Rhydian Black happened to, conveniently, be a wizard of many frequently employed skills, which he could cultivate to his use whenever he desired. Contradictory to his indignant denial, however, he was incapable of driving like a sane man.

A nasty collision was closer than he allowed himself to comprehend—the lad could steer a fucking broom with an absolute aversion of interception throughout his Quidditch endeavours, but concerning his capabilities behind a leather steering wheel, he was as educated as a thestral inebriated by ungodly quantities of firewhiskey.

Much to your potential fatality—seriously, you could practically envision your mortality rate rising to a staggering percentage—he was your reckless escort to a renowned Art Exhibition, which was hosted in the enamouring expanse of Provence, France; an hour and a half distancing you from the destination.

Excluding his routinely detours to showcase the wonders of France.

Ah, right—he’d hauled you to his family estate in Marseille, in intent of spending the duration of the Summer Holidays with you in his cherished hometown. There was a slight possibility this was merely an intricate scheme to abduct you, but Rhydian hadn’t seemed to advance upon the possibility as of yet.

The initial handful of minutes were endured in mutual silence. Rhydian was performing such erratic turns, it would undoubtedly contribute to being detrimental to the ridiculously expensive sports car he just had to flaunt.

Finally, Rhydian unapologetically shattered the companionable silence in favour of beginning himself with a dreadful fact, "it’s a somewhat extensive drive to get there, amour." He cast you a sidelong glance, and in the same heartbeat he managed to hit the curb. Adopting an unassuming expression, he ploughed on ignorantly—in both his chauffeur ministrations, and his conversational claims. "You’ll have to persevere with my wonderful driving skills for the evening."

The words spilt from his mouth so unabashedly, he seemed to be viewing this as a boast.