corner of your heart

FIC: For Blue Skies (Rachel/Puck) PG-13 SEQUEL to: Corner of Your Heart 1/1

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 06:14:55 GMT

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.

-*-

FIC: Corner of Your Heart 1/1 (Rachel/Puck) Rated: PG-13, SEQUEL to Disintegration

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 05:58:48 GMT

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.

-*-

FIC: Disintegration 1/1 (Puck/Rachel) Rated: PG - COMPLETE

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 03:25:02 GMT

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.

-*-

Linger - thoughts

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 09:35:30 GMT

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.

FIC: The White Hat 1/? (Edward/Bella) R

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 23:52:51 GMT

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

FIC: Fête Galante 6/? (Draco/Hermione)

Sun, 09 Aug 2009 23:26:58 GMT

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

thoughts: linger

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 03:53:53 GMT

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.

FIC: Fête Galante 5/? (Draco/Hermione) R

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:56:10 GMT

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

FIC: Fête Galante 4/? (Draco/Hermione) R

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 19:12:13 GMT

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

-*-

FIC: 8/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 05:19:06 GMT

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!

FIC: Fête Galante 3/? (Draco/Hermione) R

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 05:39:33 GMT

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

FIC: Fête Galante 2/? (Draco/Hermione) R

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 06:55:08 GMT

Chapter Two: Odalisque

“Come again?”

Hermione let out a sigh as a light pink blush colored her cheeks. “He offered the museum an enormous amount of money that would help us get out of debt and be well-established for years to come in return for a significant amount of control of the museum’s further endeavors and-“

“I don’t care about all of that,” Ginny interrupted, “Repeat the part about the kiss again.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips, a small huff escaping her mouth as she pursed her lips, “There really isn’t more to that part except the demand of a kiss in return for money. I’m not some common whore, you know,” she said angrily, “I can’t believe he had the audacity to even suggest that!”

“Did you slap him?”

The blush deepened against Hermione’s skin. What was she supposed to say? That instead of defending her honor she simply sat there like an idiot and sniffed Draco Malfoy? She looked down and tried her best not to fidget, “I didn’t have a chance to say anything before he left.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, “So, are you going to accept?”

“A-Absolutely not!” Hermione sputtered before she bit her lip, “Although it is quite a tempting offer.”

Ginny smirked and gave her a knowing look.

“Not the part about the kiss! I’m talking about the money,” she sighed wistfully, “If the museum had an endowment that large, we could actually hold larger special exhibitions, buy more valuable and rare pieces, and perhaps even borrow some works from muggle institutions. I’ve been dying to do an exhibition focusing on the work of Turner and comparing his muggle and magical works.”

Ginny nodded encouragingly, “I’m sure that would be a big hit. Even the Ministry would appreciate that. They’re always trying to toot their own horn and push forth the ‘British is better’ agenda.” She rolled her eyes, “Xenophobic bastards.”

“I can’t accept though,” she almost sounded sad yet her tone was resolute, “It would be immoral, improper, and probably highly illegal.”

“Not necessarily,” Ginny said carefully, “There’s no law against donations, in fact, it’s encouraged. I’m sure it wouldn’t sit well with the board that he’s willing to bail the museum out in this fashion but they can shove it.” She sipped her tea quietly watching Hermione with curious eyes.

“What about the being my superior thing and holding his own exhibition without approval? I’m positive the board would never approve that.”

“Well, that’s not really your responsibility, is it? You were elected into your position and it’s really not in your power to decide who becomes your superior—it’s the board’s. I think it’s out of your hands.” Ginny seemed quite pleased with herself as she said triumphantly, “Tell him that you agree to his terms but that he’s responsible for fulfilling the other terms he specifies in his contract. If he wants to hold his own exhibitions without the necessity of the board’s approval and become your superior, then he needs to get it himself. It’s not like you can just wave your wand and make it all happen. It’s not in your power.”

“Ginny, that’s brilliant,” Hermione was nearly bouncing with glee, “The board will never agree to that. I’ll ask him to sign an agreement that dictates that he will donate the money and that as director, I agree to his stipulations but the approval of the board is something he will have to get himself. He’ll have to sign it. His stupid Malfoy pride wouldn’t dare let him do otherwise. The museum will get the money and Malfoy will be out of my hair for a good long while. The board will not appreciate being threatened in this matter. He’ll lose all the influence that he had.” She laughed lightly, “I almost feel bad for him. Almost.”

Ginny snorted, “You shouldn’t. That pompous arse. He just wanted to put you in an awkward position and test you. If he really wanted to do good for the museum, he would’ve just donated the money without any demands whatsoever. He is and forever will be a selfish bastard that is simply too good-looking. It’s unfair.”

Even Hermione couldn’t deny the truth in her words. She exhaled and sat back in the fluffy chair, a pleasant smile gracing her lips.

“So what do you plan to about the kiss thing?”

“I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and do it. I mean, considering the circumstances, 14 million galleons to save a museum that I’ve dedicated my entire life and career to for a simple kiss that will last a mere second should be tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, Hermione, you aren’t sexless and blind. The man is bloody gorgeous and he’s willing to donate a ridiculous amount of money that most wizards don’t even dare of dreaming they would ever possess and all for a kiss from you. I would give him a kiss and then some,” she waggled her eyebrows before laughing at Hermione’s shocked face.

“Shouldn’t I be offended that he’s essentially treating me as something to be purchased and then thrown away?”

“Each to their own, I say, but if I were you, I would feel flattered.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, deciding it would be best to let the subject drop. Her mind couldn’t help but wander to the terms of his offer. It seemed that was all that she had been doing this week – thinking about Malfoy and his blasted offer. Today was the last day. She could no longer put it off anymore. She would have to go to him tonight and give him her final decision. Though she had sounded fairly confident and reassured when talking with Ginny, her mind was in absolute turmoil. She was being ridiculous and stupid. She knew that Ginny was right. The board would never agree to Malfoy’s terms and because she would make him sign the contract beforehand, his donation did not depend upon if the board approves his ridiculous demand to effectively gain full control and access to the museum, it was essentially 14 million galleons for one insignificant kiss.

It really shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did but she couldn’t help it. She had strong morals and there were certain things that she just didn’t do and that included kissing Draco Malfoy! He never did specify what type of kiss he wanted. It could just be a peck on the cheek for all she knew.

That could be manageable. Hermione let out a sigh. Who was she kidding? It was Malfoy and that tricky, slippery little bastard would milk it for all it was worth and probably take advantage of her. He wasn’t the king of Slytherin for nothing.

Hermione couldn’t deny Ginny’s words, however. A small part of her—a part that she kept hidden away in the back recesses of her mind and absolutely refused to ever let surface—had always wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Ginny was right. She wasn’t blind nor was she sexless and yes, perhaps a few times during her years at Hogwarts, she might’ve possibly had a fantasy or two about Malfoy. It wasn’t as if she ever expected it to come to anything. It never hurt to look and it certainly wasn’t her fault that he was just so damned good to look at.

It was his fault really. Bloody handsome bastard.

She was in control of herself though. She might’ve been attracted to him at some point in her life but her work and the museum came first. She refused to let him get the best of her. He had quite the reputation of being a womanizer during his Hogwarts years, breaking hearts left and right. Hermione had many a memory where she was patrolling and would catch him with his hands up a random girl’s skirt. It was a different girl each time and the shock and traumatic effect never faded. He would always smirk at her, sometimes even going so far as winking but she would merely threaten him, knowing it would come to nothing, before she stomped off in the opposite direction. She never did wonder why it was always her that caught Malfoy in these compromising positions and why he chose to carelessly flirt with her though he had another willing girl in his arms. After he graduated, Draco Malfoy had all but faded off into the background. Rarely, if ever, did he make the headlines of the Daily Prophet and usually, it was for donating some ridiculous sum of money to his new favorite philanthropic pursuit or attending yet another extravagant and highly unnecessary Ministry gala. Hermione frowned, trying her best to remember if she had ever read anything regarding his romantic pursuits.

It seemed he was content on living a more low-key lifestyle as he grew older. Hermione was sure that he had his share of consorts post-Hogwarts. He probably just paid off the folks at the Daily Prophet to keep their mouths shut. It wouldn’t surprise her.

Draco Malfoy was and would always be a heartless jerk that simply toyed with emotions. That was exactly what she was to him, Hermione decided. A plaything to amuse him for a few weeks before he tired of her and then threw her to the side.

She would refuse to let him get the best of her. After all, it wasn’t just her own pride and reputation on the line – it was her entire career and life. She would not let him destroy the museum.

-*-

Hermione felt dirty. She held the business card between her forefinger and thumb, flipping it over between her fingers, her brown eyes scrutinizing it before she let out a heavy sigh. Why did she have to whisper his name in order to activate it?

Such an action was too intimate and sexual for her liking. She knew she was just being silly but she would be more comfortable with a spell. She expelled some air through her lips before she said loudly and clearly, “Malfoy.”

Nothing.

Hermione squinted at the card. Was it broken or something?

Whisper my name. That was what he had said. Malfoy had officially become the most irritating git on the face of the planet. Hermione repeated his name but this time in a soft whisper.

Nothing. Again.

Hermione almost threw the card down in frustration but instead she made a few disgruntled noises. What was she missing now? She was saying his name. It suddenly struck her. Perhaps, the portkey would only activate with his full name. Hermione glared at the indiscriminate card, feeling as if it was taunting her. He would do this. She and Malfoy were not on first-name terms. That meant they were familiar or that they were friends. They were neither and Hermione had intended to keep it that way.

It felt dirty, bizarre, and strange to whisper his full name into a card. It was just wrong. It was too intimate.

She let out another sigh and shook out her arms, readying herself, “Draco-“

Before she could even finish his name, the portkey activated and she felt the familiar tugging in her stomach. Moments later, she was in what she assumed to be Draco’s study in Malfoy manor.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

Hermione whipped around, a few strands of her hair hung messily around her, covering a part of her face.

“You certainly took your time to make the decision.”

“I wanted to make an informed decision,” Hermione retorted as she watched him carefully. He was dressed in a dark green button-down shirt, the top few buttons unbuttoned so she could see the pale skin of his chest underneath, and black silk pajama pants. Was it really that late? Her eyes glanced out the window and she could see the moon high in the sky.

“And what decision have you come to?”

“Yes.”

If he was shocked by her choice, he certainly hid it well. He simply nodded and took a sip of the amber drink that he held in his hands.

“With certain conditions, however,” Hermione continued. “As director, I agree to allowing you full control of running one special exhibition a year without any interference on my part as well as you becoming my superior. However, the final decision does not rest in my hands. It is something that the Board of Trustees must agree upon and you know as well as I do that I cannot force them to agree to anything they don’t want to. As such, I will fulfill my end of the agreement. Please sign this contract,” she handed a piece of parchment to him, “It says that you agree to donate the previously mentioned sum of 14 million galleons total regardless of the final decision of the board.”

His grey eyes scanned quickly across the parchment before the tossed it onto his desk lazily, “And what of the kiss?”

Hermione stiffened, “It was a part of our original agreement so I will acquiesce.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, taking a look at the parchment once again. Hermione stood in front of his desk awkwardly as he read in silence. After what seemed like forever, he finally spoke once again, “I will agree to your terms, Granger. I’ll even agree to donate the money even if the board denies my demands.”

Hermione’s heart soared and she couldn’t contain the smile that burst onto her face.

“But, I have one additional stipulation to add.”

Her heart dropped and immediately, a frown replaced the smile, “What exactly?”

“I want you to pose for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to paint you, Granger.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, “As in a portrait?”

“Of sorts,” Draco smirked before he clasped his hands together. “I want to paint you as an odalisque.”

Hermione blinked a few times, her mouth dropped open as she tried her best to wrap her mind around his request, “You want to paint me as an odalisque?”

“You seem to enjoy repeating my words.”

“Are you mad? I will not pose nude for you, Malfoy!” she seethed, the blood returning to her brain once again at his words. “You have some nerve to-“

“It’s purely for artistic purposes, Granger. I have no wish to seduce you, if that is what you are implying.”

“I don’t know what I’m implying, Malfoy. First, you offer 14 million galleons for a kiss and now you’re asking me to pose nude for you.”

“I offered 14 million galleons to save a museum that I have enjoyed and frequented ever since I was a child. The kiss is simply an added bonus. I am asking you to pose as an odalisque, an artistic subject that many influential painters have embraced before. Ingres, for example.”

“Ingres was an absolute cur. He abandoned his fiancée without a word while he fled to Rome, scared and unable to handle the criticisms he received for his artwork,” Hermione said in annoyance, her eyes stormy and hard.

“I wasn’t commenting on his character, Granger, merely his artistic talent which no one, not even you, can deny.”

“I will not pose nude for you, Malfoy.”

“Very well,” Draco said simply, completely calm and reserved, taking another sip of his drink, “You have less than three weeks to come up with 250,000 galleons. I wish you the best of luck.”

