They had placed me in luxurious quarters on the second floor overlooking the garden. Everything was impeccable: antique furniture, expensive drapes, a full-length mirror, and much more, including books on the shelves — mostly French classics and works on local flora.
As for the dinner, it had gone predictably, though I was anxious — such a dinner as a guest, where you're alone in the circle of another family, was a first for me. They asked general questions about my progress at Hogwarts, what was taught there, about the upcoming Ministerial elections in Britain. It wasn't that they spoke to me as an adult, but such topics were touched upon one way or another.
Fortunately, I lived and breathed all of this anyway, so answering questions about Hogwarts — where I studied and had read books about my school — wasn't difficult. As for the upcoming elections… let me remind you, my father is the chief sponsor of one of the candidates.
Furthermore, I was interested in understanding the real-world principles of elections in magical Britain; relying solely on book information was far too naive. So I answered questions about who participates, how the elections work, and so on, easily and simply. I also tried asking counter-questions about elections in France. In the end, we reached a shared conclusion that Britain was too oppressive in this matter towards other magical beings, which everyone agreed with — for when a Briton himself points out the flaws of his own country, how can one disagree?
Overall, I tried to answer clearly, politely, demonstrating awareness but without delving too deep or boring them with details, and also leaving room for manoeuvre. Frankly, talking too much could make one seem like a chatterbox, though I admit, I did enjoy speaking at length. And in general — whether you want to or not, you tend to love what you're good at.
The family head, Alain de Millefeuille, spoke rarely, only occasionally uttering phrases of a man weary of life and casting heavy, appraising glances my way. The old lady Marie-Laure, however, sarcastically commented a couple of times on the "strange customs of the misty Albion" and constantly tried to needle me on the point that the Millefeuilles were a large family, one that had once separated from the Malfoys. To that, I remarked that the great Merlin walked his path alone, so true value lies in quality. After that, she just drilled me with her stare, muttering something under her breath now and then — hopefully not cursing me… but just in case, I performed a cleansing ritual that evening.
But the main manipulator at the table was the iron lady of the Millefeuille household, or so Father had explained, as old Alain was transferring more and more authority to his daughter each year, who would soon replace him as family head.
Father, of course, viewed this negatively — a family head and a woman… when there was a son, even if not power-hungry — meaning Bertrand. Perhaps Father also complained because Isabelle de Millefeuille conducted business even more pragmatically than her father.
Céline sat opposite. She hardly participated in the conversation, but I felt her attention. From time to time, our eyes would meet, and I saw the same analytical interest in her blue eyes. She was observing how I used my cutlery, how I conducted conversation, how I reacted to tricky questions. It was a quiet but tense atmosphere; everyone seemed to understand that one shouldn't press a child, yet all interest was focused on me. And while I love attention, my mind was under considerable strain during dinner and for an hour after.
Generally, when visiting, one should bring gifts for the hosts, but my visit itself was a gesture of the highest trust and a sign of my family's serious intentions. Bringing something material could have been interpreted as an attempt to "pay" for hospitality, which in this context would have been poor form. I was the living asset. I'd even say, a diplomatic message. That's why my behaviour and abilities had to justify the expectations of these people who were strangers to me until yesterday.
The next morning, I awoke at dawn. After yesterday's tension, I needed time alone, but locking myself in the room wasn't an option. Thankfully, I was accustomed to waking early, so I had time for solitude and my routine. The classic — a short warm-up, planks, push-ups, followed immediately by stretching (since I didn't know when I'd get to do my usual magic training, and stretching is always useful). After some thought, I decided to add squats after the stretching — a pull-up bar would have been nice, but since there wasn't one, I'd work on my legs.
After the brief physical workout came my morning ablutions, and then I had no more excuses to stay in my room.
Fortunately, all the manor's inhabitants seemed to be asleep, as I didn't meet anyone. I managed to get outside and decided to combine two pleasant activities: breathing fresh air and strolling through the wonderful garden to collect my thoughts.
By the way, poor Darter had flown back as soon as he arrived late at night. I had sent a letter saying everything was fine, I was well-received, I liked the French climate, etc.
