desespoir45

Title: For Blue Skies

Author: desespoir

Notes: I should stop saying this story is complete and that every part I post is going to be the last because we all know I’m not fooling anyone. Kind of obsessed with writing this one and I LOVE all the support, reviews, and ideas. Keep them coming – I might actually keep this one going. You are all amazing. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I think we’ve established by now that I don’t own Glee which is the sad, sad truth. Lyrics below belong to Regina Spektor. The lines from Romeo & Juliet belong to William Shakespeare.

It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song. You can’t believe it, you were always singing along. It was so easy and the words so sweet. You can’t remember. You try to feel the beat.

-*-

April 20^th, 2013

2:00 PM

She keeps herself at a safe distance away from him and sits at her desk, her hand clutching the side of the table, as if pressing her very being into it is the only thing that is saving her from collapsing to the ground.

What was the right thing to do now? Was she supposed to welcome him back with open arms?

She wants to go to him. She wants to slap him. She wants to kiss him. She wants to yell at him and make him feel everything she’s felt for the past year. She wants him to suffer. She wants him feel the vulnerability that she feels every moment that she stays in his presence.

She wants him to tell her that he still loves her. And then she wants to fall into his arms and never leave. She wants him to tell her that everything that happened in the past year was just a bad memory and that they were okay.

She wants him to tell her that they would be okay. She wants him to lie to her. She needs it.

But she says nothing. And he says nothing.

So, they sit there. She stares at the ground. He looks out the window, hands clasped tightly around his knees.

The room is silent. It is not easy like it used to be.

-*-

April 27^th, 2013

He comes by her door every morning before her class to take her out to breakfast.

It’s what they used to do together in Lima. She remembers the local diner that made the best waffles served with real strawberry topping. It was her favorite and every Sunday morning, bright and early, she would get her fix. Most days, they sat in his car in the school parking lot, sharing breakfast sandwiches or granola bars.

She takes a slow sip of her coffee and she cannot ignore the thought when it flashes through her brain.

This is not the same.

-*-

May 5^th, 2013

She finds that it is easier to look in his general direction now but she still can’t look him in the eye.

They spend at least a few hours every day together yet she can’t seem to find the point. What were they doing?

She honestly didn’t know.

He rented an apartment a few blocks away from her dorm. She doesn’t know why he did it. She doesn’t know what he expects or what he wants from her.

She doesn’t know how to do this. How does one do this? How does one fix something like this?

She feels confused all the time. Her emotions are a jumbled mess and when she wakes up, most days, she just wants to crawl back in her bed and scream into her pillow.

She doesn’t know what to do. So, she takes the lie with a bitter swallow and bites her tongue as they sit side by side in the movie theater.

She doesn’t pay attention to the movie. She makes sure she stays on her side. She trains her eyes so that they don’t wander off and stare at him in confusion and longing and hurt.

She just stares ahead, blankly.

It will have to do for now.

-*-

May 16^th, 2013

She’s almost done with her very first year in college. She’s midway through studying for her finals. She’s scanning through her flashcards when she hears him shuffle behind her. She looks back at him.

He sits on her bed looking through the local newspaper for job openings. It’s what they do now.

They sit. She studies. He looks for a job. She hates it. He is there physically but he is not actually there; it is just a vacant and empty space.

They still have not talked. She doesn’t know what to say.

She slams her textbook down onto her desk and whips around at him. She looks him dead in the eye and shakes her head in disbelief.

“What are we doing, Noah? What is this?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered.

“What is this, Noah? We haven’t talked about anything. I can’t keep going on like this, pretending that we’re okay when we’re not. Why are you here? Why did you come?”

He is still quiet.

She stands up and starts pacing around the room, running her hand through her hair in frustration.

“Say something, Noah. Please.” She begs him, her brown eyes imploring for him to answer her. “Just say something.” She whispers. “Anything.”

She stands directly in front of him, their bodies only separated by centimeters yet they were so far away. She reaches out and touches his head gently. He leans into her stomach and wraps his arms around her midsection.

She can feel the tears begin to slide down her face. They are nothing compared to the wetness she feels on her shirt or the intensity of his grip.

-*-

June 9^th, 2013

Her hands are shaking. Her hands grip the paper so tightly that she’s positive she’ll rip them apart at any moment.

She feels a calming hand on her shoulder and nervously, she smiles back at him.

“You can do this.”

His rich voice washes over her. She nods numbly and lets out a heavy sigh. She closes her eyes when she hears the guitar begin to strum.

It’s exactly how she remembered it. The air builds up in her stomach, the sound traveling up her entire body and erupting out, past her lips.

She sings.

It feels so damn good.

-*-

June 16^th, 2013

She holds the phone to her ear. The call ended over a minute ago but she can’t seem to let go of the phone.

Noah sits across from her and stares at her expectantly. “Well, what happened? What did they say?”

She laughs, the sound unfamiliar to her own ears. “I got the part.”

A wide grin breaks out on his face and he seems happier than he has ever been. The youthful gleam returns to his eyes. He is so handsome.

She promises herself that she will audition for as many roles and practice as hard as she has to if he will smile like that every single time.

She grins back at him and throws herself into his arms. He smells like fresh laundry and cotton. Her body melts into his.

They had been in this bizarre form of relationship purgatory for the past two months and everyday, it gnawed at her heart. Every night, she closed her eyes, wishing that the next morning, she would awake to a life that made sense and someone that loved her.

She doesn’t have that quite yet.

But, she’s getting there.

-*-

July 29^th, 2013

Central Park is beautiful in the summer time. She sits on the grass and dusts an invisible piece of lint from her sun dress.

It’s yellow. She doesn’t typically wear the color but it seemed fitting for today. She takes a sip of the chilled orange juice and basks in the sunlight.

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.

Shakespeare in the Park is one of her favorite things about New York, she’s decided. She turns to Noah, her brown eyes watching him adoringly. He looks off into the distance, watching an owner play with a puppy by the lake.

His palm is upturned, his posture relaxed. He is comfortable. The worry lines and dark circles have begun to fade.

She reaches out, hesitantly, her hand hanging in mid-air. She takes a deep breath and gently, places her hand in his.

His head immediately snaps back to her. He seems to switch his gaze back from her hand to her face, his eyes deep, trying to read and understand what she’s trying to express.

She smiles cautiously at him, her breath catching in her throat.

He leans in slowly. The air grows heavy around them.

The moment their lips touch, Rachel melts into him and lets out a deep sigh that she’s been holding in for so long.

It was perfection and in that moment, things were right again.

-*-

Title: Corner of Your Heart

Author: desespoir

Notes: Sequel/Puck’s POV to “Disintegration”. It really was going to be a one-shot when I posted it but I love the angst.

Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own Glee because if I did, Mark Salling would be required to date me as part of his contract. Lyrics below belong to Dashboard Confessional.

But, I believe in you so much that I could die for the words that you say. Just bend the pieces until they fit like they were made for it. But, they weren’t meant for this.

-*-

January 1^st, 2012

She’s drunk.

It’s probably one of the few times Rachel Berry’s ever gotten drunk and all he can do is stand there, enraptured, watching as she danced around the room, singing random show tunes that pop into her head.

She’s gorgeous. And perfect. And beautiful. And heartbreakingly talented. She’s miles ahead of him, always planning, always striving for something better.

She slows herself down, he knows. She waits for him to catch up.

And, it drives him insane because he knows that he will always be the one, the reason, the sole purpose, that she stops herself.

She doesn’t need him and it feels like every passing moment, every kiss, every touch, every caress is just a lie.

It can’t last. He knows it can’t.

She stumbles into his arms and smiles up at him brightly and kisses him sloppily. He grabs the back of her head, gently cradling it in his palm as she molds his body against his.

He’s rougher than usual but he can’t help himself. He’s a selfish bastard.

So, he’ll keep taking and he’ll keep lying.

It’ll all fall apart one day but he needs another moment with her. He can’t give it up.

Not yet.

-*-

May 28^th, 2012

Lima is approximately 91.8 miles away from Columbus and Ohio State. The drive will take him two hours.

He’s pathetic. He checks her myspace page obsessively and every day, he thanks god that she hasn’t defriended him on facebook. So, he stalks her. He asks about her, as subtly as he can, from Quinn and Finn.

It’s not subtle. It’s glaringly obvious that he’s still as obsessed and in love with her as he’s always been but he tells himself that it’s for the best and that he’s getting better.

It is for the best. He is not getting better.

He promised her that he would be there and he might be the sorriest jerk on the face of the planet right now, but he never broke a promise.

He would be there.

She just wouldn’t know it. He will hide under the bleachers in the spot where they used to sneak off to and make out in between free periods.

It is for the best. He keeps telling himself that.

Maybe one of these days, he’ll actually believe it.

-*-

August 31^st, 2012

He drinks more than he should and the bartender cuts him off.

He can barely think much less function yet he still can’t forget her. He still can’t make his brain shut up. He still can’t stop the stinging in his chest.

He’s a sad excuse. He demands another shot of tequila but the bartender sends him a sharp glare and shakes his head. He’s saying something but Puck can’t seem to make himself care or listen.

He mutters curses under his breath before he stumbles out of the bar.

The air in Ohio is warm, hot, heavy. It’s humid like it is during most summers. He wonders what it’s like in New York.

She started orientation last week. He looked it up on the Columbia website. He really has become her very own stalker and she doesn’t know. She will never know.

Even if she did, she’d never give him the time of day now anyway. She was probably already on her way to being a big star, going to back-to-back auditions daily. A small smile creeps onto his face. She’s probably already gotten her first part.

She is doing better for herself and that makes all of this worth it.

When he gets home that night, he kisses the picture that Tina took of them when they won Nationals the second time in a row.

He falls into bed and whispers into the dark.

“Sweet dreams, love.”

It’s what he does every night.

-*-

September 14^th, 2012

This was all Quinn’s doing. She had come stomping into his apartment, shoving a plane ticket in his face. She had screamed and yelled, even got close to tears at one point, and demanded that he go to New York.

“You are pathetic.” She spat at him. “What happened to you? The Puck I knew would never sink down to this level.” She shook her head, her eyes sad. “Go to her. She needs you.”

She dropped the ticket onto the floor in front of him and slammed the door behind her.

-*-

September 17^th, 2012

He doesn’t even pack.

He slings his backpack over his shoulder as he de-boards the plane. New York. He was in New York.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say to her. He doesn’t even know if he’ll get the guts up to talk to her.

The subway ride into the city takes longer than he expected but soon he finds himself in front of the gated entrance to Columbia. The buildings tower around him and he takes in a calming breath.

His palms are sweaty and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the information that Quinn had scribbled down for him. He takes a step towards the front entrance.

It’s not like the way it is in the movies. Sure, his world starts spinning and all the breath escapes his lungs but instead of happiness or relief, he feels like someone is ripping apart his chest or had just punched him in the gut.

She’s only 20 feet away from him yet they are still separated by a mass of people. He stands outside the gated doors, staring in at a world that he will never be a part of.