Hermione pursed her lips together, stomping her foot on the ground in frustration, “Must you torment me, Malfoy? Why do you want me to pose nude for you? There are plenty of women out there who are more beautiful and more than willing to do the same. Can’t you just be happy with the kiss?” she asked desperately. “If you truly cared about the museum as much as you say you do then you would never let the board and the Ministry shut it down. You know as well as I do the possible repercussions of such a drastic choice.”

“I return the same sentiments to you, Granger,” Draco retorted, “If you truly cared about the museum as much as you say you do then you would gladly accept any offer presented especially one as rare as this. I am offering you 14 million galleons, no small sum,” he said coldly, “I am offering you a guarantee that the museum will have no want for money for the next decade all for a kiss and for you to be my model for a short amount of time. I am not asking for anything preposterous. No sexual favors, no betrothal. I am simply asking for two favors.”

Damn him. She couldn’t help but feel guilty at his words. It was true. In return for at least a decade of financial security for the museum, she had to perform a few simple favors. It was wrong though. He was bribing her. He knew that she could never turn down such an offer without always regretting her decision. She couldn’t live out the rest of her life knowing that she could’ve saved the museum in return for her pride. An odalisque was beautiful, sensual, attractive, and an object of desire. It was just that, however. An odalisque was an object.

Hermione Granger was not an object. She was not a model. Her beauty was not ethereal enough to be forever imprinted onto a canvas, remembered for the rest of eternity.

Why did he want to paint her?

She didn’t have the answers and he simply stared back at her, his grey eyes unreadable.

She let out a sigh of frustration, looking down at the carpeted floor, her fists tightly clenched at her sides, “Fine, I’ll do it.”

If she looked up, she would’ve seen the relief, passion, desire, and happiness reflected in his eyes.

-*-

Author’s Note: Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres was a French Neoclassical painter. His works were extremely expressive and powerful. He was absolutely brilliant. The criticisms that made him flee Paris centered mostly on the portrait of Napoleon that he did in 1806 (it now hangs in the Musée de l'Armée in Paris). Many critics, painters, and Parisians found it to be archaic and filled with stylistic discordances. One critic claimed it looked like Napoleon was drowning in his clothing, suggesting that he was unfit for the throne entirely. Ingres was in Rome when he received news of these criticisms. Shamed and outraged, he remained in Rome, never returning to Paris (effectively breaking off his engagement with Marie-Anne-Julie Forestier) until much later in his life.

Napoleon I: http://www.powellhistory.com/art/Painting/Ingres_Napoleon_on_his_Imperial_throne.jpg

Some examples of odalisques in painting: http://www.wga.hu/art/i/ingres/05ingres.jpg, http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3263/2615602700_e18f9011c7_o.jpg, http://cfs9.tistory.com/image/11/tistory/2008/08/25/18/32/48b27c34475b0

Also, sorry if my previous note confused anyone. The Louvre is absolutely gigantic. My legs almost fell off and died after I visited. I was merely referencing the collection size, not the physical gallery space.

FIC: Fête Galante 1/? (Draco/Hermione) R

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 06:20:31 GMT

Chapter 1: Ici, enfin, je repose…

This could not possibly be happening.

Hermione slammed her perfectly manicured hand down onto the smooth hardwood surface of the table, making several board members jump at the impact. She almost smirked at their reaction. Well, at least she still intimidated a few people.

“What do you mean you’re shutting down the museum?” she nearly seethed as her gaze quickly darted between the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and several of the more prominent board members that were staring back at her with a mixture of defiance, amusement, and boredom.

“Due to the state of the current economy, the Ministry has had to make a few budget cuts,” Kingsley started, his voice strained. His brown eyes begged at Hermione to not cause a scene.

She restrained herself from jumping across the table and strangling him. “So, stop holding so many galas and balls and let the Wizarding World keep the one art museum and cultural institution of worth that it possesses.” She shook her head in disbelief, “You can’t possibly be serious. Do you realize how much history our collection has? It’s the only method in which the public can access the very foundations of the beginnings of magic.”

“Yes, while that may be true, the public is simply not interested,” Aldous Greengrass snapped shrilly. “The visitor attendance rate has been at its lowest in years and the museum is over 500,000 galleons in debt simply from this fiscal year. The Ministry can no longer fund this disaster.”

Hermione exhaled loudly, clenching her fists tightly around her sides, “What exactly do you plan to do with the collection then? We have over 400,000 objects. You can’t mean for them to collect dust in storage.”

“Sell it.”

Her head snapped in the direction of the voice. She narrowed her eyes at Caius Flint who simply smiled innocently back at her, “Even you have to admit, Ms. Granger, that the only people that seem to be interested in Wizarding art these days are private collectors who would be falling over themselves on a chance to get their hands on a Turner or a Drummond.”

“It is precisely for that reason that I believe we have to keep the museum open to the public. For the past seven years, I have worked to acquire some of the rarest and best examples of Wizarding art that have previously been locked in the private collections of the Wizarding aristocracy. Such monumental works should be displayed for all to see not hidden away in a private parlor in Hertfordshire!”

“I admire your passion, Ms. Granger, I truly do,” Caius responded calmly, his tone negating his previous words, “However, while you may have the aspiration to share these works with others, it is evident that others are simply not interested. It is in the best interest of the Ministry, the museum, and even yourself to shut down the museum. If you truly wish, I am sure the Ministry itself can be convinced to purchase a few, select pieces that can be displayed in a small gallery within the Ministry building.”

Hermione was almost positive that her nails were breaking her skin and that the palms of her hands were bleeding as she merely glared at Caius, barely containing her anger and outrage. He was belittling her education, occupation, purpose, and person without a care. She knew that, without a doubt, if she agreed to his offer the Ministry would not only retain complete control of what would be purchased and displayed, she would essentially become a puppet, subject to their every whim. In addition, she knew that they would only choose pieces that fit the message the Ministry wanted to promote. That meant nothing provocative, contemporary, international, or done by a woman. In addition, the medium would be constricted to either painting or sculpture. It would be completely bland and homogeneous. She almost visibly cringed at the thought.

She would rather have no museum at all than that. The artwork deserved better. She shook her head adamantly, “I won’t let this museum become a mere form of propaganda for the ministry,” she spat. “You have to give me more time. I can fundraise and I promise at least half the amount owed by the end of the fiscal year.”

Kingsley smiled encouragingly and looked around at his fellow board members, hoping that they would agree. They simply stared back at him with blank and stoic faces. “I think that’s a fair offer.”

“The end of the fiscal year is in a month, Miss Granger,” Aldous stated, “Do you really believe that you can raise 250,000 galleons in that time?”

“Why don’t you let me worry about the minor details?” Hermione sneered back before she crossed her arms, “Do we have an agreement?”

Kingsley looked around the room as many of the board members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. It was obvious that they didn’t want to appear to defer to her in any way possible but it would be incredibly unfair and unnecessary of them to deny this one offer. Most of them knew that it would be nearly impossible for her to raise that type of money in the given amount of time anyway. Those who would actually feel sympathy with her cause would not be able to give much money and certainly not enough to cover half the debt. Those who could actually give that much money were mostly sitting in the room right now and Kingsley knew clear and well that they would not give Hermione a single sickle no matter how much she begged.

“You have one month, Miss Granger,” Caius said coldly before he abruptly stood up, adjourning the meeting and walking briskly out the door.

Hermione watched as a few more members trailed out of the meeting room, giving them polite smiles. Kingsley nodded at her and she returned it with a nod of her own before she sat back down in her chair, letting out a huge sigh and running her fingers through her hands. What the fuck was she supposed to do now?

“Granger.”

Her eyes snapped open at the voice and almost immediately, her mood soured even more. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said coolly, “How can I be of assistance?”

About six years ago, a short time after Hermione was promoted to the position of director, Draco Malfoy replaced his father as member of the Board of Trustees of the museum. Hermione had been shocked and strangely impressed by the news. He was the youngest member to be on the board for over a century. She knew that it was most likely due to the influence of the older Malfoy but at the same time, he was more than qualified for the position. A few months after he joined, the museum received an anonymous donation of over 200 paintings. Hermione remembered being absolutely flabbergasted at the size and quality of the donation. These were works that had never been displayed in a public forum and were thought to be lost to time. Some of the more important objects included the wand of Salazar Slytherin, the only portrait done of Salazar Slytherin—which had previously been rumored to be a myth, sixteen landscapes by JMW Turner—a famous painter both in the muggle and Wizarding worlds, and a porcelain dragon egg—said to be the only one of its kind.

With these works, Hermione was able to organize of the most successful and talked-about exhibitions in the museum’s history. Years later, however, with limited funds and constant budget cuts, the museum’s attendance rates dropped immensely and Hermione’s relationship with the board became more strained. She had tried her best to bring in visitors and made a valiant effort in collecting and acquiring impressive works all on her own accord. However, it wasn’t enough.

People were not interested in spending money on viewing art when they could save up and buy a ticket to a Quidditch game or a Ministry gala where they could rub shoulders with the rich and famous of the Wizarding world. Art was simply not a priority and thus, Hermione Granger was left with her current situation and no saving grace.

If she donated all her life savings, it would barely make a small dent in the debt. She knew she could ask Harry or Ron to help and chip in but their Auror salaries did not pay much and Hermione didn’t have the heart to ask Harry to dip so deeply into his inheritance especially not when he and Ginny were expecting another child in addition to the two they already had.

She let out a sigh and looked up at Draco wearily.

“I have a proposal for you.”

She quirked an eyebrow, gesturing for him to sit down across from her which he promptly did before she spoke, “Please enlighten me.”

“I will give the museum 4 million galleons to start. After paying off the debt that should be more than enough to cover the operating costs and exhibitions for the upcoming year. In addition, I will give the museum 2 million galleons every year for five years which should be a firm foundation to help the museum get back on its feet.”

Hermione stared at him in shock, consciously reminding herself not to drop her mouth open as she blinked a few times, unable to formulate a response. She cleared her throat, her eyes narrowing, “And what do you expect in return?”

“I want to direct one special exhibition a year that is completely under my control, no approval necessary from you or the board. I also expect to be fully involved in the running of the museum. You will, of course, keep your position as director but effective immediately, I will be your superior. All decisions regarding the museum must first be approved by me.”

“Anything else, my liege?” Hermione asked sarcastically, her temper getting the better of her.

“A kiss,” Draco replied simply, leaning close into her.

She could feel the heat emanating from his body and she struggled to calm her heart rate and breathing. She could smell him: a mix of mint, musk, and fresh laundry. He was smirking at her. God, could she be more obvious and creepy? He was making her the most absurd offer of her life and while she should be slapping him upside the head in offense, she was sniffing him like a dog.

What was wrong with her?

“A kiss?” she repeated dumbly, “What?” She mentally berated herself. Of course, it was this demand that she chose to focus upon instead of his previous declarations that he essentially wanted her to hand over the reins of the museum and her job to him on a silver platter with a smile on her face.

“Granger, you can’t possibly be so prudish that I have to explain to you the details of what it would involve,” He looked at her impatiently before he stood up, handing her a card. “It’s a portkey to the Manor. When you have made your decision, whisper my name and it will activate. The offer only lasts a week.”

Without another word, he exited the room, leaving her to stare at the empty space where he was sitting only moments before.

What just happened?

-*-

Author’s Note: The title of this chapter translates to: Here, at last, I rest… It is what is written on the tombstone of Élisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, the most famous woman Rococo painter of her time. Also, I know that 500,000 galleons doesn’t seem like much but if you convert it to muggle currency, it is over 5 millions dollars and 2.5 million pounds. 400,000 objects in a museum’s collection is pretty sizeable though not enormous. For reference, the Art Institute of Chicago owns 260,000, the Louvre owns 380,000, the Met owns 2 million, and the British Museum owns 7 million.

FIC: Linger 7/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 04:33:27 GMT

Chapter 6: Pray it won’t fade away

I won’t let the shadows take their toll. I won’t cover my head in the dark and I won’t forget you when we part. I won’t heal given time. I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t feel better in the cold light of day but I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to stay. – Porcupine Tree, “Collapse the Light into Earth”

Pansy was sitting in his chair when he entered the study. He narrowed his eyes as she lifted a note from off the desk using her fingers to play with it before she held it between her middle and forefinger.

“I believe you have an admirer. Getting anonymous messages with declarations of love?” she smirked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

Draco let out a sigh, running his hand through is blond locks in a tired fashion, “I’m really not in the mood for this right now. Why are you here?”

“Can’t I visit a friend?”

“We’re not friends, Pansy,” he said acerbically, lashing out at her thoughtlessly. He just wanted to sit in the corner and brood, perhaps get extremely inebriated as well.

Pansy’s eyes flashed with pain for a brief moment before she quickly hid it behind a sneer, “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Piss off and get out of my house,” he nearly snarled as he walked towards her, ripping the note away from her prying fingers.

