Hermione took a great many more photographs that day.
"Are you taking all these purely for your own interest?" Draco asked, puzzled.
"Not entirely. I mean to take them home to show my parents," she said. "I imagine they will be disappointed at missing these views. We leave tomorrow."
"I see." He stood patiently to one side, hands in his pockets, quietly surveying their surroundings. Only once she had finished photographing did he ask, "Are you hungry?"
"A little."
"Shall we, together?" Draco nodded towards a restaurant along the road, bearing a sign for Château Èza. Hermione smiled at him, which he took as agreement.
The restaurant's waiter stood listlessly by the entrance, gazing blankly out at the street.
This was the last quiet moment he would have before the lunchtime rush began.
He had thought he might manage another half-hour of idleness, but, quite unexpectedly, a platinum blonde boy and a brown-haired girl walked up to the restaurant door, bringing his rest to an abrupt end.
They were clearly not locals.
Their flawless British accents gave them away as coming from that island across the Channel.
The waiter, at first rather short with them, was won over by the generous tip the boy casually produced; he swiftly adopted a far more respectful manner, and led the two guests to a table on the upper terrace, with a view of the distant mountains and sea.
The boy was most attentive towards the girl.
He waved off the waiter who had come to seat her, and pulled out her chair himself. The moment she sat down, he gently pushed it in, his movements so practised and natural it was as though he had received training from some grand hotel in Paris.
Immediately afterwards, the boy seated himself gracefully in the chair opposite the girl, entirely at his ease.
From the boy's elegant bearing, the observant waiter judged that his family must be both wealthy and powerful.
He dared not underestimate them any longer.
He courteously brought them two glasses of sparkling water, set two menus neatly before them, and stood a little way off, awaiting their instructions.
Hermione had little interest in what they were to eat; her interest lay in the view of the distant mountains.
Amid the click of her camera shutter, Draco called the waiter over, who promptly recommended the day's specialities to her.
"May I see the photographs you have taken?" While they waited for the food, he finally grew curious about the Muggle camera she kept fiddling with on the table.
"Of course," Hermione said happily, beckoning him closer to look.
So Draco rose and walked slowly round behind her, leaning down to look. The camera's screen was not large, and the sunlight rather too bright, so he had to lean in close, his hands resting on either side of the back of her chair, to see properly.
"Turn the pages for me, I am not too familiar with these Muggle gadgets," he said lazily, close to her ear, watching her work the camera, turning to whichever photograph he indicated.
The foreground featured plants, patterns in old stone walls, medieval buildings, the sky and sea beyond... and, further back still, some photographs that had nothing to do with Èze at all, mostly artworks from galleries and museums.
"You clearly have your own particular sense of composition, your own style," he said, a note of genuine admiration in his voice.
"Really? Mum said much the same, but I thought she was only being encouraging." She turned to look at him, smiling, and found his face very close to hers, close enough to make out the pale lashes round his eyes.
Only then did she realise his posture had grown rather suggestive... as though he had, quite invisibly, enclosed her.
He was not touching her at all, and yet this almost imperceptible closeness was somehow more trying than any actual contact would have been.
Her back stiffened suddenly.
"You have a good eye. I had no idea you were so interested in old architecture, and in art." Those grey eyes moved from the camera screen to her face, and met her gaze.
A flicker of panic showed in the girl's brown eyes. She felt her heart skip a beat, followed by a surge of feeling flooding straight from her chest.
Hermione had thought that, after the summer break, and a good deal of mental preparation, she might manage rather better than this; but it now appeared all her efforts had been for nothing.
How maddening.
She hurriedly began talking, hoping to drown out her racing heart in a flurry of words. "Oh, if I were not a witch, I might well have chosen to become a historian, or study ancient art... I have always been rather drawn to old things."
"Then I think you might rather like Malfoy Manor." Draco's eyes brightened, and he tilted his head to look into hers, a faint smile on his lips. "There are centuries-old antiques and paintings in the Malfoy family's collection there. Sometimes I think it is such a waste, that no one truly appreciates them."
For a moment, Hermione felt her thoughts drawn helplessly into that pale grey gaze.
"Really? Are they all magical items?" she asked nervously, looking away and gripping her camera tightly.
"Some are magical, but most are simply ordinary works of art and antiques, only very old ones," Draco said, smiling, finding her flushed cheeks rather pretty.
"Oh, I see." She said softly, blinking nervously, suddenly recalling the moment he had caught her on the steps not long before.
Too close. Being near him always left her feeling flustered like this. This was bad.
Just then, a Muggle couple from the next table came over and asked Hermione whether she would take a photograph of the two of them together.
She felt as though she had been granted a great amnesty, and seized on the excuse to escape his unsettling nearness.
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