She smiles and his heart feels like it will explode at any moment. Her hair is longer, straighter. There are dark circles under her eyes but she’s still just as beautiful as he remembered her to be.

She glances in his direction and for a moment, he thinks she sees him. He raises his hand to wave at her.

Stupid. Idiot.

She turns away from him though and starts walking in the opposite direction. He’s still waving. He can’t seem to make himself stop.

The people around him don’t even pause to ask him what’s wrong when tears begin to slip out of his eyes and down his face.

-*-

November 28^th, 2012

It’s his birthday today. He stares at the phone. He doesn’t know why he expects her to call. It just seems like the her thing to do.

He can’t think of her name. He can barely think of the thought of her but he’s gotten better.

Really, he has.

Two more minutes to midnight. She has two minutes left to call.

He uncaps the bottle of whisky and leans back on his couch. He needs for her to call. He doesn’t deserve it but he needs to hear her voice, not just over her myspace videos but live. He needs to hold her in his arms, feel the way her heart beats against his, the way that her skin pulses when he caresses her.

He needs her very being.

But, he can’t have it. He was the one that made this choice. It just killed him that she didn’t fight harder against him when he walked away.

She didn’t call him. She didn’t email him. She didn’t contact him. She just let him walk out of her life.

It kills him to think of that. If she loved him, maybe she would’ve fought harder for him.

It’s midnight.

She didn’t call.

The alcohol burns as it slides down his throat but already he can feel it start to numb his senses.

-*-

February 14^th, 2013

He’s at the bar again and some stupid blonde slut is hanging all over him. He pushes her away in disgust as he takes another shot.

It’s such a familiar scene now. He’s sitting at a bar, alone, angry, drunk, and it’s not even 8PM yet. Never in his life has he felt more like his father.

He swallows hard and looks down at his phone. It’s Valentine’s Day. He sent her cookies because he knows how rarely she indulges herself and chocolate chip were always her weakness.

They don’t have a return sender, of course. She won’t know it’s him.

He hopes she likes them.

He hopes she’s thinking of him.

-*-

April 16^th, 2013

Kurt Hummel is the last person he expects to see at his door. He furrows his brow in confusion before he offers an awkward hello and welcomes him into his apartment.

Kurt steps in, surveys the place with an upturned nose. “Charming.”

He knows it’s not. It’s a mess.

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I’m in town for an interview for a summer internship. I thought I’d visit an old friend.”

For the first time in a long time, Puck smiles.

They sit at the kitchen table and drink beers. The conversation flows easily and Puck can’t remember the last time that he’s done this with someone. Just talk and hang out.

It’s been so long.

Kurt takes a small sip and clears his throat. “Do you ever talk to her?”

He knows exactly who he is referring to and all he can manage is a painful shake of the head.

“She’s not the same, you know?”

He’s silent.

“She never tells me about her auditions or any roles she’s gotten. I don’t think she’s gone to any while she’s been there actually.” Kurt confesses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s stopped singing altogether.”

Puck’s head shoots up and he leans in closer, invading Kurt’s private space. “What do you mean she’s stopped singing? She can’t. That’s why she went there – she’s supposed to make something of herself.”

“I know.” Kurt began slowly. “I don’t think she can though. Singing reminds her too much of you.”

Puck runs his hand across his face as reality sinks into his mind. She’s stopped singing. All this time, he kept focusing on how heartbroken and destroyed he was, thinking that she had moved on.

But, she hadn’t.

She needed him.

-*-

April 20^th, 2013

6:04 AM

He can’t pretend that it didn’t hurt when she slammed the door in his face but he was standing his ground. He would not run away not when she needed him.

He hasn’t slept. He simply listened to her shuffling around her room for most of the night. At around 2AM, he finally hears her turn off the light and go to bed. He looks at his watch. It’s 6 AM and she’s not up, blasting music and working out.

So much has changed.

-*-

April 20^th, 2013

10:45 AM

He doesn’t sleep while he’s left alone in her room. He takes the time to explore every single inch of it. He sees that she’s still kept a picture of him in the dresser by her bedside.

He hears her outside and hops into the bed, feigning sleep. He carefully opens his eyes after ten minutes when he realizes that she’s just standing out there.

It’s not until an hour later that she finally comes in. He quickly shuts his eyes and evens out his breathing.

He does not expect her to crawl into bed with him.

He wraps his arms around her and relishes the feel of having her in his arms again. She’s so small, fragile, and beautiful.

She’s just Rachel.

She’s perfect.

She falls asleep within five minutes and he kisses the top of her head. He will fix this, he promises himself.

“Sweet dreams, love.”

He closes his eyes and pulls her closer.

-*-

Title: Disintegration

Author: desespoir

Notes: Totally going to feed into that to-be cliché of this ship: Puck breaks up with Rachel because he doesn’t think he’s good enough for her. She goes off to New York for school and he stays in Ohio. This is what happens in between.

Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own Glee because if I did, Mark Salling would be shirtless for the entire show. Lyrics below belong to Bright Eyes.

Touch. Lying on the floor wishing this could last, knowing that it can’t and soon you will leave.

-*-

March 15^th, 2012

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She gripped the sides of the letter, her fingers pressing so hard into the paper that she could feel it start to rip. Her tears splatter onto the page, her vision grows cloudy, and all she can do is sink down to the floor as her knees give out.

She can’t even read past the first line: “Congratulations, Rachel! Columbia University welcomes you into the Class of…”

All she can do is stare listlessly out her front door that is sprung wide open and watch silently as he walks out her house and towards his car.

His words echo in her ear. It’s over. You’re the one that’s leaving.

She wipes the tears out of her eyes and crumples the piece of paper in her hands before whipping it at the wall.

It was never supposed to be like this.

-*-

June 4^th, 2012

She keeps looking over her shoulder as she walks up to the stage. He has to be here. He wouldn’t miss this.

Graduation.

It was over. Her four years of high school had finally come to an end as much as she hated to admit it, she would miss Lima. It would always be home to her no matter where she was in the world. She glanced into the crowd and waved goofily at Kurt who was sitting next to Mercedes. They had come. They had graduated a year earlier and had flown back to Lima specifically for her graduation.

She readjusts the cap on her head as she walks up the ramp, her steps getting slower as she realizes with each step, she was walking towards her future and away from all that she knew. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t eager for stardom and glory. She was scared – absolutely terrified at what would come next.

She could feel the bright smile begin to melt off her face and her hands were trembling as it all hit her. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and looked up into the eyes of Miss Pillsbury, who was smiling softly at her.

“Congratulations, Rachel.”

She hates those words. They remind her of that day.

She nods numbly and shakes hands with a few more important members of the community including Sue Sylvester who just gives her a tight smile and touches her hand only briefly before moving onto the next person.

That was it. She had her diploma and she was done. High school was over.

She looks back out into the crowd, her eyes scanning the bleachers for that familiar mohawk.

He wasn’t there.

Her diploma almost slips out of her hands as she chokes back a sob.

He promised.

-*-

September 17^th, 2012

She almost swears that she sees him on the sidewalk outside her dorm but she knows that it’s a passing fantasy – a vision, delusion, fallacy.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t real.

He’s a figment of her imagination and no matter how much she hopes, wishes, prays, dreams that he would be outside, begging to see her, she knows it will never happen.

She still loves him. She still thinks about him every second of every minute of every hour of every single day.

She doesn’t speak to her roommate who has given up trying to get to know her after the first week. She’s almost catatonic.

But, she never quite loses that grip on reality. She’s Rachel Berry.

She’s gotten this far and she will never let that go. So, she throws herself into academics and her classes.

Her GPA is amazing and she’s fairly certain that she will graduate summa cum laude.

She’s stopped singing. It’s been three months.

-*-

February 14^th, 2013

It’s the first Valentine’s Day that she’s spent alone in nearly three years. She doesn’t feel quite as alone as she expected she would though.

She sits in her room and stuffs her face with chocolate chip cookies as she skypes with Kurt. He brags about the wonderful southern California weather and his latest celebrity sighting in Los Angeles.

It’s simple and it’s easy.

He doesn’t ask her if he’s called her and she doesn’t tell him about all the auditions she’s missed. He doesn’t know and she can’t tell him. It’ll break his heart.

So, she smiles and eats another cookie.

It doesn’t hurt as much today.

-*-

March 15^th, 2013

She stares at her calendar and it’s absolutely mind-boggling that it’s been one year. She’s lived a single year without any form of contact from him. She doesn’t know if he’s still living in Ohio. She doesn’t even know if he’s still alive.

She stops herself from thinking about him. Her mind seems to have grown accustomed to the vacant spot where his memory was.

It’s like a gaping black hole.

But, she ignores it.

It’s been one year. She crosses the date out, making a big black X on the calendar with her sharpie, like she does all the other days.

She can feel the tears prickling behind her eyes but she bites down on her lip. It isn’t until her calendar is covered with black sharpie scratches that she feels slightly better.

She takes in a deep breath, caps her sharpie, and rips down the calendar from the wall, throwing it into the trash.

She hates March.

-*-

April 19^th, 2013

She hears a knock on her door and is slightly annoyed as she has a major term paper due the next day.

“Come in.”

The knock is more insistent this time and she lets out a heavy sigh before trudging her way to the door. She whips it open, a glare firmly affixed on her pretty face.

She falls against the doorframe and her eyes are wide in shock.

“Noah?” She manages to gasp out.

He’s just as painfully gorgeous as he’s always been and she can’t help herself as she reaches out to touch him, needing concrete evidence that he’s real.

Her hand is shaking and she can’t find her voice. He grasps her hand gently in his own, marveling at how small it was. She had always been so fragile.

His hand is warm. She can’t find the right words but when she feels his grip around her hand tighten she quickly retracts it and shakes her head violently.

“No. You can’t do this.”

He tries to speak but she won’t let him.

“Leave, Noah. Just go.”

She slams the door in his face.

She decides she hates April too.

-*-

April 20^th, 2013

8:25 AM

She leaves her room knowing that she’s going to be late for her first lecture. It’s not a habit that she partakes in often. She nearly trips on her way out.

She looks down and sees him leaning against the wall next to her room. He spent the night in her hallway.

There are dark circles under his eyes and his jaw is more clearly defined. He’s lost weight. She lets out a sigh and kicks his shoes. He jolts awake and she feels a pang of guilt in her heart before she pushes it away.

He doesn’t deserve her pity or her sympathy.

“You can sleep in my room.”

She can hardly believe the words that are coming out of her mouth.

“I have to go to class. I’ll be back in an hour.”

He just nods dumbly at her and she finds that she can’t look him in the eye, not when he gazes up at her like that. Like he still loves her.

He can’t. He broke her heart on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

Noah Puckerman did not love Rachel Berry.

“My side is by the window.”

She runs down the hallway. She’s three minutes late to class.

-*-

April 20^th, 2013

10:30 AM

She’s been pacing outside her door for nearly an hour. A few of her hallmates have passed by her, giving her curious glances and she knows that she probably looks like a lunatic right now.

She can’t go in though. She can’t make herself open the door because on the other side is her first love, her only love.

God, she was pathetic.

