Meet Francis Platinium
Title : Meet Francis Platinium
Language : ENGLISH
Beta : HPobsessssssed7
Rating : PG13
Genre : Humour, romance.
Word count : 11,900
Fandom : Harry Potter
Pairing : Draco x Hermione
Timeline : post DH, no epilogue
Status : complete, one shot.
Disclaimer : I wish I was J.K.Rowling... Well I'm not, and I don't earn money from this fanfiction.
A/N : This fiction had been inspired by an Amelie Nothomb's novel.
Francis Platinium was the pseudonym of the winner of the Grimoire in 2001, a kind of Nobel Prize of literature for wizards. And for the first time in five years, he accepted to meet one of his readers. All over the world, journalists and fans sought an interview, but only one of them had been selected: Hermione Granger. Every type of media rushed to her front door to ask her questions she couldn't even answer. She politely declined every demand of interview and waited for the day when Francis Platinium would announce that she could meet him.
She got the message in the middle of the night. A white cat penetrated her house and left a Portkey with a piece of parchment near her pillow.
"The Portkey is active for only ten minutes after Stevenson leaves it."
Hermione's heart jumped out of her chest as she read the message; and without really thinking, she hastily grabbed the Portkey.
That's how she found herself, still dressed in pyjamas, in the middle of a very dark room. Its unique window allowed the moon to light the place enough for Hermione to see the couch left for her.
"Hello, Miss Granger," said a voice in the far back of the room.
"Mr. Platinium, I'm pleased to meet you."
"Please, take a seat."
Hermione approached and sat on the couch. She stared in front of her, but the room was too dark, and all she could see was the reflection of the moonlight on a thick silver ring.
"Hum, sorry Mr. Platinium, but can I put the light on? I can't see your face."
"I don't put the light on at this hour of the night. You will see me when your eyes are used to obscurity. For the moment, content yourself with my voice..."
An embarrassed silence fell between them. Hermione thought that his voice was beautiful. It was calm, mysterious and grave.
"Mr. Platinium, may I ask you some questions?"
"What do you want to know?"
"What are you thinking right now?"
"If I knew what I was thinking all the time, I wouldn't have become a writer."
"You mean that you write in order to know what you're thinking?"
"It's possible, I don't know. I haven't written for five years."
"What?"
"Yes, I've written all my novels in two years, and they've been published progressively."
Hermione was flabbergasted, "When did you start to write?"
"When I was seventeen."
"So you're twenty four. Like me."
"You're good at arithmetic," Francis replied, irony in his voice.
"And you haven't written anything for five years? That's crazy." She said, moving her face toward him. She was holding the armrests of the couch, as if refraining herself from standing up.
"Yes. I started to write, and nothing could have interrupted me. Except eating and sleeping, I didn't do anything else. Then, after two years, I stopped neatly, like a turned off tap."
"You never got out? Met friends? What did you do during the war?"
"In fact, I never had friends. And the war... Well, I was born at seventeen, so I can't speak about the war."
Hermione frowned at his answer. As she expected, Francis Platinium was a complex person.
"And what did you do during those five last years?"
"I read my books and struggled to forbid their publication, in vain."
"They've sold millions of copies. The Queen of Spades has even been sold to Muggles. Why do you want to ruin your success?"
"Sometimes, literature is more harmful than war."
"You're flatting yourself."
"My books make you want to die, whereas war makes you want to survive, to live. People should have killed themselves after reading them."
Hermione chuckled. She couldn't see the frown of irritation on Francis Platinium's face.
"How do you explain that nobody does it?" She asked.
"That's simple, nobody read what I wrote. Otherwise, I would have been hated. Just look at the number of people who had actually and entirely read the Iliad and the Odyssey. They're so few, but Homer is a famous classic writer for everyone, even for Muggles. People don't read. Worse, some people know how to read without reading. When you ask them if the book changed them, they stared at you with their stupid eyes of house-elves, and answer, 'why, do you want this book to change me?'... I read like I eat, words penetrate my organism and become a part of it... But other people don't read."