“Ever the welcoming host.”

He ignored her words and looked down at the note in his hands. It was the same. It was always the same. The same parchment, the same red wax seal, and as he opened the letter, he knew that inside would be the same writing with another taunting passage that’s purpose was still the same: to rip him from inside out, slowly, painfully, and without mercy.

Draco read the note in anxious silence.

A servant grafted in my serious trust
And therein negligent; or else a fool
That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,
And takest it all for jest.

“What’s it say?”

“Nothing of importance,” he faked nonchalance as he folded the note back up and placed it on his desk in the corner furthest away from Pansy’s grasps. “Honestly, why are you here?”

Pansy nearly flinched as she felt his gaze upon her. His eyes were a deep blue and she could see the pain beneath his carefully controlled façade. She was part of the reason for that pain even though he didn’t know it. He would never know it. She could never be honest with him and tell him the truth. As righteous as she wanted to be, she knew she would never be strong enough to tell Draco everything. It had gone on for too long. She was too involved.

He would never forgive her.

She couldn’t lose him. He was the one constant and friend that she had her entire life and yes, she drove him crazy and yes, they often verbally attacked each other but underneath it all, she really did love him and she knew he loved her too. Not in a romantic way, though she did have feelings for him at one point in her Hogwarts years, but nevertheless, Draco had always been in her heart.

And here she was, betraying him and lying to his face all the while keeping a fake smile plastered to her face.

She was supposed to sleep with him tonight. Her latest task was to get Draco into bed again. She didn’t bother asking why but she could only assume that things with Hermione were not going well for Draco and that this was just another way to break him further. He loved her so much, Pansy knew and because of his weakness, his need for someone to love him back, to care for him, to touch him, he would give in and when morning came, he would hurt.

She didn’t want to hurt him but she had to. She had to protect the one she cared about and while she loved Draco there would always be one other person that occupied a greater space in her heart and they would always come first.

So, she had to do this. She knew it would kill him and she could do nothing but watch helplessly on the sideline as he burned and deteriorated into a shell of the man he was before.

His back was turned to her. She gently caressed his shoulder, shutting her eyes. In that moment, there was no one else. It was only Pansy and Draco and they were friends. Life was simple. His grey eyes still glimmered with happiness and his lips still turned up into his boyish smile with a hint of a smirk.

He was happy and she was happy for him.

The moment passed and the next thing she knew, she was throwing herself into his arms, kissing him forcefully. She poured her sorrow and regret into it, hoping to convey to him how worthless and pathetic she knew she was. How she never meant to hurt him and how much hurting him was hurting her. She wanted to slap him upside the head and demand that he go after Granger and drag her to his bed and handcuff her there, if need be, until she loved him again. She wanted to tell him that all he needed to do was show her his memories and she would love him again. She wanted to tell him everything.

She wanted to be a good friend and give him advice only a woman could give. She wanted to help him win the girl of his dreams back.

But, instead she was curling her arms around his body, unwillingly taking part in his destruction.

Granger had rejected him again and she would keep rejecting him because she had no one else to put the blame on. And Pansy knew Draco would never cave and show her his memories because of his goddamn pride. He wanted her to come back to him on his own accord. He didn’t want to force her and he didn’t want to make her feel that she was obligated to be with him.

He truly loved her.

And, Pansy knew that because of that, he would let Hermione go if that was what she wanted.

Pansy choked back a sob and continued to kiss him. Please don’t ever let her go. Don’t give up Draco. Don’t ever let her go. Don’t give up on her.

Because if he did, she would die. He would kill her.

-*-

“Hermione,” Harry asked, his face flushing with embarrassment, “What happens in The Winter’s Tale?” He fumbled with his fingers awkwardly, “I never managed to get my hands on a copy of Shakespeare growing up. The Dursleys weren’t big readers. Shocking, I know.”

She smiled in return, squeezing his shoulder, “You can borrow some of my books. I know I have some Shakespeare lying around somewhere. Besides, it’s one of his more obscure plays anyway so don’t be embarrassed.”

Hermione walked alongside Harry towards Viola’s flat. The apparition point was a few minutes distance away from the flat. It wouldn’t do to apparate directly to her doorstep as the flat was in the middle of muggle Edinburgh. It would’ve been quite shocking indeed to appear out of nowhere and scare the living daylights of the passersby.

“It’s really quite a sad story. Hermione is the queen to King Leontes. In the beginning of the play, the king’s best friend Polixines is about to leave and return to his kingdom. Leontes begs him to stay but Polixines refuses. Finally, Leontes asks Hermione to convince him because she is a better orator. After she talks to him, he agrees to stay but Leontes becomes incredibly jealous and paranoid, convinced that they were having an affair. He arrests her and she supposedly dies of grief while in prison. Like any foolish and irrational bastard, he realizes his mistake and mourns for the next 16 years. At the end of the play, Hermione returns and it’s proclaimed to be a miracle.” She laughed at Harry’s incredulous face.

“Why on earth would your parents ever name you after her?”

She smiled and shrugged, “It’s supposed to be a comedy but I always found the story to be rather tragic. My mom thought it was a nice love story.”

“It is tragic,” Harry nodded in agreement, “I’m happy I didn’t read it now.”

Hermione simply laughed again before she walked up the steps to her flat. She whispered a quick unlocking spell before she stepped through the door.

Everything was just as she left it.

“So, what exactly are we looking for?”

“Anything, really. Anything that might seem out of place or non-muggle. Anything that might lead to whoever did this to you.” Harry sat down on her couch, smiling as he spotted a familiar title resting on the coffee table, “Perfect! Can I borrow this?” He held up the paperback, “I know I said I didn’t want to read it but I can’t help my morbid curiosity.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she took an unconscious step back, “That’s not mine.”

“What?” Harry dropped the book back onto the table as if he had just been burned.

“That’s not mine. Someone put that there.”

On her coffee table amidst scattered magazines and newspapers was a well-worn copy of The Winter’s Tale.

-*-

He was staring again. Hermione wanted to be annoyed at him but she couldn’t rid the guilt in the pit of her stomach. She knew she had no right to be irritated with him. He had been nothing but respectful and patient but she felt that it seemed everyone had just assumed that she would run back into his arms and everything would be roses and sunshine once again.

She didn’t remember him. She might’ve loved him in a previous life but right now, in that moment, she didn’t know what she felt. She didn’t know what it felt like to love Draco Malfoy. She didn’t remember. Every time she looked at him, she just felt an itching inside of her heart, a hollow. Like something that had been there before had been torn out of her but she couldn’t remember. She didn’t know what it was to love him.

She barely knew him.

It was all too easy to hate him and to distance herself away from him. He was an easy target and he seemed to accept her avoidance, almost as if he felt that it was some form of deserved punishment.

She was conflicted and upset and guilty and confused and desperate and annoyed. She wanted to fill that void inside of her and she just wanted to be rid of that damn pull in her heart. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted someone to wrap their arms around her and caress her hair and whisper sweet nothings. She wanted to crawl into bed and never leave. She wanted him to crawl in with her and never let her go. One person could not possibly feel this much and Hermione felt that she was close to spontaneously combusting.

Her heart and mind were tired.

She didn’t know what to do. What was the right thing to do now? She had always prided herself on being a good person—one with strong morals and standards and one that never purposefully hurt others. She was always the good girl. Yet, she was at a loss for what the next step was.

She should apologize to Draco for the appalling way she had been treating him and what was next? Should they be friends?

Could she do that to him? She knew he was still passionately and desperately in love with her. It would probably be a slap in the face if she asked him to repress those feelings and just be friends.

Did she want more? She didn’t know him well enough to decide that. Hermione let out a frustrated sigh and looked up, unsurprised to see Draco staring intently at her, not even pretending to read the files lying in front of him on the desk.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered quietly.

He seemed surprised. At what? Her apology? The fact that she was actually speaking to him without malice?

Hermione felt the guilt inch a little deeper into her heart. “I know I’ve been extremely unfair to you for the past few weeks and I’m truly sorry for that. It’s just been,” she waved her hands around her head, “a bit jumbled up here.”

He was quiet. Hermione regarded his stiffened posture with a wary eye. What was he thinking? “I would like to make it up to you.”

No reaction.

“Perhaps dinner?” she asked softly, “I’m not much of a cook but I try.”

“You never were,” Draco mused gently, his face nostalgic.

“I need to be honest with you,” Hermione said quietly. She played with the hem of her skirt, “I’m not her anymore.”

His brow furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to elaborate.

“Whatever it is that you remember and whoever it was that you fell in love with is a different person than the one I am now. I know you want me to just jump back into a loving relationship with you but I can’t. I don’t love you, Draco,” she said honestly, “I don’t remember you. I don’t know you.”

His face was pained and Hermione knew she was hurting him yet she pushed on, “But, I want to. It won’t be easy and I know it will be frustrating for you to repeat it all again but I do want to try. I want to love you.”

Hermione looked down, unable to look him the eye as she waited for a response. She brushed some invisible lint from her dress.

“I’ll do the cooking. I don’t want to get food poisoning on our first date.”

Her stomach tingled at his words and her head snapped up as a wide smile graced her face, “I wouldn’t want the burden of taking care of you for the entire night anyway. Quite tiresome, I’m sure.”

He smirked at her, “Tomorrow night then?”

“Perfect.”

-*-

FIC: Linger 6/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 05:22:17 GMT

Chapter 5: The storm is coming soon

They say we’re buried far just like a distant star I simply cannot hold. Is love alive? This is my winter song to you. December never felt so wrong cause you’re not where you belong inside my arms. I still believe in summer days. The seasons always change and life will find a way. I’ll be your harvester of light and send it out tonight so we can start again. – Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson, “Winter Song” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUO0gd7cr9o)

-*-

A/N: So sorry for the ridiculously long wait on this chapter! I just moved back to the states and I’ve been busy with real life (unfortunately). But, I am all moved in and ready to write again. Hope this is worth the wait.

-*-

He was staring at her again.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she leaned back against the plastic chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Harry had only been gone for a few minutes but she needed him like a security blanket. She had never felt comfortable in the ministry let alone sitting in a bright, florescent-lit room with Draco Malfoy staring daggers into her while she, quite unconvincingly, attempted to avoid his gaze.

She knew she was being incredibly immature and that running away was never the option but she felt that after all that she had gone through in the past few weeks, she deserved to be just a tiny bit selfish and inconsiderate. It was too bad that Draco had to bear the brunt of the pain. She was such a child. She had kissed him on an impulse and then proceeded to avoid him like the plague since. He had been gentle and understanding and didn’t push her but in the past few days, he seemed to have grown impatient and annoyed with behavior. Thus began the staring.

And the chair wasn’t helping matters either. Hermione shifted again and clasped her hands together, placing them on the cool metal table, her eyes darting at the door. How long did it take to gather notes anyway? She silently ran over the curses she could direct at her best friend when he finally walked through the door as punishment.

She could hear him sigh from across the table. The floor creaked as he slid his chair back slightly. Hermione looked up, peeking at him from beneath her lashes and hair. His eyes were closed, his posture stiff as he made a feeble attempt at massaging his temples. He looked extremely stressed and worried. She guessed he probably wasn’t sleeping well. Nevertheless, he was still extremely beautiful. His golden bangs fell across his face as he exhaled deeply, his chest puffing out, his muscles stretching against his white button-down shirt.

Hermione let out a soft gasp. Honestly, it wasn’t as if she had never seen an attractive man before but there was just something about Draco Malfoy that drew her in. It was what made her lose all rational thought and provided the impetus for her to kiss him all those weeks ago. It was what made her look like an absolute fool, mouth open, appearances forgotten as she simply stared at him and his reverent beauty.

“Enjoying the view?”

Draco’s trademark smirk tainted his almost angelic appearance. Hermione immediately frowned before she huffed, “Must you always be so pretentious?”

“Must you never give me a straight answer?” He asked, his tone playful.

Her eyes narrowed but the blush that colored her cheeks gave away her embarrassed state and cracked her angry and affronted façade. She turned away from him and cleared her throat, shifting in her seat yet again.

The ministry should really invest in more comfortable chairs. She wondered who she could contact about that.

“How much longer do you plan on avoiding me?”

Hermione stiffened at his question. She was about to open her mouth, uncertain of what answer would spill from her lips when Harry walked through the door, his hair in disarray, his face worn and tired. His green eyes still shone brightly however and he offered a small smile at Hermione.

“I’m sorry about the wait. It took me ages to collect all the notes together,” he placed a few file folders and a brown cardboard box in front of her, “It’s not much but it is something.”

Hermione stood up, her hand tentatively reaching out towards the pile.

“Go right ahead. You are the primary source of information on this case and it’s about time that we involve you in the actual investigation apart from questioning you.”