She leans her head against the cool metal of her door and quiets her mind.

She turns the door knob and walks in. He’s still sleeping.

She shrugs off her jacket and her tote bag falls to the floor. She kicks off her shoes and crawls into bed with him.

Almost immediately, he wraps her arms around her sleepily. He’s probably not even aware that it’s her that he’s hugging.

She closes her eyes and lets the tears slide down her face as she leans back into him.

She hates that it feels so right to be in his arms again.

She wishes this could last and she could just stay in this moment forever.

She knows she can’t.

-*-

I FINALLY WROTE IT.

next chapter of Linger is about 85% finished. i have two more minor scenes to write and it's off to beta'd and hopefully up by tomorrow night or by early next week.

HURRAHHHH.

sorry for the ridiculously long wait. i know i suck.

Title: The White Hat
Rating: R
Summary: "The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection." Bella unravels the mystery that is Edward Cullen. A world of art, lies, and a white hat. Edward/Bella. AU.
Author's Note: My very first Twilight fic and of course, I can't get away from the art. I simply can't help myself. If you like FG, you'd probably like this one as well. Chock full of art, mystery, and romance. Hope you all enjoy :) The prologue and epilogue will be written in third person, the rest of the story will be told from Bella's POV.

Prologue

Bella Swan was not an artist.

 

She could not paint. She could not draw. She could not sculpt. Those who can’t do, teach. Bella, however, chose to study. She was not a teacher. Ever since she was young, she had a voracious mind that continuously craved for more. She supposed that was the reason why she chose art. There was an endless supply of art that she could learn and reach out for tracing all the way back to the beginning of time and it was something that had no ceiling or limit. There would always be art. Artists would always exist to create something new whether it be out of passion, boredom, or curiosity. She would be the first person in line, ready and overzealously prepared to study it. If she could, she would’ve gladly been a student for the rest of her life but at some point, she needed to graduate. At age 26, she was two years away from completing her doctorate in Art History and had a very comfortable job as a research fellow at the leading art museum in Boston.

 

Art was simple. She found that she could always lose herself in the gallery space and in the brushstrokes, textures, and colors of a work. It had a history and meaning and to her, it just made sense. It was safe and it was a shield away from life and reality.

 

She had grown up in the small town of Forks, Washington where for two weeks straight, she baked her famous chocolate fudge cookies as a bribe for the entire registrar department so they would add AP Art History into the curriculum. By her senior year, they finally caved and it was in that year, she discovered the beauty and pain of Goya, the humor of Velazquez, the passion of Turner, the pride of David, and the eroticism of Greuze.

 

In that year, she also discovered that people were complicated, stressful, and deceitful. Mike Newton, the star basketball player and boyfriend of three years had broken up with her only a month before graduation, deciding that the separation was necessary before college. It was purely out of care for her. She, after all, was going places and he was staying in Washington. She wanted to believe him and she would have if she didn’t find him making out with Jessica a few scant hours later.

 

She shouldn’t have trusted him. After all, he could never understand her budding obsession. She had dragged him to the SeattleArt Museum once and the entire time, she had to listen to him point out the naked women and make fun of their ‘boobs’. There was only so much a girl could take.

 

That night, while Jessica and Mike were happily devouring one another’s faces at a party, Bella came to two conclusions. One, boys were stupid. And, two, you could easily figure out someone’s personality based upon their artistic inclinations and tastes.

 

She first applied her theory to her mother, Renee, who had always loved Monet and Pollock. On the surface, they were two polar opposites yet based upon their artistic styles, they fit her personality quite well. Pollock was known for his seemingly haphazard style yet his paint splatters were oddly musical, smooth, and flowing. Though his work appears to be chaotic, he always maintained a strict control over his brushstrokes, creating a symphony of colors and splatters on canvas. Monet was an extremely prolific painter who spent most of his later life living in a small town outside of Paris amongst his endless gardens of luscious flowers and ethereal water lilies and pond. He captured light and movement and the essence of natural beauty in his works. Their paintings described Renee perfectly. She was as free as Pollock’s brushstrokes yet never lost control of her own life. She exuded light and had always loved nature and the outdoors that were depicted in Monet’s works.

 

As she began to apply it to the others in her life, she quickly realized that she had stumbled onto something brilliant yet painfully simple. It became all too easy for her to read people and she grew uncannily perceptive and undeniably confident in her ability to deduce a person’s character.

 

Then, she met Edward Cullen.

 

-*-

 

BPOV

 

I hated mornings.

 

I could barely keep my eyes open as I struggled to maintain my balance as the subway car swerved around a corner. I nearly spilled my coffee onto the person next to me. I offered them an awkward smile, flushing with embarrassment as they scooted away from me.

 

Perfect. It seemed as if I utterly repelled people nowadays. I let out a sigh of relief as the conductor announced my stop.

 

It was another overcast day and I silently praised my good sense to bring an umbrella this morning. Boston weather was almost as bad as Forks. At least it was always fairly predictable back home – rain, rain, and more rain. Boston was a tad trickier. There would be patches of sun throughout the day that gave you some ray of hope at good weather but by mid-afternoon, it would always pour like no other.

 

I hated the rain. I hated the wet, cold, damp feeling that it always left in my bones but yet, I found myself comfortably situated in another dreary and rainy city.

 

I looked up at the sky and silently prayed for sun by the time I left. I went through my morning tasks without giving much thought to them. Swiped in, said hi to the morning guard, walked down the hallway and entered the Art of Europe office. I set my coffee down on my desk, turned on my computer and proceeded to sift through my mail. I was halfway through an auction catalogue when Angela, the department assistant, rushed to my desk, hair frazzled and eyes wide.

 

“Bella! Thank god you’re here.”

 

I furrowed my brow and looked at her curiously. “Something wrong, Ang?”

 

“You need to get to the staff entrance right now.”

 

“What? I just got here-“

 

“Mr. Cullen and his son are here for a personal tour that should’ve started,” she looked down at her watch before saying hurriedly, “five minutes ago.”

 

“I’m not scheduled for a tour. I don’t-“

 

Yet again, I was cut off.

 

“I know. Martha was supposed to give the tour herself but apparently Gavin ran into a table corner this morning and started bleeding and needed stitches. She called me practically in hysterics twenty minutes ago telling me she couldn’t do the tour and that she was heading to the emergency room right now.”

 

“Oh my god, is he okay?” I loved Gavin. He was quite possibly the cutest three-year-old around and he was notorious for being even clumsier than me. It was nice to give up that title every once in a while.

 

“He should be fine but enough dallying around. You have a tour to give.”

 

“I can’t. Ang, most of that stuff isn’t even what I study-“

 

“No excuses. You have to go, right now.” She pointed her finger at me in consternation and I couldn’t help but smile. It was so strange seeing sweet Angela this disoriented and nervous. I stood up and followed out of the office and tried my best to listen to her fast-paced briefing.

 

“Mr. Carlisle Cullen and his son, Edward, are two of the biggest donors on the market right now. They just recently moved to Boston and have yet to see the special exhibition or the museum.”

 

“How big are we talking?” I asked curiously.

 

“Do you remember the anonymous donation the Met received last year?”

 

“You mean the one that funded their latest Sargent acquisition?” I spat bitterly. “Oh yes, I remember.”

 

“Are you still mad about that?”

 

“Considering how that painting was one of his greatest works and we lost by one freaking bid, yes, I am still peeved.”

 

“Well, try and get over it in about 30 seconds because they’re the ones that made that acquisition possible.”

 

“They donated 40 million dollars to the Met?”

 

“On a whim.” Angela said with a shake of her head. “So, you need to make this tour absolutely phenomenal so that they will like us and give us that kind of money. We need it—especially with the expansion.”

 

“Wow. No pressure at all.” I muttered before plastering a bright smile on my face as we entered the waiting area.

 

Then I saw him.

 

Vaguely, I heard Angela make the introductions and I was fairly proud of myself for keeping the smile on my face. He was stunning. Absolutely and completely breathtaking and I could literally feel my knees get weak. His golden eyes seemed to pierce straight through my skin and I couldn’t help but feel like I’ve seen his face and that same bronze hair somewhere.

 

Before I could dwell further on it, Carlisle smiled and greeted me warmly. I shook his hand and then Edward’s, noting their cold hands but thought little of it and chalked it up to my own nerves.

 

Angela gave me a wink and turned on her heel. I clasped my hands together and teetered slightly before speaking, willing my voice not to quiver. “Thank you so much for taking the time to visit the museum. Martha, the senior curator had a family emergency so unfortunately, she won’t be giving the tour today.”

 

“I hope everything’s alright,” Carlisle said kindly. His voice was so deep and rich. I shivered inside.

 

“Everything should be just fine and I’m sure she will be in later on in the day if you’d like to meet her.”

 

“That would be lovely.”

 

I smiled and walked towards the stairs. “Is this your first visit to Boston?”

 

Carlisle and Edward exchanged a look before Carlisle said with another blindingly beautiful smile, “It has been awhile since our last visit and both the city and museum has changed so much.”

 

“It certainly has especially with the addition of the new wing.”

 

“When is that slated to finish?”

“Late 2010, hopefully,” I said, crossing my fingers. I glanced over at Edward curiously, expecting him to contribute to the conversation. His hands were clenched into fists at his side and he seemed to be leaning away from me. I furrowed my brow and tried my best to ignore his standoffish behavior. “Are you familiar with the show? I don’t want to bore you and prattle on about facts you already know.”

 

“Please give us the full tour. We’re interested in everything.”

 

“Well, the basis of the show is truly unlike any other that we’ve done before. We focus on a single period and span many countries, artists, and cultures. Romanticism was truly all-encompassing. It was widespread all across Europe and America and it was a movement that was found in literature, music, and art. It was incredibly powerful. For this project, we worked very closely with many departments in the museum to create a show that could truly do this movement the justice it deserves.”

 

Carlisle nodded as we entered through the glass doors and into the gallery. “Can you talk briefly about the Romantic era?”

 

“Of course.” I brushed my hair back and watched curiously as Edward seemed to stiffen even more. “It was mostly a reactionary movement against the Enlightenment and industrialization. Romanticism was incredibly focused on the aesthetic experience. It really stressed nature, power, the sublime, the picturesque, and heightened emotions.” I gestured towards the first painting, “We begin the exhibition with one of the most famous paintings that truly characterize the period before the Romantic era. Joseph Wright of Derby was an English painter that worked predominantly with landscapes and portraits though every now and then he did something as brilliant as this.”

 

I looked at the painting and took in a deep breath. It truly was amazing. “This painting is one of a series of candle-lit scenes that Wright painted. It depicts a traveling philosopher showcasing an air pump experiment. It’s rather gruesome, truly. The bird is placed here.” I pointed at the painting. “It’s deprived of oxygen and eventually, it dies.”