"In that case, isn't it tragic to be a writer?"
"The height of the refinement is to sell millions of copies, while not being read."
"I never thought of that."
"You didn't win a Grimoire."
"I don't think you deserve that prize."
"Ah! What do you know about deserving, you, a Mudblood?"
"Mr. Platinium, I give you one minute to apologise. If you don't want to do so, I will leave this place. I will let you be bored stiff inside your filthy dark room."
"It's useless to stare at your watch; you can stay here two years. I will not apologise. The door is just behind you, so don't wait for those two minutes to end. Get out. The door is behind you, do you hear me?"
Hermione seemed to not listen to him; she was still staring at her watch, her face impenetrable. Two minutes, it's short. However, two minutes can seem endless when they're measured rigorously in a dead silence.
The hand on which the ring was shining disappeared in the dark, to pass through Francis' hairs. Hermione guessed that he was losing his calm.
"Well, two minutes are passed. Goodbye, Mr. Platinium, I was glad to meet you."
"Don't go. I order you to stay."
Hermione couldn't refrain from grinning. She knew him too well.
"Please, sit down," he added.
"It's too late to apologise."
She turned her back on him and walked toward the door.
"By Merlin, stay!"
"Goodbye," she put her hand on the lock.
"I'm sorry, you hear me? I'm sorry."
She looked back at his shadow, "I said, it's too late."
"Crap, it's the first time that I'm giving an apology in my entire life."
"That explains why they're so lamely done."
"What, do you reproach them?"
"You should have said: My apologies, Miss Granger, to have insulted your person."
"What hypocritical bullshit!"
"Hypocrite or not, I leave instantly if you don't apologise correctly."
"My apologies, Miss Granger, to have insulted your person. So, are you happy?"
"No, your tone was sarcastic. Goodbye, Mister Platinium."
She held the knocker again, when the writer screamed, "My apologies, Miss Granger, to have insulted your person!"
She walked back to her couch, and sat on it, legs crossed, "That's better. Next time, be quicker. To punish you, I want you to say why you want me to stay."
"What? You're pissing me off!"
She looked at him severely, and made a move to stand up.
"I want you to stay because I'm desperately bored stiff! I've been bored for five years."
"I knew that you're bored; you're telling me no news. I know you better than you think, Mister Platinium."
The man chuckled.
"You know me?"
Hermione nodded, "Your personality is swept from your books. First of all, I think you're like the second character of Albinos snakes.
"Him? The deaf and mute monster? That ugly coward? It's ridiculous!"
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Platinium. When I understood this, I figured out that you're a good person and not as perverted as you make your readers think."
"I don't give a fuck about your sympathy, and about what my readers think?"
"But you don't want me to get out either?"
"One of the best writers in the world confesses that he needs you, and you're not happy?"
"Do you want me to cry with joy and to wash your foot with my tears?"
"Yes, I like it when people grovel in front of me."
"In this case, let me leave."
"Stay, you're tough, it amuses me. And there's an exercise which I enjoy particularly: humiliate pretentious females, shitty girls like you."
"For my part, my favourite entertainment is to deflate balls of proud and haughty writers."
A shrill of excitement ran through Francis' spine. He was having great fun.
"I have nothing to say to you Miss Granger. I've put myself out for five years, and I only need you to entertain me. So, do something. Entertain me."
"I don't know if I can entertain you, but I know I can piss you off."
"Piss me off? You pretend that like a prophet! Well, go on, piss me off."
"It's extraordinary, I already entertain you."
"Please, continue on."
"You told me you have nothing to say to me. It's not reciprocal. I have many things to say..."
"Let me guess what a female like you can tell me... That women and magical creatures are not positively depicted in my novels? That I'm as racist and misogynist as Alban, that character in Albinos Snakes?"