She nodded, her hands grabbing the first big file folder. She sat there silently, her curious brown eyes intently scanning and reading over the notes.

Draco and Harry each grabbed a folder as well and the three worked in silence. An hour had passed before Draco finally spoke, “Any leads on those notes, Potter?”

“None,” Harry answered, shaking his head and running his hands through his messy hair, “I know I’ve seen it before but I just can’t place it.”

“It’s strangely familiar, isn’t it? Whoever is doing this is purposefully taunting me,” Draco bit out bitterly.

“Notes?” Hermione asked, her brows furrowed.

Harry reached into the brown box and dug out two parchment notes, handing them to Hermione. “Draco has been receiving these mysterious notes for the past two weeks. They’re both unsigned and there’s no trace of magic on them. We can’t seem to figure out the meaning behind them either.”

Hermione read them carefully, her frown deepening. She shook her head, almost in disbelief as she looked up at Draco and then at Harry, whispering in a shaken voice, “It’s Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” Draco frowned, confusion marring his features, “The muggle playwright? Why would someone send me notes with lines from Shakespeare’s works?”

“That’s not all,” Hermione continued, her face still showing shock, “It’s not just any Shakespeare play. It’s from The Winter’s Tale.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“That’s where my name is from. My parents named me Hermione after the queen in the play.” Hermione’s eyes suddenly widened as a chill ran down her spine, “Reine,” she whispered, “Viola Reine.”

“I’m not following you, Hermione,” Harry said slowly as he moved closer, “What does Viola Reine have to do with Shakespeare?”

“Reine is French for queen just as Granger is a French derivative. Viola is a character from another Shakespeare play as well. Whoever wrote these notes is the same person that kidnapped me, tampered with my mind, and fabricated my existence as Viola.”

“Isn’t Viola a character from Twelfth Night?” Draco asked carefully, his grey eyes flashing.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Good lord, Potter,” Draco said condescendingly, “Do you not indulge in literature whatsoever?”

“I thought muggle authors were beneath you and most pureblood interests,” Harry bit back, annoyed and slightly embarrassed by his lack of literary knowledge.

“A man should always know his Shakespeare,” he smirked, seeming almost gleeful that he had figured out a piece of the puzzle that neither Saint Potter nor Hermione knew the answer to. “Viola’s character is most famous for her disguise. She is not as she seems. Just as Viola Reine was not who she seemed to be,” he concluded, his voice triumphant.

“Deceived in thy integrity, deceived in that which seems so,” Hermione repeated, “They’re taunting us,” she said in disgust, “Whoever it is.”

“Not us,” Draco said firmly, “Me.”

“You?”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

Draco simply smiled in amusement at their angry faces, “The notes were sent to me. Therefore, the message was directed at me and solely me. If they were meant for you or Potter, they would’ve been sent accordingly but seeing as how they arrived on my desk, the messages are for me. They are taunting me.”

“What significance does that hold?” Hermione asked, her voice weary.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Harry answered before Draco could open his mouth, “If these messages are in fact aimed at Malfoy then whoever the sender is means this as an attack upon him. Do you have any known enemies or people that would want to personally hurt you? I understand if you have difficulty remembering the sheer amount of people that would wish you unwell.”

Draco simply snorted in response, “I’m reformed, Potter. Need I remind you that I fought on the side of the light during the war?” He shrugged, “I made plenty of enemies with that move alone but everyone on that list is either dead or locked up in Azkaban.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, her hands twisting in her lap, “I don’t understand. If whoever did this meant to attack Draco then why wouldn’t they erase his memories? Why me?”

“Because I love you.”

His words hung in the air. Hermione felt her lungs contract sharply as she tried to steady her thoughts. He loved her. She knew that. In her heart, she felt that same familiar tug as if it were screaming at her, forcing her to face the truth that somewhere deep inside, she had always known that almost as if it were an universal truth. Draco Malfoy loved Hermione Granger.

But, he didn’t use the past tense. He said love as in present as in he still did and still does to this very moment. She could hear her heart beating rapidly in her ear as she struggled to find her voice. “They hurt me to get to you?” she whispered.

“Based upon what we know so far, yes,” Harry said softly. He reached out to Hermione’s arm and rubbed it gently, “It does make sense. It explains why you seem to remember everything and everyone except him.”

Hermione shook her head in frustration, “I don’t understand. If whoever did this wanted to hurt you,” she looked up at Draco, her brown eyes shining with tears and disbelief, “Why would they take me away only to bring me back? Why wouldn’t they just kill me outright?”

“Another form of torture, I suppose,” Draco answered honestly, “I lost you once and that killed me enough but then you finally return only not completely.” He looked down, his voice almost cracking, “It’s unbearable.” He let out a sigh, “It’s to slowly torture me until I lose my bloody mind.”

She wanted to reach out to him and comfort him yet at the same time she wanted to run away and scream until she no longer had a voice. It was because of him that she lost two years of her life. It was because of him that she was attacked. It was because of him that she had been ripped away from all that she had known. She knew she shouldn’t feel resentment towards him but she didn’t have time to sort out all the emotions that bubbled at the surface and she couldn’t think. Her brain wouldn’t work and all she that flashed through her mind were memories of all that she had lost and all that she would never experience because someone wanted to use her as a pawn as revenge against Draco. That was all she was. A pawn. Completely worthless on her own accord and easily replaceable. She wasn’t even the primary target.

She knew she shouldn’t hate him but in that moment all she wanted to do was kick and scream and hit him until he gave it all back to her. She wanted her life back. She wanted her memories back.

She wanted nothing to do with Draco Malfoy.

It was because of him that she was in her current situation and she would be damned if she would let her association with him be her downfall again. She hardened herself and simply glared at his downturned head before turning to Harry, “We should go to my-“ she paused before correcting herself, “Viola’s apartment and I want to be brought onto this investigation as a full-time researcher.”

“Of course,” Harry said immediately. He gathered up the files and headed for the door, “I’ll just put these away but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Hermione stood up abruptly. Harry looked at her curiously and Draco simply lifted his head, his eyes vacant, his face flashed with guilt before he replaced it with a blank mask of indifference. “I’ll come with you.”

Harry nodded, carrying the files out of the room. Her hand was on the door knob when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry they hurt you. If I had known-“ he stopped himself before letting out a self-deprecating sigh, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione nodded tersely, only sparing him a perfunctory glance before exiting.

-*-

“Why did you always torment me so much as a child?” Hermione asked before she placed a soft kiss to his forehead. She smiled sweetly as she watched him relax and rest peacefully.

He pulled the sheets closer to his naked chest, his eyes still closed, “It was fun and before I truly began to think for myself, I blindly believed all that rubbish my father spoon-fed me. I never thought twice about it,” he opened his eyes and stared at her intently, “until you.”

“Should I feel honored?”

“But, of course,” he smiled at her reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “Besides, you were always so bloody sexy when you were all riled up. Never failed to get me hard.”

Hermione blushed prettily, “Insufferable brat.”

“Your insufferable brat,” Draco returned, pulling her willing body into his arms. He kissed the top of her head, silent for a few moments before he said softly, “It won’t be easy, you know? They’ll hate me for turning. My own father will probably eviscerate me and every single Death Eater and Voldemort will be knocking at my door.” His hold on her tightened, “I can’t promise that I can always protect you. No matter how much I want to. I can’t let them hurt you, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if something happened to you. I-“

“Draco,” she looked up into his eyes and grabbed his chin firmly, placing a soft kiss on his lips, “I love you and I will give up the world to be with you and to be loved by you. I’m not a helpless kitten. Whatever happens, you will be my side as I am by yours. We’ll get through it. I know we will.”

He kissed her softly, his mind still filled and tainted with horrendous images. He couldn’t lose her. She was everything. Hermione sensed his unease and caressed the side of his face before pushing him onto his back. She straddled him and looked down at him, her eyes shining, “I will always be yours. They can never take me away.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

-*-

Linger 5/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Tue, 19 May 2009 02:55:25 GMT

Chapter 4: Be my unholy, my one and my lonely

I wear scarves and hoods because it’s the only poker face that I’ve got left and everything I love about you is a mess. Smash the mirror, and break the palm reader’s hand. I want to be better than I am. – Timbaland featuring Fall Out Boy, “One and Only” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wac0QThqxnw)

Her breaths were short and choppy, her posture stiff, her eyes closed. Draco felt as if he should say something to her. Anything except this silence – silence was never easy for him. He was used to noises. Throughout his entire life he had been used to large parties, facades, and noises. He wasn’t a talker. Draco Malfoy was above petty conversations. His parents were never the talking type and certainly didn’t spare him much time to get to know his feelings. Sure, his mother would send him presents and coddle him with hugs and kisses but they never had serious conversations about his feelings. It simply wasn’t proper and therefore not done. He was a Malfoy and Malfoys were above such plebian things as having feelings. They made you weak. To care for someone was to give the reins to your heart and the potential to deeply hurt and destroy you. He had been taught by his father to never allow that to happen, but it had.

As he was sitting there beside her he could feel the knife in his heart twisting several times over. Yes, they were in love. Yes, he was still utterly, completely, desperately in love with her.

And no, silence was still not easy. It was never easy.

He wanted to scream at her. His mind was burning with frustration. What exactly was he supposed to say now? Could he really do this over again? Pretend as if he didn’t love her with every fiber of his being and act as if she meant nothing more than a common acquaintance. He needed to mature, to give her space.

But, he couldn’t. He was a selfish bastard and an impatient one at that. He needed for her to remember him, to take him into her arms and kiss him lightly across his face and neck as she had done so many times years ago. He needed her love. He needed her. He wasn’t as giving as Potter. He wasn’t her savior. She was his and he needed her back. He couldn’t let her go again.

“I never thought they’d be able to touch my mind.”

Her voice was soft yet filled with sorrow and regret. She laughed bitterly at herself, “I was so sure that it was the one thing that they could never have. Know-it-all Gryffindor. The brightest witch of our time,” she snorted in derision, “I was so sure that they could never touch me.”

Draco stared at her, unable to voice a response. Her arms were against her legs as she leaned forward, away from him, her eyes gazing off into the distance.

“I was so wrong,” she whispered brokenly.

He reached out slowly, his fingers itching to touch her, to comfort her but they settled back into his lap. Too soon.

“I am so sick and tired of people invading my mind. It is the one thing that I have, the one thing that I am proud of and the one thing that is supposed to be mine and only mine.” She looked back at him, her eyes sad, “I was tormented in school because of my Muggle heritage and ‘muddy blood’.”

He looked away, his throat burning with shame.

“I was foul because of my status and bloodline but I didn’t care because I knew I was smarter. I knew I was better and I worked so hard to be the best. My mind was the only thing that I had and now, even that is gone.”

“It’s not gone,” Draco said quietly. He looked into her eyes, lost in the rich swirls of caramel and chocolate brown. He reached out to her, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb caressing her soft skin, “You are still the brightest witch of your age and we will find whoever or whatever did this to you. You were never one to stand down or give up. Don’t lose hope now.”

She seemed surprised at his touch at first but found herself leaning into it, her eyes closing, her body lost in the sensation. He felt so familiar, so warm – like home. She was home, right? What was home? Edinburgh? London? Did she even have a home anymore? Her eyes snapped open at the last question and she found herself staring into his eyes, his expression a mix of frustration, anger, worry, and love.

She leaned forward, all too close to his face and his lips. Her breath was hot against his mouth and before she knew what she was doing, she kissed him. Gentle and soft at first but then it grew more demanding, her body needing him closer. She didn’t want to think anymore. She just wanted to feel something except this unwavering fear and restlessness she had in the pit of her stomach.

His hands snaked around her waist and he pulled her in, his mouth devouring hers, giving into her insistent kiss. She needed this. He needed this. She opened his mouth to his and he delved in, exploring, their tongues fighting for dominance. His hands seemed to be all over her body, touching, caressing, craving more.

She tasted like sweet strawberries, just like how he remembered but better.

She pushed back slightly, still kissing him, but softer and more languorously now before finally pulling away, a small smile on her face. He could do nothing but smile back, brushing the hair out of her face. She leaned up placing a butterfly kiss on the corner of his mouth, her lips barely just touching his skin.

She was perfect.

Hermione smiled sweetly at him before she looked back towards the direction of Grimmauld Place, “We should get back. They’re probably worried.”

Standing up she reached out her hand, smiling again when he took it without question.

For the first time in two years, things felt right again.

-*-

She couldn’t soothe the unease that seemed to be perpetually hanging over her nowadays. It slithered up from the ground, sinking into her bones, wrapping its cold hands around her neck, choking her until she could no longer breathe from the guilt and hatred. Pansy touched her neck uncomfortably. She hated coming here. He never failed to make her feel worthless, like a pawn to be used and then discarded.

She cleared her throat, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance as she stared at the back of his chair in the darkened room. It smelled of cigarette smoke and a hint of spices and herbs. Glancing into the corner she saw a cauldron over the fire. It was simmering. What was he up to now?