 

I snuck a glance at Edward, tearing my eyes away from the masterpiece before me. He seemed completely enraptured in the painting, his body truly relaxed in that moment. He eyes snapped to mine and I blushed, quickly averting my eyes before continuing. “What’s incredibly fascinating about this particular piece is the reaction on each individual’s face. You’ll notice that every single one is different. The young couple in the corner seems so completely enamored with one another that they don’t pay any attention to the experiment whatsoever. The girls in the center are my favorite. The younger one stares at the bird with childlike curiosity whereas the older girl can barely look, hiding in her father’s arms. The philosopher himself looks out at the audience, almost as if he’s gauging our reaction.”

 

Carlisle took a step closer and said quietly, “It really makes you reevaluate the price of life. What people and science are willing to risk for progress.”

 

“Exactly. These themes of mortality and struggle for life, they carry on into the Romantic era. Personally, I’ve always found this piece to be rather eerie especially with the style and the stark contrast between light and dark. Chiaroscuro was most famously used by Caravaggio but whereas he painted religious pieces, Wright applies it to a painting about science and makes it just as powerful and emotional. Emotions, in this case, however, are put on this perverse pedestal, used for experiment.”

 

I moved onto the next painting, watching as Edward lingered for a few moments before joining us. For the next hour, I led them through the exhibition, stopping at the highlights and my own personal favorites. I watched them both curiously. They were both mysterious though Carlisle was more open than Edward. I could tell he was a kind man, gentle. He cringed, quite visibly, at the Wright painting and as we moved through the exhibition, he seemed particularly drawn to those paintings dealing with mortality and death. Human life was precious to him.

 

Edward, however, was another story. He seemed to be only completely at ease when he stared at a painting, seemingly lost in the brushstrokes, but as soon as he snapped back to reality, he tensed. More than once, he caught me staring at him and every time, I looked away with a blush and a stammer. He was stunningly and heartbreakingly beautiful and a complete mystery. He seemed to love every single painting that I showed them but it wasn’t until the very last piece that I caught a glimpse into his mind and person.

 

“Our very last stop on this tour is Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare. The painting draws a fine line between sleep and lucidity. In this painting, the woman is asleep, in the midst of her nightmare. An incubus sits on her body and there’s a horse in the background. There’s little differentiation between reality and the dream. The woman’s figure is abnormally long and she’s almost falling off the bed, her head hanging lifelessly, exposing her neck. She’s wearing white, the color of innocence, yet there’s almost an erotic quality to her pose and the flush of her cheeks. She is powerless, unable to stop the nightmare, the incubus, or the horse. She’s a victim.”

 

I gesture towards the painting. “The incubus sits atop her stomach and he really is a gruesome figure. In myth, the incubus is a male demon that lies upon women and have sexual intercourse with them. Sometimes they are depicted as beautiful and captivating creatures but here, Fuseli really represents them for what they are. They are manipulating, vicious, and truly frightening.”

 

Edward took in the painting with a long, hard look before he growled and stalked out of the gallery. He was gone before I could even protest or apologize and I simply stood there, blinking in confusion before Carlisle smiled at me and began to voice his apologies. Dimly, I heard his excuses but I could not forget the way his eyes burned into the painting and the look he gave me before he left.

 

For a second, I felt just as powerless, unable to stop the nightmare – like a victim and he was the incubus, the hunter and I the prey.

 

-*-

Author's Note:

The two paintings mentioned in this chapter are:

Joseph Wright of Derby - An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:An_Experiment_on_a_Bird_in_an_Air_Pump_by_Joseph_Wright_of_Derby,_1768.jpg

Henry Fuseli - The Nightmare: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:John_Henry_Fuseli_-_The_Nightmare.JPG

Chapter 6: Avec Folie

 

“So, Hermione, what’s it like to work with this year’s Witch Weekly’s most eligible bachelor?”

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow before taking a sip of her drink, “Not nearly as scandalous or fascinating as the headlines of the Daily Prophet makes it out to be, I’m afraid.”

 

Lavender brushed a strand of her honey-brown hair out of her face before she pouted, “You can hardly expect me to believe that. You don’t have any juicy gossip at all?”

 

“Honestly, Lav, do you ever stop working or do you just enjoy prying into other people’s business?” Ginny rolled her eyes as Lavender huffed in offense before she sat back against the barstool.

 

“I was simply curious,” she defended before she shrugged, “Besides, you can’t blame me for being just a tad inquisitive. This is Draco Malfoy we’re talking about. He’s been nearly non-existent for years and all of a sudden he’s executive director and thrust back into the limelight.” She tapped the table in emphasis, “There has to be a story.”

 

“I don’t see what the big hoo-ha is all about. He’s been on the board for longer than I can remember and apparently, they thought it was the appropriate time for a change in leadership.” Hermione fiddled with her napkin, “Malfoy is educated, business-savvy, and quite a connoisseur. He also owns what I’m sure is a breath-taking collection. He deserves the position. It’s not as if there’s anyone out there that has more experience running an internationally-renowned museum or actually possesses formal training in art history.”

 

Lavender’s eyes widened as she watched Hermione down the rest of her drink in one go. She glanced at Ginny and refrained from commenting when she saw her shake her head quickly.

 

Wordlessly, Ginny ordered Hermione another drink before she scooted closer, “Have you talked to the board about their decision? It strikes me as rather unprofessional to give your job to someone else without even a notice by owl.”

 

Hermione snorted, “My assistant had to be the one to announce my demotion. That was a particularly delightful moment.” She shook her head, “But no, I haven’t talked to them. I really don’t think there’s any point. I doubt Caius ever wanted to give me the position but there wasn’t anyone else as qualified but now that there’s Malfoy—“ Hermione trailed off and let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I should take this as a blessing. At least now, I can stop worrying about the finances and get back to the art.”

 

“Exactly!” Ginny agreed, “Besides, Malfoy isn’t all bad. At least he’s easy on the eyes.”

 

“Bloody gorgeous is more like it,” Lavender sighed wistfully.

 

“Does someone still have a schoolgirl crush on the Slytherin prince?” Ginny raised an eyebrow.

 

Lavender simply shrugged, “If I weren’t dating Dean, I would happily join the legions of Malfoy admirers.”

 

“You’re absurd,” Hermione said with a grin.

 

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you don’t think he’s absolutely deliciously sinful. If you had the chance, I bet you’d say sod the art and shag him against the wall.”

 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed pink as she fumbled for an answer.

 

“Actually,” Ginny said teasingly, “I do believe our lovely Ms. Granger may be the only female in wizarding London that is not susceptible to his charms. After all, he offered 14 million galleons for a kiss from her and she actually had to sit down and think about it. She almost denied him.”

 

“He what?!”

 

Hermione glared daggers at Ginny before she hissed, “He did not offer 14 million galleons for a kiss, Ginerva Weasley.” She took in a calming breath, “He offered 14 million galleons to save the museum from closing from debt and the kiss was just an afterthought,” she reasoned.

 

“And what about painting you nude? Was that an afterthought as well?” Ginny smirked before she leaned away from Hermione’s slap. “It sounds to me as if he planned it all.”

 

Lavender simply sat and stared, absolutely flabbergasted as she looked between the two, “Did you agree?”

 

Hermione straightened her back and clasped her hands together, “I did. It seemed like a small sacrifice to make.”

 

“Stop acting like a bloody martyr,” Lavender burst out, staring at her incredulously, “I would pay him 14 million galleons to paint me nude and kiss me.”

 

“Does he get naked as well?” Ginny asked with another giggle.

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed once again before she muttered, “I hate you both.”

 

“We’ll stop taking the mickey out of you,” Ginny managed to get out through her giggles, “As soon as you admit that you’re not entirely averse to working with Malfoy.”

 

“Alright,” she snapped, “I admit it. Draco Malfoy is a bloody handsome bastard. Satisfied?”

 

“Entirely so. Now, what is this about a date you have with him tomorrow?”

 

“It is not a date. I am only going to see his private collection for purely scholarly purposes. It’s for the exhibition.”

 

“If only I could hide under the pretense of my job for the chance to have a private viewing of Draco Malfoy’s art collection with a personal tour. Sounds awfully intimate and sexy to me.”

 

“You two are truly insufferable. Besides, since when have you found art sexy?”

 

“Since Draco Malfoy became the new executive director,” Lavender admitted without shame, completely ignoring Hermione’s glare.

“And you, Ms. Granger, are simply delusional if you think that your relationship with Malfoy is purely professional.”

 

“Considering how he is now my superior, our relationship has to be purely professional.”

 

“Hmm,” Lavender grinned, “I’d love to work under Malfoy in more ways than one.”

 

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along to Dean,” Hermione said sweetly.

 

“Tattle-tale,” she stuck her tongue out before giggling.

 

-*-

 

Hermione was sifting through her mail when she heard the door to her office click open. “I’m busy, Griselda,” she said without looking up.

 

“I see that, Ms. Granger. But, may I be so bold as to steal a few seconds of your precious time?”

 

Hermione let out an annoyed sigh, barely audible to herself before she looked up, a fake smile plastered onto her face, “Pardon me, Aldous, to what do I owe this pleasure? I had no idea I would be graced with your presence today.”

 

“I am here on behalf of the board. We are throwing an impromptu dinner party tonight at the Ministry to celebrate Mr. Malfoy’s recent promotion.”

 

Hermione clasped her hands together, “An in-person invitation is hardly necessary, Aldous. An owl would have been sufficient.”

“Yes,” he responded acerbically, “but considering how often our invitations seem never to reach you quite in time, I wanted to personally deliver the message to ensure your attendance.”

 

“Of course,” she bowed her head graciously, “I would love to attend.”

 

“Very well,” Aldous snapped his fingers and a cream invitation materialized on her desk. “We will be having a small reception before the party. Please do not be late.”

 

Hermione continued to smile tightly, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

“Until tonight then, Ms. Granger.”

 

“Good day, Aldous.”

 

It was in this agitated state that Draco found her nearly thirty minutes later. Hermione sat at her desk, her back stiff as she stared at the invitation, her fingers tapping furiously against her desk.

 

“Are you alright, Granger?”

 

Hermione simply glared at him before she let out a heavy sigh, “Did you get an invitation?”

 

“For the party? Of course, I got it yesterday.”

 

She let out a disbelieving laugh before she slammed her hand down, “I refuse to let them make a fool out of me.”

 

“Granger, are you quite alright? You have this crazed look about you.”

 

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face before she stood up and walked towards him, “I’m delightful. Now, shall we go see your private collection?”

 

He regarded her warily before he took hold of her arm and apparated them.

 

-*-

 

Hours later, Hermione quietly sipped her wine as she stared at the Constable in front of her, absolutely entranced with the way the clouds moved across the countryside. “It’s so peaceful and idyllic.”

 

“That one is a favorite,” Draco commented as he sat in his chair, watching as she moved from painting to painting. “It almost makes me detest the bustle of city-life.”

 

“I suppose that was the purpose,” Hermione murmured quietly before she looked back at him thoughtfully, “Do you think we should put one or two works by Constable and Reynolds in the show? Simply for context and precedence?”

 

“I don’t really see the relevance. Turner and Constable might’ve been contemporaries but their styles aren’t similar whatsoever. If anything, we should consider putting in some Dutch landscapes to show influence.”