"Fail."
"So? You surely want to know who cleans this room?
"Why not? It will give you the occasion to be finally interesting."
"Yeah, play the provocation.The weapon for the worthless."
"The jury of the Grimoire might have gotten a sunstroke the day they elected you."
"For the first time, I agree with you. Everything is a misunderstanding. It's like giving a peace prize to V-Voldemort or a wizard-chess trophy to Harry Potter."
"Harry and Voldemort are more famous than you."
"But if I was as famous, I would have been as dangerous as Lo... Vol.. Voldemort. That's why I'm sure no one reads my books. You're so silly, that I'm sure you've never read one of them either."
"To set you straight, you're in front of one of the rare people who has read all of your thirteen books."
The man was astonished for a moment. As he predicted, her eyes got used to obscurity. She could see that he was dressed in a elegant black robe. The ring shining on his right hand was a signet ring, silver and green. Still, his face remained hidden in the dark.
"Congratulations, I like people who are capable to tell such lies."
"Sorry, but it's true."
"Under the threat of an avada kedavra?"
"No, with all my free will."
"Impossible, otherwise I wouldn't see you like I see you tonight."
"How do you see me?"
"Hmm... Radiant and insignificant."
Hermione snorted at his description, "Mr. Platinium, I love your novels. I never get bored or horrified while reading them."
"I can't believe you read them all..."
"There is an alternation between some meaningful passages, fraught with significations, spiels. And that's exactly what you are, a paradox. I can imagine the jubilation you had when you wrote those lines, apparently profound but hollow in reality."
"What are you rambling about?"
"I say that you're a person of bad faith. You're being two-faced. And that's the highest pitch for a writer who pretends to struggle bad faith."
"And you think that you can identify those passages where I'm supposedly acting in bad faith?"
"Yes, every time I burst out laughing, I know you're lying. I found it very clever, to struggle against bad faith by bad faith. But, you must know that this technique is too fine for your gross enemies. Even your mother couldn't have found the truth."
Francis, was torn between horror and fascination. She knew him very well. She might be the only person in the entire world to know the two sides of his personality. The lies and the truth. The question was, was she clever enough to figure out the reason of this duplicity?
"I'm a liar? What about you, who pretends that you've read all my novels?"
"Test me."
"No."
" I red Paris, Eyes of Automn, Pretty Little Monster, Discussion with the Moon, The One-Legged Centaur, Japanese Wands, The White Curse, Huelgoat, The Queen of Spades, Albinos Snakes, Hippogriffs Hide Themselves to Fly, The Ghost of my Owl, Dementors' Night and... And one is missing."
She bit her lower lips, as she searched the title of the book.
"You named thirteen books, none are missing."
"You think so?"
"Yes, you've learned your lesson very well."
"But I'm convinced that one title is missing... I ought to enumerate them again."
"Oh no, you won't!"
"I have to, otherwise I won't be able to persuade you that I read all of your books."
"I give you my absolution."
"Do you have a quill and a piece of parchment?"
"I told you to give up."
"Well, help me if you're annoyed. And tell me, what's the missing book?"
"I've no idea of what you're talking about. I already forgot half of the list you recited to me."
"You forget your creations?"
"Naturally. I hate them."
"So, I read Paris, Eyes of Autumn, Pretty Little Monster, Discussion with the Moon, The One-Legged centaur, The White curse, Huelgoat... Whoops, I forgot Japanese Wands!... Well, err... I said Paris, Eyes of Autumn, Pretty Little Lonster, Discussion with the Moon, The One-Legged Centaur, The White Curse, Hueltgoat..."
"Oh, please stop it. I told you there isn't a fourteenth book."
"You're confusing me. I have to restart from the beginning. Well, Paris, Eyes of..."
"You win, you're pissing me off. Now, shut up..."
"...Autumn, Pretty Little Monster, Discussion with..."
"By Merlin..."
"Stop complaining and help me to find the title."