“Did you succeed?”

“Yes,” she responded flatly. His voice was so smooth and seductive, seeming to wrap around her in a false state of safety.

“Excellent.” She could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “I hope you are not with child,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “That would be most inconvenient.”

“I’m not an imbecile,” Pansy retorted, clenching her hands in an attempt to calm her anger.

“And, what of the message?” He asked, seeming amused with her frustration.

“I haven’t seen him. I don’t know.”

“You will see him tonight.”

“He’s not at my beck and-“

“You will see him tonight,” the voice repeated, his tone harsh and cold. “Do not make me repeat myself once again. You know what the consequences will be.”

Pansy let out a sigh and shook her head, tears of frustration clouding her eyes, “I am done with this,” she spat. “He deserves to know. He doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves-“

“He deserves nothing,” he seethed, “You will do as I say.”

She could feel the breath escape from her lungs as the screams invaded her mind. No. Stop. Stop. Please. The image burned into her brain as the screams grew louder. All of a sudden, she was released, her mind going black. She took in a deep breath and could feel the tears slip from her eyes as she said hatefully, “Yes, I will do as you say.”

“Very well, you are dismissed.”

Pansy rose to her full height, her nose in the air as she walked out of the room with her shattered pride and dignity. She was disgusted with herself yet she knew she could not sit around and do nothing as that animal tortured-

She stopped herself. No, she would not think of that. She needed to focus. Pausing at the entrance, she demanded, “You remember our agreement. Do not break it.” She took his silence as an affirmation and stepped out of the oppressive room.

In moments, she had apparated back to her flat. Pansy rushed to the bathroom, throwing herself against the toilet as she dry heaved. She was disgusting. She stood up on shaky legs, viewing her own pallid reflection with repulsion. He was not the monster. She was. How could she do this to Draco? He had been one of her closest friends at Hogwarts, being one of the few people that treated her with a decent amount of respect and didn’t act as if she were some vapid whore. She was spitting on that bond now and she hated herself for it.

I will save you, she promised to herself. But who would save her?

-*-

It had been nearly three weeks since Hermione reappeared and with every passing glance of pity and every piece of gossip, she missed her old life as Viola more and more. She was tired of seeing her name in the headlines of the Daily Prophet and she hated even more how she couldn’t go out in public with people gasping, talking about her as if she didn’t have eyes or ears. She wanted to scream out in frustration. It wasn’t as if she had lost her mind or that she was a leper yet everyone seemed to treat her as such. No one knew of her secret of the missing memories, only Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Draco did. Yet, she was still treated as if she was some sort of freak show on display.

Hermione had refused to give any interviews upon her return which only seemed to spawn more rumors. The writers at the Daily Prophet seemed all the happier now that they could concoct their own wild stories at her expense. Within the past week alone she had read that she had been kidnapped, had run off with a Muggle, and her personal favorite, led a clandestine double-life as a stripper. In the end, they all ended the same. Whatever she had been occupied with for the past two years had failed and she had come crawling back to Harry Potter’s door, begging to be welcomed back into his home and the magical world.

If only they knew.

Today’s headline suggested that she had been doing some illegal research for the Muggle government and she had escaped back to the magical world as a means to avoid being jailed and then punished by death. Snorting with disgust, she threw the paper into the trash. She missed horribly and it landed on the floor. She made a move to pick it up until she heard a voice.

“It’s alright. I’ve got it,” Ron said with a smile, “You’ve always had bad aim.”

Hermione laughed at this and took a sip of her tea, “It’s never been one of my skills.”

He poured himself a cup of tea before sitting down next to her, “Was it that bad?”

“Absolutely awful,” she answered honestly, “They make me out to be a maniac. They seem to have forgotten that I helped save the Wizarding world only a few years ago. I feel like everyone is just watching me as if I’m some sort of entertainment or amusement, just waiting for me to make another wrong move or something.”

Ron let out a sigh and put his hand over hers gently, “I’m sorry. They’re all bloody idiots. Just forget them.”

She smiled sadly, “I wish I could. I hope it doesn’t last long.”

“It looks like I’ll have to embarrass myself in some way, give them something to really talk about and steal your spotlight,” he waggled his eyebrows deviously.

“Well, you are keeper for the world-famous Cannons. It shouldn’t be that difficult for you to stir some trouble.”

“I’ll do it on one condition,” his blue eyes glimmering playfully.

“What?” Hermione beamed back.

“Promise me you’ll smile more.”

Her smile faltered at this as she took another awkward sip of her tea.

“I hate seeing you like this, Hermione. I miss you being happy.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “It’s just been a difficult transition.”

He nodded in understanding before he stood up, “It will get better, I promise.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have to get to practice but I’ll be back tonight. See you at dinner.”

He kissed her on the head before he left, leaving Hermione to her thoughts. After she and Draco had returned from their walk, Ron had apologized, his head kept down in shame the entire time. Hermione had tearfully forgiven him, hugging him tightly as a renewal of their friendship.

Harry had convinced the ministry to re-open her case. Almost immediately, they began interrogating her on a daily basis using Legilimency to invade her mind again and again, tracing over her memories, especially focusing upon the day she was captured and the day at the café when her memories returned to her. There was no distinguishing details.

On the day she was “captured”, she had been in her living room getting ready to go to the event the ministry held every year on the anniversary of Voldemort’s death. They honored the lives of all who had perished in the war, as well as reiterated the strong message that pureblood supremacy was a foolish and ridiculous notion of the past that would not be tolerated any longer. She hadn’t wanted to go but the ministry was giving her, Harry, and Ron a medal of honor. She stepped out the door about to apparate when she smelled that same scent of tobacco and alcohol as before, feeling pain in her neck and head before everything went black. When she woke up she was on a bus to Edinburgh as Viola Reine, simply thinking she had dozed off.

Hermione massaged her temples trying her best to ease the thoughts in her head. She hated this continual invasion of her mind. She knew it was necessary as she was the only person that held any sort of hint or whisper as to what happened, but she couldn’t help feel as if she was being continuously violated. It was like ripping open an old wound every single day. She just wanted everyone else out of her head permanently, to know the feeling of peace of mind again.

It would never happen.

Tomorrow, she and Harry would investigate Viola’s old apartment. It felt so strange to talk about Viola as if she were a whole other person. She still remembered all of Viola’s memories and still felt as if a large part of her was still Viola, just like a large part of Hermione would inevitably have been a part of Viola. She was one person. Just because she lost her memories didn’t mean she wasn’t still the same person, or did it? She honestly didn’t know. Viola had been kind, gentle, loyal, and extremely dedicated. She had wanted more for herself and wanted to change the world.

Wasn’t Hermione the same?

After finishing her tea and washing the cup, Hermione headed upstairs to her temporary room in Harry and Ginny’s home. After she left, Harry and Ginny had moved most of her stuff into a guestroom. She looked around her room, sighing softly as she flopped onto the bed, closing her eyes.

Slowly she drifted off into a dreamless sleep, hoping that when she opened her eyes, she would remember everything.

-*-

Draco clenched his jaw as he held another mysterious note in his hand, desperately wanting to rip it to shreds or crumple it up and throw it into the fire. His grey eyes stared hatefully down at the neat writing:

I from thee departed
Thy penitent reform'd: but we have been
Deceived in thy integrity, deceived
In that which seems so.

It was from whoever erased Hermione’s memories. He knew it. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He repeated the words in his head, clenching the side of his desk in frustration. He didn’t know where they came from or exactly what they meant. He did know the purpose, however. Whoever sent it wanted to taunt him – to give him clues, delighting as they blatantly hung it out in front of his face as he stared hopelessly and blankly at it, never being able to find an answer.

After he received the first note he had tore through the library in the manor hoping to find a reference to the lines, yet he could find nothing. He had even gone as far as showing Potter, hoping that perhaps he would recognize the words yet they drew a blank. He simply took the note and filed it as evidence, promising that his team would do extensive research upon it.

Draco felt a sickening feeling creep up within him, seeming to completely engulf him. He needed to find whoever was sending these notes to him, yet they always mysteriously appeared from thin air. Always on the desk of his study without a trace. They were unsigned and he had already done several revealing spells on each of them hoping that the person had slipped up. Nothing each time. He had cut floo access to the manor to only a select few hoping that it would stop the notes but apparently it hadn’t work. Whoever was sending this was either someone incredibly close to him or someone incredibly clever, perhaps both.

He let out a sigh, his face in the palm of his hands. He needed to find out who the culprit was and he needed to find out soon. Whoever had done this to Hermione was still out there and he didn’t want to think of what else they were capable of.

-*-

Linger 4/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Thu, 14 May 2009 03:03:04 GMT

Chapter 3: You were all mine. I was yours, right?

I felt you in my life before I ever thought to. I need to lay down beside you and tell you I feel you in my heart and I don't even know you.– Tegan and Sara, “Nineteen” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9B-MluGscaE&feature=related)

A few scant minutes after Draco departed for the Potter residence, a midnight black owl emerged in the sky, its wings breaking through the clouds, flying swiftly, and avoiding the light drops of rain that began to fall from the sky. It settled on the ledge of the window to Draco’s study, its yellow eyes darting around the room, searching for any inhabitants before it nudged the window open further with its beak. Landing upon the desk, it dropped the note in the center, amidst scattered papers and quills before it promptly flew out the window once again.

The note was rather indiscriminate. It was written on parchment, sealed with red wax with a stamp depicting what looked like a figure, its face hidden and smudged. What was of interest, however, was the message lying within.

Beneath the seal, the note opened up to reveal two lines, written in neat form:

I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;
But not for joy; not joy.

It was unsigned.

-*-

Draco could feel all the air rush out of his lungs as he stared down at her, part of him wanting to kiss every inch of her skin and relish the feel of her in his arms once again. Yet he could not avoid the confusion that marred her beautiful face nor her words. His hold on her loosened for a moment and he looked up at the two Potters, his eyes demanding an answer. Was this some form of a cruel joke?

They looked as shocked and confused as he was. Harry was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat awkwardly, “That’s Draco, Hermione,” he tried his best to infuse humor into his voice, “I know it’s been a while and he looks a bit different but it’s still him.”

Hermione looked back at Draco, pushing herself out of his embrace and away from him as she tried the name out, “Draco,” it felt oddly familiar in her mouth yet she couldn’t remember ever meeting someone named Draco and certainly, not the handsome man standing before her. She cocked her head to the side before her eyes brightened with recognition, “You’re him.”

The room seem to tense with anticipation at her next action. She took a worn and slightly faded photograph out of her back pocket and handed it to Draco, “I found it in my jean pocket a few weeks after I’d gotten to Edinburgh. I didn’t recognize the face and-“

Hermione held a hand to her head, massaging her temple with her fingertips. She could feel another headache begin to form as she sat down at the kitchen table, “Were you a part of my past?”

Draco gripped the photograph tightly as he stared down at the reflection of his younger self, so many years back, so happy and oblivious to the pains of the future. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest at her words. It seemed to spread throughout his body, like a slow-working poison, and soon, he found it difficult to breathe, managing only to gasp out a hollow whisper, “Yes.”

“He went to school with us, Hermione. He was your year,” Ginny said softly. She sat down next to her as she began to explain about whom Draco was, hoping it would spark some sort of memory.

Harry stepped closer to Draco, saying to him quietly, “She lost her memory. She never left us. Someone messed with her memories and for two years, she’s been living as a muggle, never knowing of our existence. She showed up about an hour ago at my doorstep and it seemed as if she remembered everything, like the past two years has been some sort of a bad dream, but-“

“It’s been a fucking nightmare, Potter,” Draco growled, nearly crumpling the photograph in his hands. He threw it onto the kitchen counter, “Why doesn’t she remember me?” he demanded. “She remembers you and she remembers the Weaselette. Why me? She has a fucking photograph of me, why?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy. I wish I had the answers but I don’t.”

Draco ran a hand through his blond locks and let out a heavy sigh, “She was in Edinburgh?” He let out a scoff, “Of all places. I was there for nearly two weeks searching for her. How could I have missed it?”

Harry patted Draco on the back, the gesture strange and unfamiliar. Draco jerked away from him, avoiding his touch, “Don’t try to comfort me, Potter. I don’t need your pity.”

Harry shot him a look of annoyance before his eyes softened as he watched Ginny talk to Hermione. Her shoulders were slumped, her head buried in her hands. “Perhaps I should try Legilimency,” his voice drew the attention of everyone in the room, “The memories might just be blocked or something.”

The weight on Draco’s chest seemed to lighten at the suggestion. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, “Well, Granger,” he raised an eyebrow, “What do you think?”

Hermione stared back, her gaze unwavering as her eyes flickered with concern and resignation. What else could she possibly say? She wanted answers. It was going to be a messy process, she could feel it, but she needed to know the truth and she needed to maintain the little control she had over her life. She could feel it all slipping through her fingers, bit by bit. She nodded her assent, eyes wide as Harry kneeled in front of her, the tip of his wand pointed directly at the center of her forehead.