 

“That may be true but Constable was such a powerhouse of English painting and they’re both considered English Romantic painters. We can’t do a show on Turner without some sort of mention of Constable. Also, Turner was admitted into the Academy while Reynolds was still president. His work may look nothing like his but I’m hardly convinced that both of them didn’t have some sort of influence upon his work.”

 

Draco stood up and moved to the far corner of his study, “We’ll put this in the show.” The portrait was fairly large. The man looked out at both he and Hermione, his gaze unwavering. He sat with his body in profile but his head was turned so that his eyes were unavoidable. His face looked serious, almost pensive. He wore a dark blue silk shirt that hung loose against him. In his hands, he held what looked to be a piece of worn parchment.

 

“Is that—“

 

“Yes.”

 

“Wow,” Hermione breathed as she approached the painting with small steps, uncertainly and cautiously. She stared, completely enamored, as she watched the man’s grip on the parchment tighten, his gaze bordering suspicious as Hermione approached. She smiled softly at him and he visibly relaxed before he turned his head, looking off into the distance.

 

“What do you think?”

 

Hermione shivered and her eyes involuntarily fluttered shut when she felt his hot breath against her neck. His scent surrounded her senses and she fought the urge to collapse into his arms. Her voice was hazy and thick when she finally answered him, “It’s perfect.” Vaguely, Hermione heard him mumble something in return. She felt him turning her body around, his hands firm against her waist.

 

She should tell him to back away. Better yet, she should back away herself and step out of his grasp yet she could not move. She couldn’t think. All she could do was continue to stare into his darkening grey eyes as his lips moved closer and closer to hers. Her mind remained oddly quiet and the entire world seemed to fade away and disappear. Her whole being felt as if it was being pulled into his and when his lips finally, ever so gently, touched hers, she could no longer discern her body from his.

 

-*-

 

Author’s Note: Hello my darlings! I am so incredibly sorry for the ridiculously long wait. I have been so caught up with real life and work and had to take a brief hiatus from writing but I promise I’m back and I hope this was worth the wait.

 

The title of the chapter translates to With Craziness or With Madness. I really hope the part about Constable, Reynolds, and Turner wasn’t too confusing. John Constable, Joshua Reynolds, and JMW Turner were all famous English painters. Joshua Reynolds painted before Turner and Constable. He was president of the Royal Academy and was chair of the panel that admitted Turner into the Academy. Turner was admitted at the incredibly young age of 14 whereas Constable was admitted at the age of 52. Reynolds worked primarily through portraiture whereas Turner and Constable were both landscape artists. Their styles are incredibly different, however.

 

The painting that they were looking at in the end is a self-portrait of Joshua Reynolds. While a wizarding version does not exist (or maybe it does! Who knows?), I based the description on a self-portrait of Reynolds that hangs at the Uffizi.

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Joshua_Reynolds_Self_Portrait.jpg

I am so incredibly nervous about writing this next chapter for Linger. This is going to be the big one - lots of reveals including the mystery identity of the mastermind behind it all.

GAH.

I've pretty much planned this story out from beginning to end and have it all written out in my head but I'm just so ridiculously nervous that it's going to turn out to be a bunch of gibberish. Plus, it all makes sense in my head and I hope that it makes sense on paper (or really, on the computer screen) and that people aren't like wtf was that shit?

I want it to be shocking and exciting and gripping.

It's part of the reason why it's taking so long. I feel like that's why I write chapters for FG faster than I do for Linger. FG is much more lighter - more comedy. Angst gets exhausting after a while and especially making sure there aren't plot holes in my storyline and mystery.

I've re-read a lot of chapters and I want everything to connect and make sense in the end. I hate it when authors just throw out some seemingly important fact in the beginning and at the end, they've completely forgotten about it and you're just sitting there like - wait, I don't understand.

AHH!

Well, I'm hoping to get it out by this weekend. I'm going to sit down after work tomorrow and write the chapter and probably re-read it about 50 times before re-writing it all over again. hahahaha.

Chapter 5: Fête Galante

 

« Ne me pers plus en vue costumière

Car seulement pour t’adorer je vis. »

                        -- « Delie » by Maurice Scève

 

Draco Malfoy had seen her naked.

 

Hermione took in a few calming breaths as she wrapped her hands around her morning coffee, curling the tips of her fingers around the warm mug. She knew she should be focusing upon the day ahead and the various tasks involved yet she couldn’t pull herself away from her thoughts and the events of the weekend.

 

She had stripped naked and posed for Draco Malfoy.

 

The worst part of it all was that he didn’t run away screaming or laugh in her face as she had half feared. He had been nice.

 

Nice.

 

Draco Malfoy was many things but nice was not an adjective she would have previously used to describe him. Yet, he had made no snarky comments nor implied that he had wanted to kiss her and take advantage of her naked state. She had tried to engage him in small conversation, purely out of boredom. After all, lying on a chaise for several hours trying not to move did get quite tedious after the first hour or so. He had replied with short answers, seeming to be completely focused on painting her.

 

So, she remained quiet and as she had expected, fallen asleep. She woke up the next morning with the fur blanket covering her and Malfoy nowhere to be found.

 

After a weekend of locking herself in her flat, buried in a pile of books, Hermione had finally re-emerged to face the world, however unwillingly. It was the beginning of a new fiscal year and for her and the museum, a start of a new beginning.

 

Hermione was in the middle of drafting a proposal for the object loans needed for the Turner exhibition when her assistant, Griselda, a young aspiring artist who had been a few years behind her at Hogwarts, stumbled into her office, her eyes wide.

 

Hermione took in her flustered state and smiled, “Is everything alright?”

 

“No,” Griselda shook her head fervently, “Everything is not alright.”

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

She took a few hesitant steps into Hermione’s office before she let out a heavy sigh, “You’ve been demoted.”

 

“Excuse me?” Hermione asked calmly.

 

“The Board of Trustees has just made Draco Malfoy the new executive director. You are now the assistant director.”

 

She was at a loss for words for what seemed like ages. Hermione stood up shakily and nodded numbly, “I need a few moments to myself, Griselda.”

 

“Of course, Ms. Granger,” Griselda said softly.

 

He had done it. He had really done it. How in the name of Merlin did he ever manage to convince the board to agree to such a suicidal move? If there was anything Hermione was certain of, it was that the board was number one, a board of pretentious, wealthy, and self-serving pureblooded old men. They only wanted what was best for themselves and their family names and most of them only served on the board because of their supposed reformed ways and goodwill. Hermione knew better. She knew that they did it for the publicity and that they would never give up that sort of power so willingly. By giving Malfoy the position of executive director, her position, they were essentially giving him full control of the museum and the worst part was that he didn’t need the approval of the board nor did he care for it.

 

Why would they ever do this? What could’ve possibly compelled them to choose Draco Malfoy over Hermione Granger?

 

She had done an amazing job as director for the past few years. She had accessioned some of the most treasured pieces in their collection and expanded the museum’s gallery space itself. She had succeeded in reaching a wider range of audience and most proudly, she had started to display artwork not just by wizards but by all magical races.

 

All of her successes and accomplishments seemed to dissipate into thin air in one single moment.

 

She couldn’t fool herself into thinking that Malfoy would give her any influence as assistant director. She was being demoted into a secretary for him. He would make all the decisions and he would run the museum to the ground.

 

She knew the risks when she agreed to his proposal but she had never actually believed that the board would ever in a million years agree to such blasphemy. She thought she was being smart and that she could save the museum, keep her job, and get him out of her hair all in one fell swoop.

 

She was wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.

 

Hermione was still reeling from the shock when she heard the knock on her door. It was nearing lunch time and she supposed it was Griselda checking on her. Her head still buried in her hands, she mumbled, “I’m not really in the mood for food right now. I’ll take my lunch break in a bit.”

 

“We can’t have that now, can we, Ms. Granger?”

 

Hermione’s head shot up and immediately her eyes narrowed, “What do you want?”

 

“To celebrate my new promotion, of course.”

 

“Get out of my office, Malfoy.”

 

Draco took a few steps closer and sat down on the chair opposite hers and crossed his hands in his lap, “First, I believe it’s Mr. Malfoy or Executive Director Malfoy, whichever you prefer and second, you are now in my office. Yours is next door.”

 

Hermione put a hand to her head and bit her lower lip, “I quit, Executive Director Malfoy,” she spat out. “I quit all of it. I quit posing for you. I quit being your lackey. I quit this sick game of yours.”

 

She was half-way across the room when she felt his hand around her elbow, tightening ever so gently, stopping her from going further.

 

“You can’t quit. This is your home.”

 

The laugh that escaped her lips was almost hysterical as she stared at him in disbelief, “You took away my job and my dignity. I am leaving with whatever little pride I have left.”

 

“It’s always down to your Gryffindor pride, isn’t it?” He asked quietly.

 

“Why did you do this, Malfoy? Didn’t you already get what you wanted? You promised me that I would keep my job,” she whispered softly.

 

“I didn’t want your job,” he answered honestly, “But the board decided that since I was your superior, it would make sense for me to assume the executive position and for you to be assistant director. I still expect you to hold all the same responsibilities as you did in the past but you must simply get my approval before you make any big decisions regarding the museum.”

 

She eyed him warily and loosened her elbow from his grip, “How did you manage to get them to agree?”

 

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets,” he responded cryptically, a small smile on the edge of his lips.

 

Hermione let out a sigh and shook her head, “I am not your puppet. I am not a brainless and spineless sycophant. I may not be the executive director in name but I do not plan to change my ways and the way I run this museum. I am not your secretary. If you need an assistant, you can hire one.”

 

“Very well,” he smiled in acquiescence before he sat back down.

 

Reluctantly, Hermione followed suit and pouted, “Are you really going to make me move offices?”

 

“I was simply teasing,” he smiled before leaning forward, “I will take the office next door. Besides, I expect the bulk of my work will be done out-of-office.”

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise, “Really?”

 

“Do you know the main reason why the museum went into debt and why visitors stopped coming?” Before she could answer, he continued, “You didn’t garner enough publicity. You are an amazing curator, Granger. I’ve seen all of your shows and they’re absolutely brilliant but part of being executive director is being a good businessman. It’s not all about the art anymore, as much as you might hate for me to say it but it is true. A museum is much like a company and you have been neglecting that aspect. The role that I plan to take on will complement yours. I want you to continue doing what you do best – curating. I will do the rest.”

 

“So, what exactly do you plan to do to garner publicity, as you say?”

 

“It’s really quite simple. I thought we’d start off easy.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“I want to throw a fête galante.”

 

Hermione crossed her arms and snorted, “You must be joking.” When she saw his serious expression she stared at him, her mouth gaping, “I am not letting you turn this respectable institution into a pleasure forum for your rich and morally loose friends.”

 

“Come now, Granger. You know as well as I do that a benefit party is one of the best ways to raise awareness as well as acquire donations. It can be a celebration of my new position as well as promote whatever new exhibition that you are planning. Despite the significant amount that I have donated, you know as well as I do that this museum will not run on my funds alone. A fête galante is perfect. It is light, romantic, fun, mysterious, and a bit naughty. We can use only one gallery space and have a small exhibition of Rococo paintings and decorative arts. With a few spells, we can create an indoor park and create the right mood. They’ll love it.”

