A New Chapter at Hogwarts [Drarry]

Chapter 24: Mother's Love

Draco Malfoy had always appreciated the elegance and beauty of Paris, but this visit had felt different—more fulfilling, more alive. The last few days spent in the city with Blaise Zabini had been nothing short of rejuvenating. Paris, with its intricate blend of history and modernity, seemed to breathe life into every corner, and Draco had found himself lost in its rhythm. He and Blaise had roamed through the city's heart, absorbing its rich cultural offerings. They had spent hours at the Louvre, surrounded by timeless masterpieces, the air heavy with the scent of oil paints and history. Standing before da Vinci's Mona Lisa and Michelangelo's Dying Slave, Draco had felt a rare calmness settle over him—a feeling of belonging to something larger than the sum of his past.

The Musée d'Orsay had been next, where the ethereal lightness of Monet and the bold strokes of Van Gogh had left Draco with a sense of awe. Blaise had guided him through the halls with an easy familiarity, explaining details of the works they admired, his voice low but animated as he shared his personal favorites. Though the city buzzed with life outside, inside the gallery was a world of stillness and reflection. It was a strange contrast to the Draco of old, whose life had been full of structured formality. Here, surrounded by art that spoke of rebellion, dreams, and emotion, Draco felt lighter, freer.

Blaise had also taken him to hidden galleries that most tourists overlooked—tiny spaces in the Marais or Montmartre districts, where modern works of art clashed daringly with the classical beauty of Paris. These pieces, full of sharp edges and abstract forms, were like a jolt to the senses. Blaise's keen eye for modern art, combined with his impeccable taste, had helped Draco appreciate the complexity of the avant-garde. They would leave each gallery deep in discussion, their voices rising and falling over cups of strong coffee at nearby cafés.

But it wasn't just the art and the city that had lifted Draco's spirits; it was Blaise's companionship. The easy camaraderie between them, cultivated through years of friendship, was soothing. Blaise had a knack for drawing Draco out of his introspective moods, whether with a sarcastic comment or a shared memory from their Hogwarts days. His friendship was effortless, lacking any of the weighty expectations that often clouded Draco's other relationships. Paris had done wonders for Draco's spirit, but it was Blaise's steady presence that had brought him the most comfort.

Yet, despite the rejuvenation he felt in the City of Light, there was a persistent tug at Draco's heart, pulling him back toward a different kind of solace—a quieter, more intimate one. It was the call of his mother, Narcissa, and the peaceful haven she had found in the southern United States for the holidays. The thought of seeing her in a place so far removed from the cold stone of Malfoy Manor felt like the final piece of his journey toward healing. He knew it would be difficult; their conversations had grown awkward over the years, weighed down by the shared burden of their past. But there was an unspoken understanding between them that this visit was needed—perhaps even more so than the lively days he had spent in Paris.

With that in mind, Draco found himself standing at the entrance of Blaise's luxurious Parisian apartment, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of the Eiffel Tower. The evening sun cast a golden light over the city, and for a moment, Draco stood still, letting the beauty of it wash over him. The tower stood tall against the horizon, a symbol of resilience and grace, much like the man standing next to him.

Blaise leaned casually against the doorframe, his dark eyes alight with a mixture of affection and mild concern. His tailored charcoal suit—immaculate, as always—mirrored the effortless elegance of the city itself. Draco could sense his friend's hesitance to see him leave. "Sure you don't want me to come along?" Blaise asked, a teasing note in his voice. "A bit of Southern sun could do me some good. Paris, for all its charm, can begin to feel confining."