"No."
"Paris, that makes one, Eyes of Autumn, that makes two, Pretty Little Monster, three, Discussion..."
"What do you not understand about the words shut up?"
"Ah... I lost track again... Err, I already said Paris, Eyes..."
"The Birth of the Dragon!"
"The Birth of the Dragon! That's it!" Hermione said, featuring a satisfied smile. "Thank you Mister Platinium."
"You're not welcomed."
There was a pause, each character measuring the other. Then the writer spoke.
"Now, let's talk seriously. How did you find it? There's only one example of this book, and I possess it."
"I was working in a library when the publisher sent copies of the book for sale and renting. The staff was about to open boxes when my boss stopped us after he received a message from the book house. He ordered us to put all the books back, to close the boxes, and to keep them in a locked room until some people would come to destroy them. As curious as I am, I wondered what kind of book it was, to be destroy and forbid to sale. So I stole a copy, and I charmed another book to replace it. They checked the boxes, counted the books, and burnt them all. But now there are two copies of The Birth of the Dragon."
Platinium was in cold sweat, hoping no one else had had the same idea as Hermione. In principle, his publisher had assured him that a competent team had been hired to destroy every book in time.
"The Birth of the Dragon" is my favourite book Mister Platinium. The story of this boy who just wanted to be someone, but was only the shadow of his father! Worse: he was unable to be himself, to act, because no one ever let him use his free will. However, free will is the essence of humans. That's the point you tried to develop. It's the motor of our choices, the absolute power to make choices.
Free will implies that the person has a certain control of his acts and emotions. The hero of the novel was lacking that capacity. Besides, the exercise of free will requires that the terms of the choice are real possibilities. In order to choose between A and B, they have to be possible. As I read The Birth of the Dragon, I understood how tragic life can be when it's not the case. You're just the pawn of someone else, of destiny or of the hazard... I couldn't help but sympathise with the poor boy who realised this when it was too late. Yes, he wanted to be someone, but he was no one, nothing but a pawn. Unless the fact that real pawns don't suffer because they have no heart. This book is a well of truth. No one has ever been so sincere, so..." She looked for the right word. "... so nude in his writing, Mister Platinium. Now you understand how I discovered the trick in your other books."
The author was listening to her, silent and captivated. Hermione Granger was an amazing person. Always surprising him. What was scary was that he appreciated it.
The sun was waking up, forming a golden line in the horizon, its ray of light illuminating the long and blond hairs of Francis Platinium. Hermione could almost see his light grey eyes shining in the shadow of the room. Her heart pounded violently, as she distinguished his masculine jaw-bone. She wished she would stay long enough to see his face entirely.
What I don't understand in this book, is the end. Or, I must say, the beginning. You never finished it because the story starts, and then ends immediately, when the hero is seventeen..."
"You understand the book perfectly. The end is the end. There's no 'to be continued', there's no following chapter."
"But what I want to know, as a reader, and as a character of the story, is what happened when the boy finally made a choice by his own free will?"
Francis winced a little, but didn't reply.
"The main character, Draco Malfoy, is you Mister Platinium..." She observed him intensely as she declared that. He shifted in his place; nevertheless, he stayed mute. "I never told anyone that I read this book," she followed on. " I never ever mentioned it, even in my sleep."
After a short moment of silence, Francis Platinium, or, must we say, Draco Malfoy, replied, "You're right when you say that no writer could have been more sincere in his novel with himself, with his readers. The Birth of the Dragon ends on the day when I burnt my parent's manor, the symbol of my prison."
"Can you tell me what happened next?"
Draco Malfoy returned to his muteness. Hermione stared at his face, which the sun was revealing slowly. He had handsome features, half long hairs cut messily, and bright silver eyes, marked by boredom and loneliness.
Hermione tried to change her tactic, "I used to wish I could read you my favourite part of the book. May I...?"
