They’re finally coming up to the tower’s platform: a break on the ascent with a view of the long and palm-lined promenade and busy Ponchettes Beach. The sea is so blue it looks like it was put there by a paintbrush, guided by the hands of the old Grecian Gods themselves. Draco can hear it: the hiss of the water on the rocks, the salty breeze sharp in his nose. He steers Harry to the platform’s edge, pressing his fingers lightly to the small of his back, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material of his top. 