“Legilimens.”

Hermione could feel him in her head and though she knew it was Harry and that she had consented and that he was only doing it to help her she couldn’t help but shudder at the presence of another in her mind. She wanted to vomit and physically push him out but she was helpless as Harry sorted through her memories, searching for something that she knew instinctively wasn’t there.

First year. Bushy hair, buck teeth. “Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it?” “Now if you two don't mind, I'm going to bed before either of you can come up with another clever idea to get us all killed - or worse, expelled.” Fourth year. Yule Ball. Periwinkle robes. “Next time there's a ball pluck up the courage to ask me before someone else does! And not as a last resort!” Fifth year. Umbridge. Inquisitorial Squad. Dumbledore’s Army. “That foul, evil old gargoyle! We're not learn how to defend ourselves, we're not learning how to pass our O.W.L.s. She's taking over the entire school!” Seventh year. Head Girl. The final battle. Voldemort’s death.

Hermione took in a large gasp of air, her throat contracted violently as she coughed. She held her hand to her head, shooting a look of annoyance and irritation at Harry. She knew he didn’t deserve it, after all, she had agreed but she had always hated Legilimency and with good reason. She watched Harry’s face carefully.

He seemed worn out as well, getting up slowly, his limbs protesting from the movement. “Nothing,” he whispered. He seemed to be shocked at his own words, “She has memories of everyone. Me, Ron, Ginny, her parents, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, everyone except you,” he turned to Draco. “Everything relating to you has been,” Harry paused, uncertain if he should continue.

“Has been what, Potter?” Draco spat, “Just say it.”

“Erased,” Harry whispered, horrified. “This is dark magic. Hermione,” he bent down again towards her, his heart breaking at her blank expression, “Someone’s severely tampered with your mind. I could still feel their presence in your mind. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.” He vowed, “You will get all of your memories back.”

Draco shook his head in frustration, “How is this possible? How can you just completely forget someone? Our last year at Hogwarts, we were practically glued at the hip. Does that mean she remembers absolutely nothing from then?”

“The images were hazy. Some moments are clear but mostly, it was just a blur.”

Draco held back the snarl building in his throat. He needed to hit something, break something. He restrained himself from grabbing Hermione and shaking her violently. She had already disappeared for two years. He didn’t think anything would be as painful as losing her the first time but this, this was on a completely different level. The thought that she might’ve been thinking about him at some point was the only thing that kept him going or that one day, she would return. There was always that possibility that she would come back and everything would be okay again. She was back and it wasn’t okay. He was a stranger.

It was hell on earth.

The door to the back porch opened. Ron stepped through, his hands shoved in his pockets, his face guilty as he stepped into the room. He immediately glared at Draco. Even after all these years, they could not bring themselves to be friendly with one another. Yes, they put up with one another’s presence but Ron could never bring himself to actually like or hold a pleasant conversation with him. “Malfoy,” he said shortly.

“Piss off, Weasley,” he sneered.

Ginny quickly interrupted before either of them could say anything further, “Please stop. Please-“

Hermione shot up off of the chair, her mind pounding, “I need some fresh air.”

The entire room seemed to rush to her as they all got up, making a move towards her. She shook her head and her hands pushing the air away. It was all too suffocating. “I can’t breathe. I need to think,” she whispered, “Alone.” Without another word, they all stood still, watching quietly as she walked out the door, out of their lives, however momentarily, yet again.

“What did you do, Malfoy?” Ron demanded as soon as the door clicked shut.

“Fuck off,” Draco said derisively before he pushed past Harry, walking out of the kitchen and towards the door.

“She said she needed to be alone,” Harry called out.

Draco only paused a moment, never turning back, “Do I look like I care?”

Ginny sat down gingerly at the table, flinching as Draco slammed the door shut with a loud bang, “That went well.”

“What the bloody hell happened?”

She let out a sigh, “Sit down, Ron, and keep that gob of yours shut as we explain.”

-*-

Draco smiled softly as he felt his beautiful girlfriend curl her petite body further into him for warmth. It was still early but he found that he couldn’t sleep. He had already counted the number of cracks in the ceiling. He let out a small laugh as his hold tightened around his stubborn little Gryffindor. She had been adamant that she wanted her own apartment after they had graduated from Hogwarts, refusing to accept his offer to move to the Manor. It was too fast and she had always wanted a place of her own. She had insisted. Draco, being a man completely in love, had, at first, protested vehemently before finally acquiescing when Hermione threatened to set her wards so that he couldn’t enter. She was always so bloody persistent and hard-headed, but that was one of the reasons why he adored her. He kissed his way down her face and neck, his mouth sucking gently on her shoulder, he swirled his tongue, savoring the sweet taste of her skin. He delighted in hearing her moan her approval, pushing her body further against his.

He traced his hands over her naked body, his own body responding to hers as he breathed against her neck, taking in the smell of her. She was pure perfection. He felt her turn around, her face only inches away from his as her eyes fluttered open. She placed a gentle kiss against his lips, pulling away teasingly as he tried to deepen the kiss, “Good morning.”

He pouted before he kissed the top of her head, “Morning, love.”

“What time is it?” she asked with a yawn, stretching her legs.

“Early,” he whispered softly, pulling her body closer to his, smiling at her sweet laugh, “Plenty of time to play.”

“Didn’t you get enough last night?” She asked, rubbing her legs together, “I’m still sore.”

“Well, you’ll just have to be a brave little Gryffindor and sacrifice yourself for the common good.”

“The common good?” She snorted and let out another laugh as Draco pushed her back against the bed, placing himself in between her legs, his face right above hers. “I highly doubt your sexual pleasure constitutes as the common good.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he whispered huskily into her ear before nipping at it. She shivered from the contact.

“Really,” she raised an eyebrow, trying her best to keep her voice steady, “Why is that? I’m rarely wrong, if you recall.”

“So modest,” Draco murmured as he kissed her neck, his hands wrapped around her wrists, “Well, considering what a gentleman I am, I must enlighten the ignorant.” He silenced her cry of outrage with a long kiss, taking his time in exploring her mouth and indulging in the sweet taste that was uniquely hers. He pulled back, breathing heavy. He rested his forehead against hers, “You’re ever the humanitarian, my dear Granger. You couldn’t possibly live with yourself if you knew you willingly inflicted distress upon another being and to deny me,” he ground himself into her core, “would be quite distressing, indeed, and thus going against your moral code and the common good.”

“You weave a convincing argument,” she said against his lips, “I believe I have no choice but to give into your wishes,” she wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed herself up against him.

He devoured her mouth with a passionate kiss while he pushed a finger into her, smirking as she gasped in pleasure. “You’re so wet, love,” he said, continuing his ministrations. He pulled his hand out of her and brought it up to his mouth, licking off her essence. She watched him with in a daze, her eyes darkening with arousal. Without another word, he pushed himself into her, a groan escaping his lips as he pounded into her.

She grabbed his biceps, digging her fingernails into his skin, leaving little half-moons, her head tossed back as her body returned his thrusts with equal fervor. He licked the sweat forming on her neck and suckled hard, wanting to leave a mark.

“You’re mine,” he chanted mindlessly, “All mine.”

Hermione could only moan in response, wrapping her legs tighter as she felt her climax approaching.

Draco slammed into her a few more times before they both peaked, him first with her following only moments afterwards. They laid on her bed, a sweaty, tangled mess. He pushed himself off of her before wrapping his arms around her body, kissing her softly.

She looked up at him, her chocolate brown eyes bright with happiness, “Let’s stay like this forever,” she murmured sleepily.

“Forever.”

-*-

She knew he was following her. It wasn’t the sound of his footsteps that gave it away nor did he call out to her. Instead, she felt him, like an insistent tug against her heart, similar to how she felt every time she looked at his photograph. She could feel that at one point in her life, he must’ve been of great importance but why couldn’t she remember him?

She had wandered into the park. She sat down in defeat on the black bench. No matter how hard she tried to push past the pain forming in her head, she could remember nothing about him beyond what she heard tonight. His first name was Draco. His last name was Malfoy. She knew nothing else. Were they friends before? Was he in Gryffindor as well? Did he fight alongside her in the war? Was he a part of the Order?

She couldn’t remember anything about him. She could feel him standing in front of her, even as she kept her gaze fixed on the black pavement below her feet. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see the pain reflected back at her in those intense grey eyes. She had hurt him and she didn’t even mean to.

He sat down next to her, staying silent, waiting for her to speak to him. They simply sat there for what seemed like an eternity. He closed his eyes, leaning back, calming his nerves by listening to the sounds of her even breathing.

“Were we in love?” Her question pierced through the air, her voice shaky.

“Yes.”

-*-

Hi all :) Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews. I’d love to hear any theories you might have – this is a mystery story, after all and it’s my job to keep you guessing! Also, what is written on the note Draco receives does not belong to me. Those words were penned by another author many years ago but I don’t want to reveal the name just yet – if you’ve already guessed who it is: GOOD FOR YOU :) have a cookie! – but just wait for it, if you haven’t. I promise it’ll all come together.

Linger 3/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Mon, 11 May 2009 23:51:50 GMT

Title: Linger
Author: desespoir
Rating: NC-17 - no kiddies!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and company belong to the lovely J.K. Rowling.
Distribution: Like it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.
Notes: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews :) They keep my muse happy! Hope this chapter answers some questions.
Spoilers: All books are fair game. I don't believe in the epilogue so I've chosen to ignore it.

Chapter 2: Forever

Where’d you go? I miss you so. Seems like it’s been forever that you’ve been gone. Please come back home. – Fort Minor, “Where’d you go?” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feeuoERYOV0)

This couldn’t possibly be real.

Hermione stood in front of 12 Grimmauld Place, watching with wide eyes as the building parted to make way for Harry’s residence. Slowly but surely, it began to emerge, as it always did, from what seemed like thin air. She smiled softly to herself as she realized that even after all this time, Harry had never set any wards against her and that she was still considered to be a guest. She supposed she shouldn’t have been as daunted as she was, taking a hesitant step towards the house. The impact of her flat boots against the cement sent a shiver up her spine and she visibly shook in discomfort.

She was a witch. She had magical powers. She was the best friend of the savior of the Wizarding world and all this time, she didn’t have a clue, living an innocuous lifestyle as a waitress in a neighborhood café. She had dueled, battled, and been in the front line in war yet only mere hours ago, she had been serving coffee, completely oblivious to her previous life.

How the hell did this happen?

She still retained all her memories as “Viola”. Part of her was still “Viola”. She hadn’t been Hermione in two incredibly long years. It would be so easy to simply turn the other way and return to the café. After all, she had merely brushed Shannon off with a few threadbare lies about migraines and dizziness before she rushed out of the café and bought the next bus ticket to London. She had a life in Edinburgh. She could go back.

Hermione shook her head adamantly and silently berated herself. No. She was not a coward. She needed answers. What happened to her in the first place? Why were her memories taken from her? Why did no one come after her? Did they search for her? She found it highly unlikely that they did a very thorough job as she was living in Edinburgh, of all places. It was a mere hour away from Hogwarts. Even if she was living in the muggle part, it wasn’t as if she was hidden away in a remote part of a faraway island. She was still in the bloody United Kingdom, for goodness sakes! How could they let her go so easily?

Hermione blinked back tears. Now was not the time to get emotional. The more pressing matters were who took her memories from her, why, and most importantly, why were they given back to her? Whoever did this was incredibly intelligent, going so far as to fabricate a rather intricate back story for “Viola”. It was powerful magic, a perverse form of mind control. A simple Obliviate could not have done this.

Hermione’s mind swirled with questions and confusion as she looked up at the house. It was still as she remembered. She looked down the street, the brightly lit neon sign of the chip shop beamed back at her and she almost snickered as she recalled the many times she, Harry, and Ron would sneak out of the Order’s hiding place for a midnight snack.

She took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for what was to come. She knocked on the door, at first gently but then with more confidence. By the fifth knock, she was almost beating down the door. She took a step back in surprise, completely caught up in the repetitive act as the door flung open and she was greeted by the unfamiliar face of a house elf. Hermione frowned in confusion. Harry did still live here, correct?

“Welcome to the House of Potter,” the elf bowed, “How can Wikki be of service?”

Hermione restrained herself from bending down to the elf’s level and lifting him up. He was bowing down so low that his nose nearly touched the ground. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m looking for Harry.”

“Who’s at the door, Wikki?” A deep baritone called from down the long hallway.

Hermione froze, her hand immediately grabbing onto the doorframe as she felt her knees shake. Harry. It was really Harry.

“A Miss Granger, Master Potter.”

“Wikki, you must be mistaken and we don’t-“

She should look up. She should look up and hug her best friend yet she could not bring herself to physically move her body. She gripped the frame harder as she steeled herself and cleared her throat, “Hi Harry.”