Overall, I wasn't lying — the air of Provence, near the Alps, was delightful — fresh, imbued with the scent of damp earth and something floral I couldn't identify. The sun was just rising, painting the sky in pastel hues. I walked along one of the gravel paths leading deeper into the garden, enjoying the silence.
Except, the manor apparently wasn't asleep. At the very first turn, I ran into Céline.
She was kneeling before a bush with unusual silver-lilac flowers. In one hand, she held a small silver pruning knife; in the other, a glass vial into which she carefully collected drops of sap oozing from a cut on the stem. She wore a simple, practical dress, and her light hair was gathered in a careless bun. Seeing me, she slowly looked up. Her blue eyes were so clear I even began comparing them to my own. And that, I'll say, is telling, considering my slightly narcissistic personality.
"Monsieur Arcturus," she said, her voice sounding even more melodious in the morning quiet than before. "You're up early."
"As are you, Mademoiselle. Waking this early is a habit for me," I said, pausing. "I often train at dawn, but since I don't yet know where I could practice magic here, I decided to at least take a walk. And your garden is too enticing to stay indoors."
She looked at me intently, then returned to her flower.
"To be honest, I'm a little embarrassed. You've caught me in rather messy work. This is L'essence de Rêve Argenté (Essence of Silver Dream)," she explained, almost casually, gesturing to the vial. "Very finicky. It can only be collected at sunrise, or the magical properties weaken. And for the cut, you can't use crude magic, only neutral metals."
"I don't consider working with rare magical herbs something dirty, and I am genuinely impressed by your knowledge. To be honest, I didn't even know about such a plant," I said, moving a little closer but trying not to invade her personal space.
"Thank you." She set the vial aside and stood up, brushing off her knees. "You mentioned needing a place to train? You wish to practice magic?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I replied. "But not just practice — to train. You are certainly familiar with the concept of magical potential, so you understand why I need to train."
A spark of genuine interest flashed in her eyes.
"Well, in that case, follow me. I know someone who can help you with that. I'll show you the garden along the way… if you're interested, of course."
"While I'm not particularly skilled in Herbology, I would be very interested to see and learn more, especially in your company," I said, phrasing it deliberately ambiguously — hinting that I wanted to spend time with her, but it could also be interpreted as appreciating her expertise in the field. Let her think what she prefers.
We walked slowly along the path, and she began showing me the garden — not as a tour guide, but as a researcher trying to explain to a layman the charm of each little detail. I tried to grasp it while also getting to know the girl's character. I don't know how this will turn out, but at least the month and a half of summer won't be wasted, and I'll learn much new and improve my French.
"This is Larmes de Phénix (Phoenix Tears). Don't be fooled by its ordinary fern-like appearance. Its spores, if processed correctly, can temporarily accelerate bodily regeneration by dozens of times. And if incorrectly… well, never mind. And those over there, resembling bells — Souffle de la Brume (Breath of the Mist). Their fragrance helps clear the mind and enhances concentration."
"I'm curious what happens if you process the spores of the previous plant incorrectly."
"The opposite effect."
"I see… I'll remember that."
"Hopefully not for malicious deeds."
"Do you doubt my good intentions?"
"Not at all, just a passing remark. My apologies if I offended," she said, a bit flustered and reluctantly.
I raised my palms to show it was fine and replied, "It's alright. Your question was quite reasonable, but you understand. Actually, you asked the right question. This knowledge I needed clearly wasn't for the good of my neighbor, near or far."
The French girl snorted, clearly surprised by my candor. In her eyes, this wasn't just a list of plants. It was an entire science in which she had a deep understanding of magic as part of nature. Quite different from what's taught at Hogwarts, which is more about caring for fairly simple plants. Though most likely, ordinary students of Beauxbatons aren't this knowledgeable; it's just that this girl is clever.
"You speak of these plants so warmly, as if they are… living beings, not resources. Do you truly love them that much?"
She stopped and looked at me with mild surprise, as if I'd stated the obvious.