The writer lifted a quizzical eyebrow, thinking that she hadn't had time to come up with a book, but she started to talk, and despite himself, he was enchanted to find that she knew it by heart.
"Everyone wants to change the world. This sentence looks simple but it took him many times to get it, then to wrote it with his own quill.
First, a birth date: fifth of June, 1980. Seventeen years, it leaves a mark.
Life is disappointing. You're born, you eat, you walk, you laugh, you run, you love, you cry, and then you die. Everything, everybody, THE WHOLE WORLD is chained on this schema and keeps on repeating on and on. Another decisive date: tenth of June, 1996, he was sixteen and was about to get wracked physically and mentally. When you're sixteen, you believe in what you've been taught, you believe in the power of changing the world, you believe in Muggleborn filthiness. And one day you have to choose between killing or being killed, and you realize that you're just a link of the chain, that everybody wants to change the world, and that everybody is just a link made with same materials, same blood, same flesh.
December the first, 1997: now he has grown up, he doesn't care anymore to be a simple link, but he doesn't want to repeat the schema either, he doesn't want to repeat mistakes of his eldest, and, above all, he doesn't want to repeat his own mistakes. To lose your memory doesn't help you to find your way."
As the night was leaving the sky completely, and the day was preparing itself to come, Hermione could see some expressions in Draco's face. It seemed that he had put his armchair in the darkest place of the room, where the sunlight couldn't reach completely at this hour of dawn. She wasn't willing to do it, but if she went to the window, she could properly see his face.
"I was certain that nobody would understand this book," explained the latter. "That's why I decided to publish it under a false name. But I quickly realised that every line was a mistake. You can't give yourself to the world like that, and truth be told, I was fool to think that being honest would incite people to pardon me."
"Why did it work with me?"
"I don't know..."
"Why did you write it?" She asked then.
"Writing an autobiography was an idea which haunted me since I stopped to sleep at nights, since my reality got blurred by nightmares."
"Ha! So you admit it's an autobiography?"
He nodded, a typical smirk on his lips, "And you're supposed to be the cleverest witch of my generation..."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Through pages, I felt like I was approaching the truth about human condition." Draco followed his explanation, "I hadn't found the reason of my existence yet, but writing allowed me to relive my childhood and to get rid of it once for all. When I wrote the last line, when I put the last mark point, it was as if I was triumphing over time and death. At first I analysed this urge to write about my life as a letter to the wizardry world. It was an answer to every suspicious and disdainful looks when I said my name, to every low mass when I entered a room, to every accusation I was victim of. However, as I was secretly blackening parchment after parchment, taking care of the style, looking for the right word, I realized that it was definitely directed to me and not to you all. It should have stayed a simple outlet that I should have burnt when I'd finished it. But it was too late; my editor wouldn't let me get it back. So I quickly wrote thirteen others and better books to drown this one. It worked: seeing their perfection, my editor agreed to suppress soon-to-be-sold copies of The Birth of the Dragon and to earn every benefit of the selling of the thirteen books in compensation. I chose a pseudonym, and Francis Platinium has become famous."
"'I've got another question. Why did you decide to meet me?"
"Tsk tsk, Granger, bad faith... I didn't decide it. I accepted the invitation you made in Magical Quills Magasin."
Indeed, as soon as she understood his game, Hermione had made everything to make him know that someone knew the truth. And Magical Quills Magazine's interview had been a windfall.
For his part, to discover that Hermione Granger was one of his biggest fans, only woke up his curiosity. He had thought that receiving her would be a good entertainment; nevertheless, he had no idea that she was carrying an investigation on him.
The sun was definitely up in the sky, and the room was getting lighter in an extent that, when the first bird sang in the morning, Hermione could entirely see his face.
"Good morning, Draco Malfoy."
"Good morning, Hermione Granger," replied the writer, in an uneasy voice.
The electricity in the air was almost palpable.