 

“I am not here to appease the wealthy.”

 

“You’re not but nevertheless it is something that must be done. The museum needs money and this is the perfect way to get it. We will charge 100 galleons a ticket. Can you imagine how much money we will make from just one night? Wouldn’t one night of indulgence be worth the end result?”

 

Hermione was silent for a few moments before she finally let out a sigh of defeat, “I suppose.”

 

Draco’s face immediately lightened and he tried his best to hide a smile, “Do you agree then?”

 

“I suppose,” she repeated grudgingly.

 

“Very well. Now, do you fancy some lunch?”

 

-*-

 

“This is all wrong.”

 

Hermione stared pointedly at Draco as they sat at the round table in his office, object files scattered all across.

 

“What?”

 

“You’ve gone about this in the completely wrong way. I realize that we’re doing a highlight on a single artist but we’re comparing Turner as a muggle artist and Turner as a magical artist. In essence, it is a show on two different artists. What you have detailed here is a very basic show on the man’s life, exhibiting his works from earliest to latest,” Draco said matter-of-factly.

 

“It’s a time-old formula. I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

 

“That’s exactly it, Granger. It’s boring. It’s overdone. It’s mundane.” Draco grabbed his wand and waved it in the air. “We should do an exhibition focusing on comparisons and investigate further into this tie that Turner had with both the muggle and magical world. Why didn’t he just choose one? Why was he compelled to work so prolifically in both? He was successful enough as a magical artist. What made him choose to start working in the muggle world?”

 

He had sketched a gallery space in the air and used his wand as a pen. “We can place some of his most well-known pieces from both the muggle and magical world side by side.” He grabbed an object file and threw it up into the air, the papers in the folder suspended in mid-air, the reproduction of the painting front and center. “Here, we have one of Turner’s most famous paintings, Rain, Steam, and Speed. We can juxtapose that with one of his greatest magical paintings of the Hogwarts Express.”

 

Hermione furrowed her brow, “Turner never painted the Hogwarts Express.”

 

Draco smirked, “Yes, he did. It hangs in my study.”

 

Her eyes widened despite her best efforts.

 

“I believe it’s due time that we made a visit to the Malfoy collection. You do know that we have one of the most, if not the most, extensive and finest private collections of wizarding art in the world.”

 

Hermione shook her head and laughed lightly, “Considering how you have a David hanging on your ceiling, I should hardly be surprised.”

 

“Tomorrow then?”

 

She nodded silently before looking back down at the file she had in her hands. For the first time in her life, she was silently grateful for his presence, influence, wealth, and background.

 

-*-

 

Author’s Note: The passage from the beginning is an excerpt from an absolutely beautiful poem by Scève. Unfortunately, I can’t find a version online but if you are interested in reading the dizain, send me an email and I’ll type it up for you with an English translation. As requested, a longer chapter – sorry about the shortness of the previous ones. I try my best to update my stories every few days but work and real life keep me busy which is depressing and unfortunate.

 

A bit of background on the fête galante: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fete_galante

Chapter 4: La Bague d’Or

 

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

                                    -- « L’Invitation au voyage » by Charles Baudelaire

 

Hermione woke up to the distinct smell of incense and musk, her mind still addled with sleep as her brown eyes blinked away the haziness. The room was most definitely not the office that she last remembered before closing her eyes. It was warmly lit, decorated with rich reds, browns, and oranges. She was sitting on a lush beige chaise, fully-clothed, with a lavish fur rug thrown over her.

 

“I took the liberty of bringing you to my studio.”

 

Draco was sitting against a high-back brown leather chair, dressed in a loose white button-down shirt and black slacks. He took a languorous sip of his red wine before turning his gaze towards hers.

 

“This is a studio,” her tone was incredulous, her eyes wide as she took in her surroundings. She had never seen a studio quite so seductive and ornate.

 

“I never understood why an artist’s studio nowadays must be pristinely white and barren of any personal touches. It is too cold and spiritless for my tastes. No,” Draco looked up at the ceiling, smirking when he heard Hermione’s gasp, “I need my studio to be my inspiration. It must create the right atmosphere and be the perfect setting for my paintings.”

 

“Is that a David on your ceiling?” Hermione knew that she should probably shut her mouth and stop gaping but she couldn’t help but be taken aback at the absolute beauty that the man possessed. He stretched and flexed his back and legs, seemingly unaware of his raw sexuality. She had seen the painting many times in person but only as a muggle painting. She had always imagined what it would look like if it were ever charmed to move, after all, the actual work itself always had so much movement and energy in it that she always felt slightly perverted when she stared at it. Yet, Hermione could not tear her eyes away from the devastatingly gorgeous work above her.

 

“You’d be surprised at the number of famous muggle painters that were in fact prominent wizards as well.” He took another sip of his wine and said lazily, “Did you never wonder, Granger, how it was possible for a man to appear to be moving and stretching so temptingly yet be painted onto a flat canvas? Yes, David was talented but he always had a certain way of making things appear to be what he wanted them to be.” He stood up from his chair and set his wine glass down, “And such a prolific painter as well.”

 

“You’re saying he painted his muggle paintings using magic?”

 

“Of course,” Draco replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, “Many painters did, in fact. I feel as if I’d be breaking your little heart if I were to reveal more secrets about wizarding painting that you failed to read about in your books.”

 

“They never mentioned anything about the practice,” Hermione huffed, shoving the fur throw off of her body. She sat up straighter, her eyes curious once again, “How did you manage to procure a David? I didn’t even know he was a wizard much less made wizarding versions of his paintings.”

 

“He didn’t,” he said smoothly, “It was done as a personal favor.”

 

“What?” Hermione’s eyes went wide, “You knew David?” She nearly snorted before shaking her head, “Do you take me for a fool, Malfoy? David died in the 1820s.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Fortunately for me, the Malfoy line extends centuries back, to the beginning of magic itself. We were certainly around during the French Revolution and my great-great,” he waved his hand in dismissal, “I forget the exact number of greats but one of my predecessors was a good friend of his and commissioned him to do this piece. It was only afterwards that David decided to paint its muggle counterpart.”

 

Hermione flushed with embarrassment before she laughed lightly, “I am sure he would be turning in his grave if he knew you decided to display it as a ceiling painting.”

 

“I feel that it can be better admired that way.”

 

“It certainly is unconventional but it’s provocative.”

 

“Was that a compliment, Granger?”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy.”

 

Hermione stood up and craned her head, staring intently at the painting, never noticing that Draco was staring just as intently at her own figure, “So, why did your great-great-whatever grandfather decide to commission a painting of first, a man, and second, a man that was the famous for being the lover of Achilles?”

 

Draco’s smirk deepened at her words, “Patroclus was a great warrior and a very brave man. I believe that was the reason behind the commission.”

 

“He was also a homosexual. I’m quite shocked at your predecessor’s oversight. After all, I highly doubt homosexuality is something the Malfoy men would want to extol.”

 

“It is simply myth, Granger. Which part of the myth a person chooses to recognize and accept as truth is of their own accord and prerogative.”

 

“You can’t deny it though,” Hermione teased, “Plato considered the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus to be the apotheosis of romantic love.”

 

“Are you implying that my forefather was a homosexual?”

 

“It’s a possibility,” her tone was light, her eyes bright with laughter.

 

Without another word, Draco took a few long strides towards her and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. Hermione breathed in sharply, suddenly all too aware at how close he was, her mind fluttering with the distinct scent of him. He leaned in closer towards her, nibbling on her ear, his voice rich and deep, “It seems to me, dear Ms. Granger, that you are questioning the masculinity of the Malfoy line, both past and present. I would be more than happy to prove to you how wrong you are.”

 

Hermione’s eyes glazed over and she could barely process the meaning behind his words before she quickly pushed herself out of his grasp, needing to separate her body from his. She took in a few heaving breaths and shook her head nervously, “That won’t be necessary.”

 

Draco crossed his arms, a self-satisfied smile on his face before he turned around and walked towards a mahogany dresser, “Shall we get started then?”

 

She was slightly annoyed at how quickly he seemed to have recovered from his antic while she was still panting like an idiot, trying her best to calm her heartbeat. Hermione cursed his name mentally before she bit back, “Get started with what?”

 

“Our agreement, of course. You do remember that you promised to pose for me.”

 

“Right now?” Her eyes went wide as she stared at him incredulously, “Do you have any idea what hour it is?”

 

“Since when has time mattered in the pursuit of art?” He cocked his head to the side, “Unless, of course, you wish to void our agreement.”

 

“No,” she replied hurriedly, shaking her head, “I just-“ she looked down, at a loss for words.

 

“You hardly need to be nervous. I will be painting you from the back.”

 

Hermione looked up, surprised yet secretly thankful. “But, it’s late. I don’t want to fall asleep.”

 

“You’ll just have to find a way to stay awake then, won’t you? Besides, tomorrow is the weekend and you’ll have plenty of time to rest then.” He opened a few drawers, searching for something before he was finally triumphant. He walked towards her and handed her a piece of jewelry.

 

In her outstretched palm, Hermione held an ornately designed gold ring. It resembled a snake and when she put it on her finger, it appeared to be coiling itself around her.

 

“Get undressed.”

 

In any other context, she would’ve been offended by his words but wordlessly, Hermione ducked behind the silk screen and removed her clothing, piece by piece, taking care to fold it before placing it on the chair. When she was down to her knickers, she peeled them off slowly, taking notice that the room was surprisingly warm. She pulled her hair up into a messy bun before she took in a steadying breath and stepped out from behind the screen.

 

Draco stood beside a large canvas, busying himself with readying the paint, not even noticing her presence.

 

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, her arms wrapped around her body, trying her best to cover what she could. His eyes were unreadable as they travelled across her body, seeming to drink her very essence in. She shifted her weight and cleared her throat again, her voice was thick from nerves, “How do you want me?”

 

“Lie down on the chaise and stretch out your legs.”

 

Hermione followed his directions numbly, trying her best not to be affected by his seductive tone.

 

“Let down your hair.”

 

Hermione reached up and pulled out the chopstick, her brown hair falling over her back in a tumble of waves. She could’ve sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath but thought nothing of it.

 

“Place your hand on your hip, turning the ring towards me. Very good,” his voice seemed to be shaky. “Keep your head upturned.”

 

She laid there silently, her mind whizzing with thoughts but she tried her very best to remain still, trying her best to calm her mind and her heart. It was too quiet. She could hear herself think all too clearly. She needed a distraction.

 

Her ears perked up when she heard the soft piano music flow throughout the room and Hermione smiled slightly, knowing that he couldn’t see it anyway. She whispered a quiet “thank you”.