"Because they are, Monsieur Malfoy. All magic is life. It's just that most wizards prefer to see it as a tool." She turned to me, and that appraising gleam returned to her gaze. "And you? Do you see magic as a tool?"
It was a direct challenge. A question touching the very core of my soul. I thought for a second, watching the dew shimmer on the petals of Rêve Argenté in the sunlight.
"You know, that's an extremely intimate question, but if you look into my heart and cold mind, the answer would be this: I see magic as… a part of myself. That's why magic should be perceived as a partner that walks with you from birth until death," I finally said, choosing my words carefully. "A tool can be broken and discarded. With a partner, you must negotiate, show respect. Sometimes they yield, sometimes they set conditions. Like this plant of yours, which yields its essence only at dawn."
A genuine, unguarded smile bloomed on her lips for the first time that morning. It was dazzling.
"Your answer… is extremely interesting and gives me hope," she whispered, blushing slightly. "I meant, your answer reveals you as an interesting conversationalist, Monsieur."
"Mademoiselle Céline, to be honest, I feel awkward that we're having such a pleasant conversation yet still using formalities. What about switching to first names?"
"I would be delighted, Arcturus."
"You know, Céline, I really like the sound of my name in French. So I'm glad we've moved to a closer form of address."
"I would have thought it might irritate you. French is the softest and most melodic language, yet simultaneously sometimes extremely slurred and sharp."
"To be honest, the French accent makes everything more sonorous, to my ears. Your language, I dare say, is a pearl among the Romance languages. French is the most poetic and the harshest language I've ever heard. It can sound so beautiful that even crude words, spoken correctly, would sound like the works of Chaucer himself, or else words could sound like they're being uttered by a drunken pirate suffering from scurvy."
"Haha," the girl laughed with a charming sound.
"However, the average francophone is somewhere in between — pleasant and smooth, but very slurred and abbreviated. In the case of my name, I've only grown to love the French language more during my time here."
"I agree with you, Arcturus. It's nice to hear so many kind words about one's language, yet not doubt their sincerity. But is French really so beloved by the heir of the noble House of Malfoy from the misty Albion?"
"Perhaps it was once even the most beloved language, but for a long time, I haven't heard one particular language, not English, but another, special one. A language that holds as many facets as there are emotions in the moment of understanding the full diversity of images words can express."
"And what language is that?"
"Let that remain a mystery, just like your attitude towards this situation."
"And what mystery lies in my attitude? And towards what?"
"You're too intelligent not to know or understand."
"Is that so… interesting," Céline mused as we walked somewhere through the garden, along a path known only to her.
The morning sun grew stronger, bathing the garden in liquid gold, the air thick and sweet with the scents of hundreds of magical flowers. I walked beside the girl of exquisite beauty, absorbing the unfamiliar atmosphere of harmony and order. Tall trees, resembling cypresses, stood like sentinels along perfectly trimmed hedges, and in the distance, groves of silver flowers beckoned with cool shade.
We both walked in silence. She seemed to be thinking of how to respond, while I simply enjoyed the morning. After all, following yesterday's multi-sided assault during dinner, I had seriously doubted my ability to wrap words in the right packaging, but with a single, less experienced target, I still managed easily.
I tried to memorize the route, and essentially, we simply circled the manor and emerged in another part of the garden, full of various trees planted at a considerable distance from each other. You could literally connect them with rectangles. They were planted almost perfectly equidistant, and this part of the garden was simply stunningly beautiful. The magical flowers and plants were, of course, lovely, but the fairly large, verdant trees created such a pleasant picture that one couldn't help but admire it.
Near one of these trees, Louis was warming up — that same cheerful eldest son of Monsieur Bertrand. Interestingly, even in my thoughts, I was beginning to switch to French. Apparently, being surrounded by the language was taking its toll — hopefully, upon returning home, I won't mentally call everyone Mademoiselle and Monsieur.
Louis was warming up quite actively, moving with a certain grace. Interestingly, he was warming up specifically with his wand, tracing precise trajectories in the air, using the full possible range of motion in his swings. I should try that sometime. Seeing us, he stopped, and his open, friendly smile reappeared.