He was still as handsome as she remembered him to be. His hair was a bit longer than it was before, slightly shaggier and still as messy as ever. His trademark glasses were slightly askew, his green eyes stunned with shock.

“Hermione?” His voice was raspy with disbelief. He took a cautious step forwards, “How? You’re-“ He wrenched her from the door frame and gathered her in a strong hug, tears stinging his eyes, “It’s really you.”

She returned the hug with equal fervor, a small laugh escaping from her lips as she tried her best not to cry, “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” he said, letting out a laugh as well. He ran a hand through his hair, uncertain of what to say next. “Do you want some tea?”

“That sounds lovely,” she smiled, wiping a stray tear from her cheek as she followed him down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her curious brown eyes scanned every surface of what once used to be the dark and cavernous Noble House of Black. It seemed Harry had done some redecorating. The walls were covered with solid, dark blue wallpaper with flecks of green and orange appearing every so often. The staircase was no longer old and rickety, now a rich mahogany wood with blue carpet on each step as an accent. All the old paintings of the Black line had been removed, instead replaced with pictures of friends. Hermione smiled softly, stopping in front of a picture of her, Ron, and Harry in third-year. It was winter and she was wearing an incredibly fuzzy hat over her even fuzzier hair as she ran away from Ron and Harry who were throwing snowballs at her. They had been so young then.

“I got tired of hearing that I was half-blood scum every time I walked out of my room so I did a little redecorating.”

“It looks beautiful,” Hermione said honestly as she moved onto the next picture. It was of Harry and Ginny. Ginny’s arms were wrapped around his neck as he leaned down to give her a kiss, both laughing and waving at the camera. She was wearing a long, white dress and her red hair was styled into a chignon, little white flowers framing her face.

“Did you-?” Hermione found herself at a loss for words.

“About three months ago,” Harry said quietly. He lifted his hand with a smile, the gold band glimmering in the light.

He was married. Her best friend had gotten married and she didn’t even attend the ceremony. It wasn’t until that moment that the severity of the situation dawned upon her. Someone had stolen two years of her life from her. Every laugh, hug, kiss, touch, caress – she would never experience any of it. The chance had been taken away from her. What else had she missed?

“Congratulations.” It was the only thing she could say and she moved awkwardly to him, giving him another hug as she spoke genuinely, “I’m sorry I missed it.” She felt him stiffen at her words and without responding, he moved into the kitchen, busying himself with making tea. She frowned but held back the hurt and anger simmering in the pit of her stomach. They had a lot to talk about before she would jump to any conclusions.

“So, where have you been?” His question came out sharper than he intended. Harry bit the inside of his cheek, trying his best to sort out the emotions within him. He refused to turn around, not seeing her flinch at his tone or the pained expression upon her face.

She drummed her fingers against the wooden table as she sought to formulate an answer. There was so much that she needed to tell him and make him understand and so much that she wanted answered. They had to start somewhere, she supposed.

“Edinburgh.”

-*-

Draco’s eyes snapped open as he felt the first ray of sunlight stream across the room through the dark, heavy drapery. He pushed the hair out of his face as he sat up in bed, his limbs aching in protest from the movement. He let out a mild groan as he felt the bed shift, not from his own weight. Fuck.

He had slept with Pansy Parkinson. Fuck.

Of all the idiotic things he had ever done, this one most definitely topped the list. He got out bed gingerly, avoiding her wanting body and arms. He needed a shower.

The water was scalding hot, the steam rising and permeating throughout the bathroom as he stepped in through the glass door. It felt like heaven against his skin as it beat down upon him. What the hell had he been thinking? He knew it shouldn’t feel like a betrayal but he couldn’t suppress the feelings of guilt building up within him. It almost felt like he was cheating on her. It was a ridiculous notion, however. They were no longer together. In order to be in a relationship with someone, said person had to be present and for the past two years, he had been waiting, praying, hoping that one of these days, she would reappear. Where the hell was she? Was she happy? Was she safe? Was she dead?

He shook his head. No, she couldn’t be dead. He could still feel her. He could still feel her skin against his fingertips, could still see the blush forming on her cheeks as his hand glided across her face. He could still feel her very essence. Hermione Granger consumed and intoxicated his every sense. She was still alive. Somewhere.

Pansy’s words echoed in his mind. She’s gone, Draco. She left.

She didn’t leave. She wouldn’t have left him. He loved her too much for her to do that. She loved him too much for her to do that. Right? For the first time in his life, he began to question himself and his stubborn certainty. She would never leave him. She would never leave Potter and Weasley –not so suddenly and definitely not without another word. Something must’ve happened, someone must’ve forced her. He swallowed the lump that grew in his throat. He had searched for her himself, right alongside Potter, for the first year and some months into the next. He had refused to give up, knowing that she was somewhere out there—alone, cold, and most likely lost. He was the last person to give up. Even when the ministry filed away her case as an “unexplained disappearance”, pushing her case to the background, declaring there were other more pertinent and important cases to focus on, he never gave up. He continued searching.

It was only a few months ago he finally gave up. He had been in his study, rifling through old files when a picture of he and Hermione fell into his lap. It had been taken in their fifth-year, only a few months after they began their relationship. It had remained a secret to most of the school and only a select few, including the bumbling duo that she called her best friends, knew of their affection for one another. They were still pretending to hate each other yet even with his best acting, he couldn’t hide the adoration he had for her behind his grey eyes. She simply stared up at him, a warm expression of love gracing her features, before she turned away. It was a stolen moment, caught on camera by Ginny Weasley.

He had stared at the picture for what seemed like hours before he put it back where he found it, pushing the box into the corner of the study, and her memory into the recesses of his mind. She would want for him to move on. That was the moment he decided to stop his search and let Hermione Granger’s memory rest in peace.

The water had run cold. Draco leaned his forehead against the wall, relishing the feel of the cool surface before he turned the shower off and pushed himself back. Time to face another day.

He performed a quick drying spell over his body and hair before he entered his closet, not even sparing a glance at Pansy’s still-sleeping body on his bed. He merely dressed, hoping she would see herself out at some point. He didn’t want to have to see her again for, what he hoped, would be a very long time. When he was fully dressed, he walked briskly out the room, closing his door with a soft click.

Pansy sat up in the bed when she finally heard the door close, signaling Draco’s exit. She held the sheets close to her chest, holding back her sobs. She closed her eyes, lost in memories of the night before.

Forgive me, Draco.

-*-

“Edinburgh?” Harry asked, seemingly completely bewildered by this response. “You were that close all along?” He set a cup of tea in front of Hermione and one in front of himself as he pulled up a chair.

Hermione mumbled her thanks before she nursed it, wrapping her hands around the cup, delighting in the way it warmed her body. “I didn’t exactly choose to wind up there.”

Harry raised an eyebrow before leaning in closer. He cleared his throat, “What exactly happened two years ago, Hermione? Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t leave!” She said forcefully, surprisingly him with her sudden cry, “Someone performed some sort of spell or curse or something on me, Harry. I completely forgot who I was. I had absolutely no memory of you or Ron or anyone else in my life. Someone took my memories.”

“Someone obliviated you?” His green eyes were wide with concern.

“No,” she shook her head, “It couldn’t have been that. I thought I was Viola Reine. For two years, I lived under the guise of a falsehood. Whoever did this performed powerful magic. I still have all her memories in addition to my own. They weaved too complicated a back story for it to be a simple Obliviate. I can tell you the names of my supposed parents and where I grew up.” Hermione gripped the cup fiercely, “It’s like I have two completely different lives.”

“Did you ever get headaches or migraines?”

“Yes, but only when I tried to remember a detail that I guess hadn’t been written out for me,” she replied bitterly. “I never thought anything of it.”

There was silence for a few moments as Harry processed everything she had just said. Her voice was shaking when she asked, “Did you ever look for me?”

“Of course,” he replied immediately, “We looked everywhere for you, Hermione,” Harry took her hand in his, “I didn’t want to stop looking but the Ministry put your case on hold after a year. We had nothing. No leads, no possibilities, and we looked everywhere for you.” He scoffed at himself, “I can’t believe you’ve been in Edinburgh this entire time. It makes the entire Auror department seem like a mockery.”

“Don’t say that, Harry.”

“I’ve let you down, Hermione. I never should’ve stopped looking,” he turned away and let out a sigh of guilt and regret, “After a year, we all thought you didn’t want to be found and that you had left.”

Hermione felt a stabbing pain at his words, “I would never have left willingly. This is my home, Harry. The Wizarding world is my home. London is my home. I would never leave especially not without a word.”

They both looked up at the clock as it signaled the time.

“It’s 6:00. Ginny will be home soon.”

Hermione smiled, “I’ve missed her.”

Only seconds later, they both heard a pop and the familiar voice of a tiny redhead float down the hallway. “Harry, do you mind if we just order in tonight? I do not feel like-“ She stopped at the doorway, her voice trailing off as her eyes began tearing up at the sight in front of her. “Hermione?” she gasped.

“Hi, Gin,” Hermione said shyly, standing up slowly. In the next instant, she saw a flash of red before she felt the impact of Ginny’s petite body against her own, “I missed you.”

“You’re really back,” Ginny said, regaining her voice, “You’re here. Where have you been? What happened to you?” She turned to Harry, “Did you owl Ron and-“ she paused, nodding her head towards Hermione.

“Oh yes!” Harry moved towards a desk in corner, “Right, of course.”

Ginny turned back towards Hermione with a bright smile, “Tell me everything.”

-*-

Hermione had just finished recounting her story when she heard another pop. She smiled, tears returning once again to her eyes, “Hi Ron.”

“Hermione?” His face was incredulous. He merely stared at her for a few moments, shifting his weight from one leg to the other uncomfortably.

“Well, what are you just standing there for, you big buffoon?” Ginny chastised, “Give her a hug.”

Ron approached her awkwardly, giving her a quick hug and pat on the back before he released her and returned to the corner where he first appeared. Hermione leaned against the table, her face mixed with confusion and hurt. “I guess I should explain where I’ve been,” she started quietly.

“Explain what?” He asked, his voice attempting nonchalance. “You left without an explanation and were gone for two bloody years. Why start now?”

“Ron!” Ginny interrupted, outraged.

“No,” Hermione stopped her, “I know what you must think of me,” she said, taking a step forward, “Believe me. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, well you did. You hurt a whole lot of people,” he said, his voice rising, “You can’t just come back here and expect everyone to be waiting with open arms. You left us!”

“I didn’t choose to leave, Ronald,” her voice shaking with anger and pain, “Someone forced me to. Someone stole my memories and for two years, I never knew this life existed. I can’t expect you to understand how it would possibly feel for someone to invade your privacy as intimately as that. Do you think I wanted to leave my family and friends and everything that I knew? I would never leave without a word. How could you even think I would do something like that to hurt you all?”

They all look down in guilt, each one of them had, at one point, believed that she had left on her own accord.

“Ron,” Ginny snapped, “If you can’t stop acting like a cur then go outside and come back when you can behave properly.”

Ron looked around the room, seeing the disappointment in Ginny and Harry’s eyes and the hurt in Hermione’s. The door slammed behind him as he exited.

“Let him be,” Ginny said, patting Hermione on the shoulder, “He’s just being a child.”

“You believe me, right?” She asked, “You know I’m telling the truth.”

“Of course,” Ginny responded, giving her a tight hug, “I’m just happy to have you back.”

-*-

Draco massaged his temples as he sat back against the leather chair in his study. His meeting with the board of governors had gone relatively well today. His movement for more intra-house unity had passed and steps were already beginning to be taken by both Hogwarts staff and students. He smiled at himself, how proud his father would’ve been to know that his only son was following in his footsteps in becoming a governor yet not towards any of the means that he had pushed for himself. He laughed bitterly.

Both his parents had been lost to the war. His father was killed in battle, even to the last, declaring his loyalty to Voldemort and the belief of blood purity. His mother had survived the actual battle but with heavy wounds, having been Crucio’d by Fenrir Greyback and then her beauty destroyed by Lord Voldemort himself when he learned of Draco’s true allegiances and in accordance, Narcissa herself as she stood in front of Draco, hiding his body behind hers, refusing to let the maniac harm or touch her precious child. Voldemort had cursed her with a burning spell that left the entire left side of her face with third-degree burns. Harry Potter had stepped in at that point, dueling Voldemort until he said the killing curse to which Harry threw up a powerful and ancient protection spell, similar to the one his mother had used so many years ago. Voldemort’s Avada bounced back, hitting him directly in the chest, killing the last remnant of his soul, ridding the world of his dark presence once and for all.

Draco had cradled his mother’s body to his as he watched the fight between the two, refusing to let go and refusing to believe that the fates were evil enough to curse him with the agony of watching his own mother die in his arms. They did, however, and only moments after Voldemort collapsed to the ground, Narcissa Malfoy took her last breath.