 

-*-

 

Author’s Note: The title of this chapter translates to The Gold Ring. The passage from the beginning comes from « L’Invitation au voyage » by Baudelaire. I really wanted to just put the entire poem up as a prelude to this chapter since it is so incredibly fitting. If you’d like to take a look at it, you can find both the French and English versions here: http://fleursdumal.org/poem/148. Also, I realize that there are art fans and non-art fans out there that are both reading this. I’m trying to keep a bit of a balance with the art and not overload it and start to sound like a textbook. I will try and do more detailed descriptions and history in the author’s notes so you have the choice on whether you want to read it or not. Believe me, if I had my way, I would just go on for hours but I’m pretty sure I’d put you all to sleep. If at any time, you want more art or less art, just holler!

 

Jacques-Louis David’s Patroclus: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/archive/e/ea/20070726032003!Jacques-Louis_David_Patrocle.jpg

 

-*-

Chapter 7: I need you so much closer

 

I didn’t know if you wanted to when I came to pick you up. You didn’t even hesitate and now you and me are on our way. Don’t look back. Don’t think of the other places you should have been. It’s a good thing that you came along. You’ll shine like gold in the air of summer. – Kings of Convenience, “Gold in the Air of Summer” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gbl7N9fds4)

 

He was still the most handsome man that she had ever laid eyes on.

 

Hermione sat at her dresser, her fingers gently tracing over the angles of his face, lingering on the curve of his lips and his smile. She smiled sadly back at him. She knew she should’ve returned the photograph. After all, it had clearly been taken at a point in his life that she didn’t remember and it had been a gift from him to her when they had been lovers. Every time she set her eyes upon it now, she felt as if she were doing something she shouldn’t. His smile was for a person she could no longer remember.

 

After all, it wasn’t just Draco that she couldn’t recall. She also had no memories of herself when she was with him and that was what bothered her the most. What kind of person couldn’t remember a part of themselves? Did she really love him in return? What were her feelings? What were her dreams? What were her aspirations? Did she want to marry him? Have kids? Settle down?

 

Nothing. Her mind was a complete blank and Hermione could feel the familiar pounding pain in her head once again as she tried to see what was not there.

 

She touched the worn edges of the photograph and shook her head. She knew she would never be able to give it up. She felt like it was the one thing that she possessed from her previous life with Draco. It was the only thing that wasn’t ripped away from her when she disappeared. She knew it was stupid, non-sensical, and illogical but a part of her felt like if she kept the photograph, there would always be hope. Here in her hands laid the one piece of concrete evidence that at some point in her life, she had remembered him and felt deeply for him and that he returned those feelings with equal fervor. He was happy and he smiled so naturally and with genuine emotion that she knew it was not a fabrication. It was true. It was real. His love for her had been real.

 

It was not something as fleeting and fragile as a memory. This was something solid. She could feel it her hands and she would never let it go.

 

It was the only thing she had left.

 

-*-

 

He couldn’t believe how fucking nervous he was. He was an adult, damn it. He was not supposed to have sweaty palms before picking a girl up for a date. He was acting like a bloody first year. Draco stood in front of the door to her flat, a bouquet that the florist had guaranteed would sweep her off her feet in his hand. He simply stared at it in confusion. Why women always loved flowers so much was beyond him. They were expensive, attracted insects, and died all too quickly. At least with the aid of magic, these flowers would never die.

 

He had the sudden urge to scratch his neck and loosen his tie. He felt like all the air had escaped from his lungs and refused to return. His shirt was constricting and the temperature in the hallway seemed to have escalated to a near-tortuous degree.

 

This was absolutely ridiculous. He was going mad. He knew it.

 

Slowly, he brought his hand up to the wooden door and knocked, letting out a slow breath, hoping to calm his nerves.

 

As soon as she opened the door, he felt the air rush out of him again but this time, for another reason entirely.

 

She was wearing a light pink dress and a loose black cardigan. Her hair fell down around her in soft curls and he could tell that she had put just a hint of makeup on.

 

She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. And, it killed him that she was no longer his. She was so close but he needed her closer. He had always needed her closer.

 

Braving a smile, he handed her a bouquet, surprising even himself at how calm and composed he sounded when he finally spoke, “You’re beautiful.”

 

Hermione blushed prettily, thanking him softly for the flowers before she welcomed him in.

 

“It still looks the same,” he glanced around, “I’m glad you kept it that way. I always thought it was the perfect flat for you.”

 

“I really haven’t had much of a chance to do any rearrangements to be perfectly honest. Working on this case has kept me pretty busy,” she looked around the flat and shrugged, “I rather like it the way it is though.” She moved into the kitchen, reaching for a glass vase before filling it with water, “This bouquet is gorgeous. I thought I needed a bit of color to liven up this place. I love purple.”

 

“You always did,” he whispered, more to himself than her. He felt another strong pang in his chest as he watched her busy herself with arranging the flowers in the vase. He was being an idiot. Why was he brooding and upset? She had been completely upfront with him and he knew that she didn’t remember anything about him or about them.

 

Yet, every time she said anything or did anything that reminded him of the past, he couldn’t help but hurt and yearn for it desperately. He did still love her, he told himself. He would always love her. But, that love was for a person that no longer existed, it seemed.

 

She was so different yet still the same. She still bit her lip when she was intensely concentrating while reading. She still played with her hands when she was nervous. She still hummed softly as she did some mundane task, as she was doing right at this moment.

 

But, he never heard her laugh anymore. Never truly laugh – one that consumed her entire body and lit up her entire being. She never looked at him with one of her gentle, “I love you” glances whenever their eyes met. She never smiled at him for no reason whatsoever.

 

He knew it was bound to happen. Two years changed a person and yet, he would be lying if he said that he didn’t think they would just pick up where they left off. He knew that he should be happy she was even giving him a chance but he had never been a patient man. He always got what he wanted and damn it, hadn’t he waited long enough?

 

It was all so frustrating.

 

Yet, she was worth it. She always had been.

 

-*-

 

Hermione giggled and took another sip of her white wine, “You know it helps to breathe through your anger.”

 

Draco simply huffed back at her, over-exaggerating his annoyance as he threw his hands up into the air, “I can’t believe you don’t think he’s one of the most brilliant men today.”

 

“I think his theory is absolutely absurd. I refuse to believe that magic is something that can’t be perfected and learned given time and effort. What William Abbot proposes puts an end for the necessity of education and practice. You might as well shut Hogwarts down if you truly believe that,” Hermione rolled her eyes and nibbled on a breadstick.

 

“It’s perfectly logical. How else do you explain the innate ability that certain wizards have over others?”

 

“I’m not disagreeing on that account. I do believe that certain wizards do have more talent for magic than others but to say that one’s entire magical power is bestowed upon them at birth? Absolutely preposterous.” She shook her head, “I find that I am the perfect textbook example against such a claim. From firsthand account, I know that my magic has improved because of my reading and endless practice.”

 

“See, but that’s where you’re wrong, Granger,” he teased, “You’ve always had that magical power within you. With reading and practice, you’ve simply been polishing it, making it better but not necessarily stronger or increasing its power.”

 

“Are you saying that you at age three were just as powerful as you are now?”

 

“At age three, I hadn’t tapped into all of my magical power yet. Even at age thirteen, I hadn’t but now, I have.”

 

She looked at him incredulously, “I can’t believe you don’t think he’s a quack.”

 

“I think you’re a quack for not believing him.”

 

Hermione laughed, almost snorting on her wine which only caused her to laugh even harder, “You certainly know how to charm a lady.”

 

“I do my best,” he smiled back at her, basking in the glow and sound of her laughter. God, he had missed her so much. He missed this.

 

Yawning, Hermione began clearing the plates, “I have to say, this was all quite delicious. I would never have pegged you for a cook.”

 

“I decided to take cooking lessons last year. It was on a whim,” his voice was softer, tinged with a hint of pain, “I needed something to pass the time.”

 

“I should take cooking lessons,” she smiled at him, touching his elbow gently, hoping to convey her feelings though she couldn’t bring herself to actually voice them, “Though I doubt they would help.”

 

Draco turned towards her, placing his hand on top of hers and brought her body closer to his. She still smelled exactly the same. Absolutely divine. He leaned in closer, his eyes stormy, his mind a mess of emotions and softly, pressed his lips against hers.

 

She was surprised at first but after a moment, returned his kiss with equal passion. She opened her mouth to his, their tongues playfully fighting back and forth, her hands running all across his body and up into his hair.

 

It just felt right. He felt right.

 

Draco pulled back gently, placing one last kiss on her temple, still keeping a hold around her. Hermione looked up at him, almost shyly and laughed, “Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night as well?”

He simply nodded, placing his forehead to hers.

 

-*-

 

Pansy’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she approached him. She slammed her hand down onto his desk, her body shaking slightly from the impact.

 

“How much longer will this go on? How much longer will you make me do this against my will?” She spat at him.

 

“I would think you rather enjoyed these little trysts with him. Have you not always pined for him?”

 

“He is my friend,” she said in contempt, “And he loves her not me. It is something that I have accepted and I have moved on,” she stepped closer, her sense flooded with the smell of alcohol and tobacco. It sickened her. “It is time that you do the same,” she yelled at him, “It has been nearly three years since she’s died. Your revenge against him will not bring her back. When will you-“

 

He had his hand around her neck before she could even finish her sentence. He merely smirked at her, tightening his hold, “Do you know how easy it would be for me to snap your neck right now?” His fingers dug into her skin, “Perhaps I should snap your mother’s neck. Would that make you more compliant?”

 

Pansy’s eyes immediately clouded with fear. Her protests came out as gurgles as she struggled against his hold.

 

His smirk deepened and he let her go, throwing her to the side, her body slamming against the bookcase, “I thought as much.”

 

“Don’t you dare touch her.”

 

“I don’t believe you’re in the position to be giving threats, Ms. Parkinson” he said lazily, taking a sip of an amber liquid, “Unlike you, I remember the terms of our agreement. Your mother’s life will be safe as long as you continue to carry out my demands,” he narrowed his eyes at her, “Without question.”

 

She coughed and rose up on her feet, her balance wavering, “I hate you.”

 

He laughed, his rich and deep baritone ringing in the room and reverberating off the walls. Pansy cringed and looked down, ashamed of herself.

 

“I have no task for you tonight.” He waved his hand in dismissal, “Leave me be.”

 

Pansy pushed herself off of the bookcase and began to walk out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

 

“Oh, by the way,” he called out, “Delightful shoes.”

 

She looked down at the red heels she wore and swore to burn them as soon as she got home.

 

-*-

 

Hermione pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face as she stared down at the red wax seal in frustration. It was so familiar. She knew she had seen it somewhere before but she just couldn’t place the memory.

 

She let out a sigh of frustration, not even hearing as Harry walked through the door.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

She looked up at him and smiled, loosening her shoulders, “Just a bit annoyed. I know I’ve seen this seal before but I can’t seem to remember where,” she pointed at the piles of books of her desk, “I can’t seem to find it anywhere either.”

 

He sat at the edge of her desk and touched her shoulder gently, “You’ll get it, Hermione. It just takes time.”

 

“I just feel as if time is running out against us. Whoever is sending these notes won’t send them forever. I can’t help but feel as if one of these days something terrible is going to happen. It’s like an impending doom.”