A strange feeling of satisfaction and excitement was running through Hermione's veins. It was like being about to spend a treasure after a long hunt. Her treasure was tall- taller than in her memories and imaginations- elegantly dressed, and had the same grey look he had when he was younger.
He crossed his legs and rested his head on his ringed hand, diving his eyes in hers in a way that made her want to cross her legs too and straighten her back.
They stayed silent some minutes, defying and considering each other, until she spoke again.
"I want you to count me the end of the book."
"You have the end. You know it by heart."
"No, no... This part, what you call 'the end' was a diversion. I want to know what happened after the manor got burnt and who the dead boy the Aurors found completely charred was."
Draco was pondering her request. It was the end of the game. If he counted her the final chapter of the book, she would be satisfied and would have no interest in staying here anymore. He was interested in her now. He wanted to know what kind of girl she was, to read all of his books, to spoil so much time to find his identity, and to understand who he was and what he went through.
He observed her, head to toes, discovering the mature features of this girl he used to hate so much. Where was it now? Where had all this hate and jealousy gone? Could he feel indifferent to her? No, he was definitely feeling something strange and strong for Hermione Granger, but it had nothing to do with the hatred they shared seven years ago.
"Well, while I was imprisoned inside the Ministry's cave for two months, my father had been sentenced to twenty years in prison and my mother got ill. The ministry finally allowed me to go home, but prevented me to quit it during another two months and kept my wand. Some days after my return, my mother died, and I... kind of went mad. Many horrible ideas crossed my mind, but I wasn't able to attempt on my life. And I blamed myself to be such a coward. One morning I found out that I could disappear from the world without committing suicide. I fired every domestic and freed every house-elf. When I was sure no one was at the manor, I put it on fire. Little did I know that Theodore Nott would pay me a visit..."
"Oh my God, it was Nott..."
Draco nodded to confirm her statement.
"The corpse the Aurors confused with mine was Theo's. He was in flee since his father got killed during the final battle at Hogwarts, and came to get my help. I can remember everything like it happened yesterday. His voice, his expression, his fear... 'I thought I could get help by coming to you, but I'm just discovering that you're the one who actually needed help,' he said, before a burning beam fell on his head. Neither of us had a wand. I watched his body burn with horror and fascination, wondering how life can be weird, and nasty, and vengeful... then, I disapparated in the forest nearby."
"Where did you go after that?"
"First, I fled to France, then to Greece, but everywhere I went I couldn't sleep at night. Images of the war, of my parents, of my friends, my doubts, my regrets and my shame, were torturing me. I found respite when I started to write the book. I don't know why, but I suddenly had this faith in me that pull me up of despair. I'm plainly not happy, I don't laugh everyday or even every week. I live with Stevenson, my butler, and Platon, my Afghan Hound. And the only people with whom I communicate are my editor and journalists. However, today I live in peace with myself and the world, I like that simple life. Hatred and destruction are a waste of time and energy."
Hermione smiled at the lot of ground he had covered. A slight frown appeared on Draco's forehead, as he didn't understand her smile.
"Where are we?" She asked.
"In Corsica, an island in the south of France. If you look out the window, you can see the Mediterranean sea."
Hermione stood up cautiously, as if she'd just woken from a long sleep, and went to the window in supple steps. Draco followed and stood just behind her, only ten centimetres were separating their bodies. He could smell her sweet and fruity perfume and felt his heart bolt when she moved her hair to one side and revealed the soft skin of her nape. He slightly approached with his nose when she suddenly turned back. Stirred out of his vertigo, Draco straightened his body like a soldier at attention. Hermione blushed, surprised and embarrassed to see him so close. She smiled politely and blocked a lock of hair behind her right ear to hide her discomfort. And something was impressing about him. She reckoned he was kind of handsome in his way.
He was fixing her with a look she never saw on him. And, before she could understand what meant that look, he captured her mouth in a smooth kiss. Her body collided with the fresh window, as he sensually passed his tongue between her lips.
