — an unconscious, unthinking familiarity that spoke of far more than casual acquaintance.

These details told Monica, quietly but unmistakably, that things were not simple at all.

She looked at the ribbon at the back of her daughter's dress — the bow knotted in a slightly different fashion from the one she had tied herself that morning — and murmured, almost to herself, "Oh, I'm not so sure..."

—

Meanwhile, the seemingly gentlemanly young man the Grangers had been discussing was making his quiet way down the carpeted hotel corridor toward his suite.

Draco wasn't certain whether his grandfather had returned, and that uncertainty gave him a faint flicker of unease.

If Abraxas had come back earlier, he would naturally have wanted to check on his grandson. Discovering that said grandson had vanished — leaving behind only a scrawled note reading "I'm going out for a bit, I'll be back later" — might well have prompted some pointed remarks.

It wasn't that Draco feared him, exactly. Abraxas had always been indulgent of his grandson's youthful follies. It was simply that explanations would require effort, and at the moment his thoughts were entirely occupied by Hermione.

Upon pushing open the suite door, however, he found only silence — nothing but the steady ticking of the wall clock.

His grandfather had not yet returned. That was unusual.

He knocked on his grandfather's suite door and called out tentatively, but received no answer. It seemed the old Seer had quite bewitched him, making him forget all about coming home.

How strange. Draco lay on the bed where she had lain, turning his mild concern over in his mind.

He'd be fine, surely. If something were wrong, his grandfather would have used the two-way mirror.

He murmured "Goodnight" to the ring — warm against his finger — breathed in the lingering scent on the pillow with quiet contentment, and closed his eyes.

Before long, he was asleep, sinking into the sweetest dreams he'd had in quite some time.

—

Draco didn't see his grandfather again until the following morning, at the breakfast table.

Abraxas looked tired — the signs of a sleepless night worn plainly on his face — but his eyes were bright and his spirits unmistakably high.

"Ah, Draco, come here quickly." He beckoned to his grandson with a broad smile and asked warmly, "Are you feeling better?"

"Completely recovered, Grandfather," Draco said, giving him a proper bow.

"Very good," Abraxas said with great satisfaction. "Come, eat with me."

Draco sat across from his grandfather and set to work on a perfectly flaky croissant.

"You came back rather late last night, Grandfather. Was Mr. Danmas truly that captivating?"

"I didn't return until well past midnight. Last night, Mr. Danmas hosted a small gathering, and I had the pleasure of meeting several people of real distinction in the field of prophecy," Abraxas said. "Don't underestimate him, Draco. He has genuine talent — one doesn't earn recognition in that field without it. After all, not everyone's ancestor could produce a work like The Centuries."

"But wizarding opinion on that book has always been divided," Draco said, dampening his grandfather's enthusiasm somewhat. "How do you know whether it's genuine or a forgery?"

"That's precisely because so many versions exist — it becomes rather difficult to determine which is authentic," Abraxas said. "I had the privilege of seeing the copy in his possession yesterday. I believe it to be the original — preserved by a student of the same-named ancestor, and passed down to Mr. Danmas through the years."

"I see."

"I'm told he has spent years attempting to decipher the text," the old man continued, "all in hopes of glimpsing what the heavens have concealed."

"Has Mr. Danmas already uncovered some extraordinary secret?" Draco found himself genuinely curious for the first time.

"Foolish child — glimpsing the secrets of the heavens is no simple matter, and that book is harder still. Many spend their entire lives in the attempt and never fully grasp it. The text is composed in a mixture of French, Provençal dialect, Italian, Greek, and Latin, and the word order has been deliberately obscured," Abraxas said. "Yesterday, some of the finest Seers in the world examined it for hours and still made little headway."

"Then your evening yielded nothing at all, Grandfather?"

Abraxas considered for a moment. "Not entirely. What draws me to Mr. Danmas is not merely the books his ancestor left behind — it is his own gift for prophecy. The Seer's talent that has flowed through the Danmas bloodline since Nostradame himself."

"I've never heard of him," Draco said. "Has he produced any credible prophecies?"