 

Harry nodded, his green eyes darkening with worry.

 

Hermione let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, “So, any luck with Viola’s flat?”

 

“Nothing. I sent a full team of Aurors to do a sweep and check but we came up with nothing. No magical trace and no other detectable presence besides your own. If that book hadn’t been there, I would say that no one had entered that flat since the last time you left.”

 

Her brow furrowed, “I wonder why he decided to place the book in my flat. Why is he giving us the answer? I mean, if we hadn’t figured it out before then we definitely would have at that point. Why is he helping us?”

 

“Maybe he’s getting impatient? Maybe it’s just another step in his plan. Perhaps those notes were never meant to confuse us all along. Perhaps he wanted us to figure it out and come after him. I don’t know.”

 

“I wish I could remember. I feel so useless. All the answers should be in my head instead I’m-“

 

Harry immediately stood up and grabbed her by the shoulders, “Don’t ever say that. You have been amazing, Hermione. We would have absolutely nothing to go on if not for what you do remember and your help with cracking several mysteries in this case.”

 

She smiled unconvincingly up at him and shook herself out of his grasp, ignoring the pained look in his eyes, “I should get back to researching.”

 

“Yes,” he nodded, “I’ll keep you updated.” Without another word, he left the room.

 

Hermione rubbed her temples before pulling another book from the stack in front of her, this one a history of pureblood families.

 

Letting out a heavy sigh, she opened the cover and began reading.

 

-*-

 

Draco sat in confusion at his desk, the contents of the letter splayed out in front of him. It had arrived in the same fashion as the notes always did—mysteriously and suddenly out of nowhere. He tore through the same red wax seal, expecting another few lines from Shakespeare and yet, the letter was completely blank.

 

Instead, two pressed and dried flowers laid against the old parchment. One blood red and the other a light pink.

 

-*-

 

Author’s Note: So! Some more pieces to the puzzle. I’m guessing that this story will have another four or five chapters so lots of secrets revealed soon! Most exciting. Just adding a little plug for my new story, “Fête Galante”. If you like art, romance, and seduction – check it out!

Chapter 3: Clair de Lune

 

He was playing with her mind. She knew it.

 

It had been nearly a week since Hermione had last heard from him. When she had agreed, she had almost expected him to ask her to remove her clothes and begin posing for him right then and there. Instead, he offered her a drink which she was all too quick to deny, returned the contract she had brought—signed, and then proceeded to make small talk about the museum and the collection before Hermione finally excused herself for the night, her mind and heart completely shaken and confused.

 

He was almost being nice. It was easily one of the strangest experiences of her life.

 

Hermione sat in her office, books piled up high on her desk as she reviewed various catalogs and object files, preparing for the next exhibition. The day after her visit to Malfoy Manor, she scheduled an urgent and immediate Trustees meeting. While they were displeased about being called together so last minute and without warning, they were even further disappointed when they discovered that Hermione had managed to get the funding she needed to keep the museum running and she had done it in only a week. Caius had shaken her hand and congratulated her in his typical steely fashion but even Hermione could tell that he was impressed with her initiative and efficiency.

 

If only they knew.

 

She had handed Caius and Aldous the contract, smiling inwardly when she saw their cool facades crack when they realized just who was sponsoring the museum from now on. Malfoy would certainly have a pleasant crowd to try to convince whenever he decided to meet with them.

 

Hermione drummed her hands against the hardwood of her desk, sighing softly as she admired the painting in one of her open books. The reproduction could not capture the quiet and painful beauty of the real-life work. Turner’s Slave Ship had always been one of her favorite works by the painter even if it wasn’t magical. She had first seen it when she was only ten on her first trip to the United States. Her parents had always enjoyed museum-going while a young Hermione had found the atmosphere of an art museum to be stuffy and quite honestly, horribly boring. She didn’t understand art. She only saw marginally interesting subjects painted in blobs of color on a canvas hung in front of her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking at and after a while, everything just blurred together and looked exactly the same. Why would her parents want to travel so far just to waste their hours away at such a meaningless task? Give her a good book and she would be content.

 

She had lost her parents somewhere in the colonial galleries and had wandered off into a more secluded corner of the museum. Hermione remembered plopping herself onto one of the gallery benches, opening the book she carried in her little backpack. She had just finished a chapter when she placed the book in her lap, stretching her arms out and for the first time since she entered the gallery, looked up.

 

That was when she saw it.

 

She fell in love with it the instant she laid her eyes on it. It was so rough, passionate, heart-breaking, sad, emotional, and all-together captivating. She remembered standing up, the forgotten book falling onto the bench as she slowly walked towards the painting as if any noise would scare it away. When she was merely inches away from the work, she simply looked up and stared at it, her eyes drinking in every single detail: the warm color palette, the horrendously deformed figures of the slaves in the water, the bold brushstrokes and heavy texture of the paint. It was as if she could imagine Turner himself painting the piece in front of her, so incredibly caught up in emotion over such a horrific event that even he could not control what was painted on the canvas.

 

Most people would deem it impossible to pinpoint the very moment in which they fell in love with a lifelong obsession but for Hermione Granger, it was that moment, that painting, and that feeling which she still got every time she discovered a new favorite piece that started it all.

 

During her Hogwarts years, she had secretly studied the history of magical and non-magical art in her spare time between classes. Unfortunately, the history of art was not a subject that the Founders had deemed necessary for students and thus, she never received any formal training until university. She had spent a good amount of time studying each painting that Hogwarts owned, amazed at the intricacies and character that each painting possessed.

 

The most prevalent genre in magical painting was, without a doubt, portraiture. Rarely, if ever, did she find a landscape and even rarer than that did she find anything remotely modern. She encountered a handful of genre paintings and quite a number of still-lifes—which really, weren’t still at all—and occasionally, a history painting or two. It seemed magical painting was still stuck several decades behind non-magical painting. For this reason, Hermione convinced her university to allow her to do a joint-degree at a muggle institution so she could have a more comprehensive training and background.

 

Muggle painting was beautiful. Hermione supposed that she was a bit biased but she was a firm believer that the innate fact that muggle canvases could not move put them to a large disadvantage. Without the use of magic, an artist must create a work of art purely with paint, canvas, panel, or other medium and execute it properly so that the audience can connect to the art but at the same time, they must remain true to their purpose and beliefs. Without the use of magic, Turner managed to mesmerize a ten-year-old child into loving art, weaving his story with the careful use of reds, oranges, yellows, and whites while never forgetting the traumatic incident and history behind what it depicted. Turner created something so heartbreakingly beautiful and all he used was a paintbrush. Not a wand.

 

Hermione continued to flip through the book, making a list of all the works that she wanted to review further for possible loan for the newest exhibition. Her assistant and the rest of the department had left hours ago. She supposed she should retire for the night as well but her flat was cold and dark. In the warm, comfortable space of her office, surrounded by her art books, she was content.

 

So, she sipped her tea and flipped the page.

 

-*-

 

She was even more unbelievably beautiful bathed in moonlight.

 

Draco stepped into her office, closing her door quietly as he watched her. He knew she would be working late. She was such a predictable creature of habit. Most nights, she would doze off slightly and retire for home, more often than not, bringing a few of her art books with her, most likely falling asleep to the images. Other nights, she would fall asleep at her desk and it was these nights that he indulged himself by watching her.

 

How she thought that position was the least bit comfortable was beyond his comprehension.

 

He himself was a creature of habit as well. He didn’t mean to start watching her like he did. He realized that it was incredibly disturbing behavior but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. The first night was about a month and a half ago. He had just found out from hushed whispers that the board was planning to shut the museum down. He had come to her office with the intention of warning her and offering her the money but when he knocked on her office door and there was no answer, he let himself in, thinking he would leave her a note. He was met with one of the most breathtaking sights he had ever seen, off or on canvas.

 

Her brown hair fell across part of her face in soft curls. The moonlight gave her the appearance of an ethereal goddess, a slight flush of pink on her cheeks and lips only served to make her more appealing. Her breathing was even and she looked peaceful, completely unbothered by the outside world and the stresses of her job, past, heritage, and the many expectations that were demanded of her. In that moment, she was simply Hermione.

 

Never before had he desired anyone more than her. He stepped towards her resting body, his hand reaching out, desperately wanting to caress the milky skin of her cheek, wanting, needing to know if she was as soft as she looked but he held himself back. That night, he watched her for a few more fleeting moments before he left the room.

 

He had thought he had gone mad.

 

He had tried to ignore her and forget about how the moonlight seemed to completely illuminate her entire being. He did not find Hermione Granger attractive. He couldn’t. He was not allowed to.

 

During the war, he had gone against everything that he had been taught, choosing to follow the side of Light, never believing that a deranged half-blood could ever win such a pitiful battle. When Voldemort fell and Lucius was placed under arrest, deported to a small cottage in France, he thought that perhaps, for once, he could live for himself without the restrictions and expectations of outside forces. He had been so naïve and so wrong.

 

With Lucius gone, he was now expected to fill his father’s shoes and a man of his caliber and station was supposed to maintain order. Though the war was over, the deeply seated hatred of mudbloods and triumphed ideals of pureblood supremacy was still ingrained into the social circles in which he ran. So, he retreated from society, deciding it was better to ignore it and not deal with it at all rather than give himself the headache.

 

He knew he chose the coward’s way out.

 

A real man would’ve stood up for what he believed in: that the issue of blood was merely fabricated to give the pureblood aristocracy a sense of superiority when in reality, it couldn’t be further from the truth. After the war, however, he didn’t have the strength or the will to fight anymore.

 

So, he fled. And, it became all too easy to forget the rest of the world and for the rest of the world to forget about the once notorious Draco Malfoy.

 

He had never regretted his decision. He actually found himself appreciating a quiet life and it wasn’t until he saw Hermione Granger that night that he decided he would throw it all away and take it all back if he could just touch her. Just once.

 

Just once, he wanted to feel her skin upon his, for her to kiss him with the same passion as he held for her. For her to desire him as much as he desired her.

 

He would have her.

 

-*-

 

Author’s Note: The title of this chapter translates to Moonlight. I know I use quite a bit of terminology in this chapter so if anyone has any questions about what something is, please just let me know. Also, if you want to learn more about the history of Slave Ship, send me an email at: ledesespoireternal@gmail.com

 

Turner’s Slave Ship can be seen here: http://www.texaschapbookpress.com/magellanslog5/turner/slaveship1840161k.jpg

wooohoo. and, i'm back and with a whole new universe filled with lovely characters to play with. i just started writing my newest fic: Linger. i will most likely not be continuing any of my past fics. considering how it's been five years, i'm sure most people have stopped reading them anyway. i have to say, i'm a little new to the livejournal business so i'm hoping to get a snazzy new layout up by tomorrow or the next day. we'll see how it all works out :)

i'm so excited to be back! YAY. if anybody has any recs as where to post, please let me know. so far, i've found aff.net, fanfiction.net, dramione, granger enchanted, and pure arrogance. anywhere else?

currently working on the next chapter of Linger - it's going to be interesting. mwahahaha.