At first she didn't move, too choked to record what was happening. But when she felt his hand running through her hairs and body, she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to let the kiss deepen.
They kissed tendered during a moment, passionately the next one, without any rhythm, any logic, without any reason than the one that it was great and good.
But the kiss ended as surprisingly as it had begun. Draco released her body, and stepped away.
Hermione was confused whereas Draco seemed terrified.
"Thank you to have accepted my invitation. That interview was... interesting. And captivating," he said in a distant voice. Hermione was lost by his attitude and decided that maybe things must stay this way. His phlegm was seducing but he would never know it.
"It was a great moment for me, too..."
He took out a peacock's plume from under his cloak, and tapped on it with his wand to activate a Portkey. Disappointment stung Hermione's heart as he handed her the beautiful plume. She knew it shouldn't be the end, but she couldn't find any objective reason to stay there. Therefore, she held the Portkey.
"Goodbye, I hope we'll..." Hermione never got to hear the end of the sentence. She was already in her bedroom.
Epilogue
The memory of his eyes and his sweet voice stuck on her skin. Six days had passed since the interview, and Hermione was craving to meet Draco Malfoy again. But the idea to look for him also seemed stupid.
She didn't sleep much, hoping to receive a letter accompanied by a Portkey. She didn't see her friends, since she would only want to talk about him and he was her secret. She never filled them in her findings, and she never revealed that she already had her interview with the famous writer to anyone.
This morning, she woke up with the same disappointment and the same name at the edge of her lips: Draco Malfoy. She walked toward her kitchen, when she caught a glimpse of a dark falcon. She approached the animal, and saw a parchment attached to his right leg. A strong intuition made Hermione guess who could use such an animal to transport his letters.
Her heart pounding madly, she detached the parchment and unfolded it.
"When I met Hermione, I thought 'what a strange name,
it sounds romantic, it sounds antic, it sounds tragic.
But Hermione is joy, is grace, is modern.
As for me, my soul was fool, and I had grey in my veins.
When I met Hermione I thought 'where did she come from, that one, with such a stupid name, a name coming from another world.
As for me, my heart was blind and I favoured pure grey blood.
Hermione, she's a lightning strike, she's my blues, she's not grey, but she's beautiful like an avada kedavra.
She's like a nocturne perfume which tastes like the dawn, because she never said never, because she's got freedom at the tip of her fingers.
When I met Hermione, I thought she was lost, without a God, no Master.
Her crazy mane is the emblem of her crazy mind.
A crazy name for a crazy lady who threw me into craziness.
I want you as much as I hated you.
Hermione..."
Below, an address was written.
"La Villa Bleue, 3 Allée de la Pointe des Lilas, Ajaccio, France.
"I have a ministry's authorisation to connect my floo-network to yours for thirty minutes, as from one PM."
"Dear Mister Platinium," she hastily wrote on a piece of paper, "it will be a real pleasure to join you. Sincerely, The Crazy Lady."
-oooooo-
As promised, she joined him in his Corsican Villa. All blue, Draco Malfoy's residence was situated at the end of a cliff, facing the Mediterranean Sea.
Hermione arrived in his lounge, welcomed by Stevenson, the animagus working for Draco as a butler.
The latter made his entrance the minute following. His eyes were shining with something between admiration and desire, but his body stood still in the middle of the place. The look they shared was so ablaze that it could have driven the sun jealous.
Hermione took all her courage, walked in his direction and hugged his body with all the passion she could express. At first, he seemed paralysed, but soon, he returned her embrace and relaxed as he inhaled the perfume of her hairs.
"I was right, the book isn't finished yet," Hermione observed out loud as she loosened her hug to face him. "I wonder what will happen to this boy now," she added, searching for his eyes.
"It's a book with no end. The following belongs to me... to us," he said, putting a sweet kiss on her lips. Hermione beamed and chose to answer by deepening it.
THE END.