"That is precisely what makes it such a shame." Abraxas shook his head and clicked his tongue. "He became so fixated on unravelling the ancient mysteries his ancestor left behind that he neglected what was right before him — the very gift that runs in his blood. A talent like his, combined with a mastery of astrology, is exceedingly rare among wizards."

"You seem rather taken with him," Draco observed, glancing at his grandfather.

"We got on tremendously. He's a true connoisseur of wine — exceptionally discerning," the old man said. "He took a great liking to my bottle of Château Margaux 1787—"

"Speaking of which, Grandfather — why did you swap that bottle on its owner and then use the Imperius Curse to have the Muggle waiter smash the decoy you'd substituted?" Draco said, with a note of weary disapproval.

"It was perfectly win-win. That Muggle — Sackerin — had no real appreciation for it, and he knew it. Far better he collect the insurance and spend it on something he actually understands," Abraxas said with great enthusiasm. "The only party that truly lost out was the Muggle insurance company."

"Oh, Grandfather—" Draco stared at the ceiling, exercising considerable restraint. "It's not as though we can't afford it."

"But isn't it more amusing this way?" Abraxas glanced at his grandson's stern expression and sighed. "Don't be so earnest. Mr. Danmas is the only one who truly appreciates my sense of humour—"

"And does he share your methods?" Draco asked. "Has he also relieved some unfortunate Muggle of a fine bottle?"

"Château Lafite Rothschild 1787," Abraxas said, eyes gleaming with delight. "He didn't shatter a single bottle — he decanted that magnificent wine into his vinegar crock. Today he intends to crack it open, and we shall have a proper tasting."

"A remarkable achievement," Draco said, with patient resignation. "To think — between the two of you, you've been quietly drinking every bottle those Muggles never got to taste..."

Abraxas nodded with great satisfaction, a cunning glint in his eyes.

He leaned toward his grandson almost conspiratorially and whispered, "He's going to make an exception for me today and share some of his methods for interpreting prophecy. He may even attempt a reading for me — using the stars."

"Your schedule sounds quite full," Draco remarked. "Shall I accompany you, then?"

"I suspect you wouldn't enjoy the atmosphere — smoky, thoroughly wine-soaked, a bit disordered. Not the sort of thing that suits a young man." Abraxas took a comfortable sip of hot tea, narrowing his eyes with contentment. "Besides, Mr. Danmas insisted I come alone. He says it isn't the right time for him to meet you."

Draco's brow twitched slightly, but he remained silent.

"Should I be concerned about that?" he asked after a moment.

"Not at all." Abraxas waved a dismissive hand. "Seers can be peculiar creatures. He says that to everyone he doesn't wish to receive — I must have heard him say it a dozen times last night. I rather think it's simply a convenient excuse."

"Little Dragon — you'll be perfectly fine on your own, won't you?" Abraxas asked.

"No trouble at all. I'll rest at the hotel another day, or wander the neighbourhood," Draco said easily.

"Wandering suits this city well. It's full of life, isn't it? One mustn't become entirely removed from the Muggle world — there are so many Muggle interests at home that you'll need to understand, when the time comes. For a Malfoy, ignorance of the basic rules of Muggle society would be most unwise," the old man said, with the air of someone imparting settled wisdom.

"You're right," the boy said, with a small, sincere nod.

"And don't forget that the Malfoy family carries a drop of Seine water in its veins — don't let your French grow rusty." Abraxas winked at his beloved grandson. "Take plenty of Muggle currency when you go out, and contact me with the two-way mirror if anything happens."

Draco nodded and lowered his eyes.

He felt quite resigned to his grandfather's deep and enduring passion for all things mystical.

If your name was Malfoy, there were certain things you found yourself irresistibly drawn to — all the things that respectable wizarding society called heretical: Divination, the Dark Arts, alchemy, and their many obscure relations. Such pursuits held a kind of fateful, unavoidable pull for the Malfoys.

Not rational, perhaps. Not particularly practical. But a passion was a passion.

Draco wasn't troubled by it — who was without their particular obsessions?

And when this particular obsession of his grandfather's brought him the rather pleasant benefit of additional time with Hermione Granger, he found it genuinely difficult to object.

Draco stirred his café au lait — rich, reddish-brown, and steaming — with a silver spoon, and smiled quietly to himself as he thought of a girl with honey-brown hair.