Draco slowly sipped the aged whisky. He swirled his glass a few times, watching as the alcohol grazed the side before settling at the bottom. He glanced at the faded tattoo on his left arm. It would always be there, serving as a hideous reminder of his less-than-savory past. It would always come back to blood, purity, and power. Even after the war, though the prime evil had been defeated, people’s mentalities still remained the same and to many pureblood families, he was seen as a traitor who had betrayed his own father and lineage for a girl, a mudblood at that.

It would never change. No matter how many wars were fought and how many lives were lost and taken, it would always remain the same. What had been the purpose of it all? He wasn’t so naïve as to believe that everything would magically mend itself and everyone would become friends after the war but he had believed that eventually and with time, perceptions and old grudges and prejudices would fade. They didn’t.

There was a tapping against the window. He pulled himself out of his thoughts as he set down his drink, moving to let the owl in. After rewarding it with a treat, he opened the letter.

Come to 12 Grimmauld Place as soon as you can. You need to see this. – Harry

He frowned. Well, that was helpful. He dropped the letter on his desk as he made his way to the floo.

It was dark in the Potters’ living room and he could hear voices coming from the kitchen as he made his way down the hall. For a moment, he thought he heard her laugh tinkle through the air but he shook himself out of his hallucinations. He needed to stop drinking.

“Honestly, Potter, could you be more cryptic?” Draco drawled as he entered the kitchen, never taking in the girl in the corner.

“Umm, I really didn’t-“

“So, what is the purpose for the hurry?”

“There,” Ginny whispered as she nodded towards Hermione’s direction.

The entire world seemed to come crashing back to him as he gazed intently at her. It was her. She had come back. Without another word, he crossed the room, pulling Hermione into his arms, choking back sobs of relief and happiness as he smelled her, touched her, and placed a gentle kiss against her hair. He refused to let her go, keeping his hands wrapped around her waist as she leaned back to look at him.

Her beautiful brown eyes were still sparkling with laughter, tinted with confusion, “I’m sorry but have we met before?”

-*-

i'm back!

Mon, 11 May 2009 21:23:02 GMT

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.

FIC: Linger 2/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Mon, 11 May 2009 21:07:19 GMT

Title: Linger
Author: desespoir
Rating: NC-17 - no kiddies!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and company belong to the lovely J.K. Rowling.
Distribution: Like it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.
Notes: This is my very first fic in over 5 years. Hope I haven't lost my touch :) Enjoy.
Spoilers: All books are fair game. I don't believe in the epilogue so I've chosen to ignore it.

Chapter 1: I cannot seem to operate now you, my love, are gone.

So, glide away and so be healed and promise not to promise anymore. And, if you come around again then I will take the chain from off the door. I'll never say I'll never love but I don’t say a lot of things and you my love are gone. – Ingrid Michaelson, “The Chain” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fu2gxZDquzA)

Pansy Parkinson was not considered to be a conventional beauty. Her dark, almost jet-black, hair flowed down her back, impossibly straight with a slight curl at the very tip. Her eyes were a shimmering blue, almost husky-like in their intensity, and never failed to captivate even the most obstinate of men. She pursed her lips together as she stepped away from the door. She shrugged off her jacket, tossing it against the nearest chair, revealing a dress that left little to the imagination. The silky material clung to her hips, molding against her curves as she walked towards the lone figure in the room who was casually lounging in his rich, brown leather chair, completely unaware of her presence and the outside world. He was beautiful, dressed in a deep green button-down shirt, his pale skin glistened against the moonlight coming through the windows.

“Sickle for your thoughts?”

His grey eyes flashed open at the sound. Pansy put her hand on her hip, a smirk forming on her lips as she watched him react. He visibly tensed for a moment before he sighed, taking a sip of the drink he held in his hands.

“Same thoughts as every night. Not worth nearly a sickle, I’m afraid.”

“Then why don’t I,” she whispered huskily as she walked around his desk and leaned down towards him, running her hands down his chest, “put a stop to all this noise in here.” She placed a kiss to his temple, “Hmm?”

She could feel him tensing up again as she continued her caresses but shook her head in determination. Draco Malfoy would not reject her again. He had been in mourning long enough. “It’s been nearly two years,” she whispered against his cheek as she straddled him, taking the drink out of his hands and placing it on the desk.

He grabbed the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning white. He made no move to stop her, his eyes staring beyond her to the wall, seemingly entranced at a fixed point.

“She’s gone, Draco,” her voice coated over him like honey, “She left. Her-“

“Don’t say her name,” he growled, pushing back the chair, standing up to his full height. At nearly 6”2, he cut an impressive figure. His platinum blonde hair was shorter than it was in his school days, now cleanly cut. He pushed a lingering strand away from his face, his eyes turning into a molten silver as he glared at her.

Pansy landed unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. She frowned and huffed to herself. Apparently, he was going to put up a fight. She brushed the dust from her dress and as gracefully as she could manage, picked herself off the ground, refusing to let his towering figure intimidate her.

“You can’t live in denial forever, Draco,” she snapped, now annoyed. “No one has heard a single word from her in two years. She’s the smartest girl of our age. If she wanted to hide herself, she will, as she’s so clearly done.”

“She didn’t leave,” his voice strained as he attempted to mollify the anger stirring within him.

“Then what happened to her?” Pansy demanded, her eyes narrowed, “Potter is Head Auror and the entire Wizarding world has been looking for her but to no avail. Do you honestly believe he could’ve defeated the Dark Lord but not find a single girl if she wanted to be found? She is gone. The princess of Gryffindor is no more, Draco. Accept it. The war got to her,” she exhaled, closing her eyes momentarily as she held back the memories, “It got to all of us. She cracked and she left. That’s all there is to it.”

“I can’t believe that,” he said simply, his face resolved. “She wouldn’t have left like that. She wouldn’t have left without a word. She would’ve said goodbye.”

“And, have you and the rest of the bloody world put a stop to her plans?” Pansy asked sharply. “You never would’ve let her leave you and neither would Potter or Weasley.” She let out another sigh, “You all needed her too much.”

He was silent for a few moments, as if absorbing her words. “I still feel her, Pansy,” Draco confessed quietly, his eyes boring a hole into the ground as he ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s like I can feel her right next to me and every time I reach out to touch her, she disappears. It’s like I can never-,” he shook his head and trailed off.

Pansy watched him sadly, her heart breaking a bit for the shattered man in front of her. Hermione Granger, what have you done? She took a few hesitant steps towards him and placed a hand against his chest, avoiding his questioning glance. “I know you still love her but don’t you just get tired of it all?” She continued, despite his silence, “I can help you forget,” she leaned up, whispering against his lips, “Just for tonight.”

“I can’t-“

She brushed her lips against his teasingly, “Just for tonight. You need this.”

Without looking or even glancing in her direction, he grabbed her body and roughly smashed their lips together. She smiled against his lips as she felt his resolve crumble beneath their kisses. She moaned in approval, shifting her weight and pulling him on top of her as she lied back on the table, wrapping her legs around his hips. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, dueling with his as she ripped his shirt off, the buttons flying across the study. She hungrily kissed his bare chest, fumbling with his belt buckle. Her body thrummed with anticipation as she pushed his trousers off and within a moment, he was inside her, pushing into her gloriously as stars exploded behind her eyes.

Pansy panted against his ear, holding his body close as they moved together. Draco slammed into her frantically, not making a single sound, merely indulging in the physical. He couldn’t look at Pansy and he couldn’t pretend it was her.

They moved silently. Pansy moaned every so often, running her hands up and down his back as she placed kisses to his face, neck and chest. Draco, however, continued to thrust without care, his eyes closed, his mind far away. A strangled moan escaped from his throat as he climaxed, his ears blocking out Pansy’s screams of pleasure.

Forgive me.

-*-

“Malfoy! I swear, you have had one too many chocolate frogs,” Hermione chastised as she put a hand on her hip, pouting as he fidgeted yet again. “Will you please just sit still? You’re acting like a five-year-old.”

“Keep in mind, Granger,” he emphasized, “that I am doing you a favor. It’s not every day an amateur artist like yourself can have the great Draco Malfoy as a sitter.” He smirked at her outraged expression, “I’ll have you know that many great artists in the past have begged to paint my family members but only the most exceptional were granted this artistic favor.” He leaned towards her, his hands reaching out to grab her as he added, “And, if I remember correctly, it was ‘Oh, Draco, Draco’ this morning,” his smirk grew, “and last night and oh,” he lifted a finger to his chin, pretending to ponder, “and the night before as well.”

“Shut up, you tosspot,” Hermione smacked him half-heartedly and let out a girly squeal as he pulled her closer, breathing in the smell of her.

“Tosspot?” He said with a pout, “You wound me.”

“Nothing will ever wound that over-inflated ego of yours,” she returned with a gentle smile, kissing him softly. He wound his fingers through her curls, deepening the kiss with a moan, exploring her mouth with his tongue. She was intoxicating. He cradled her face with his other hand before moving it down over her body. He loved the feel of her—so warm and soft.

Hermione felt him reach under her shirt, the pads of his fingertips grazing against her hardened nipples. She jumped out of his reach and with a devilish smile she returned to her place behind the camera, “Behave yourself. You’re going to wrinkle your robes and we can’t have you looking anything less than pristine now, can we?”

“You’re a tease,” he said with a playful growl before he readjusted himself. He ran his hand through his hair, the strands falling perfectly back into place. Within moments, Draco Malfoy was perfectly poised once again.

“You disgust me with how pretty you are sometimes.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement, “Jealous, darling?”

“Of course not, honeybunch,” she returned before she snapped a few pictures. She frowned slightly, though her expression was hidden behind the camera, “Will you stop smirking and just smile?”

He continued smirking for a few more shots until Hermione let out a sign of frustration, “Malfoy! Stop being a prat.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t use a Wizarding camera? You’re bound to get a smile in a photograph at some point if you do.”

“I happen to enjoy muggle photography, I’ll have you know. I find it to be more enjoyable. There’s more of an artistic process.”

“An artistic process?” Draco snorted. “Trust you to be the one who enjoys something that requires more work.”

Hermione merely ignored his comment and grinned, “Stop talking. Now, smile.”

“You have to earn it.”

She rolled her eyes, “And, just what do I have to do before you decide to grace my presence with a smile, Lord Malfoy?”

“Say it.”

She shook her head, her eyes softening with adoration, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he smiled.

She snapped the shot.

-*-

Viola hummed softly to herself as she busied herself with cleaning up the café. It was her favorite time of the day. All the customers and regular staff had left and it was the one quiet hour she had to herself without disturbances. She twirled around the café, dancing to herself, her body moving gracefully around the chairs and tables as she finished her mopping. The owners of the café, a nice, old Scottish couple originally from Aberdeen, had trusted her enough to take care of most of the responsibilities. Within a few short months, she had basically been running the café by herself. She enjoyed being given a challenge and also found delight in the independence.

She was almost done wiping down the tables when she heard the crash from the back room. Brow furrowed, Viola threw the rag onto the counter, wiping her hands against the apron as she moved towards the back. She turned on the light, frowning when no light came on. Annoyed, she muttered to herself as she realized a box of plastic utensils had fallen from its shelf and was now scattered all over the ground. She bent down and began to pick up the pieces when she felt someone grab her from behind, the smell of tobacco and alcohol invading her senses before she felt a sharp pain in her neck and head and the world went dark.

Viola awoke to a scream. Her mind was groggy as she cracked open one eye, her hand coming up to the side of her face to block the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

“Viola? Viola?” Shannon, the waitress with the morning shift leaned over her, her pretty face marred with worry, “What happened to you? Viola, can you hear me?”

Slowly, she sat up with her help, her mind still readjusting to the circumstances.

“Viola, what the hell happened here?”

Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke, “My name is Hermione.”

-*-

FIC: Linger 1/? (Draco/Hermione) NC-17

Mon, 11 May 2009 21:04:54 GMT

Title: Linger
Author: desespoir
Rating: NC-17 - no kiddies!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and company belong to the lovely J.K. Rowling.
Distribution: Like it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.
Notes: This is my very first fic in over 5 years. Hope I haven't lost my touch :) Enjoy.
Spoilers: All books are fair game. I don't believe in the epilogue so I've chosen to ignore it.

Prologue:

I have this faint sense of nostalgia.

-*-

Hermione Granger had always been known as a girl who possessed both sense and sensibility. She was bursting full of pride, loyalty, knowledge, and compassion. She was the essence of Gryffindor and to her two best friends, she meant the world as they were to her.

After decades of strife and lingering dissonance and hatred, Voldemort was finally defeated. He would not be back to terrorize the Wizarding world in a third war and Harry Potter and the Order could finally rest in peace. After the final battle, it seemed that nothing could go wrong and everything was finally beginning to calm down and go the way it was supposed to be.

They could finally live the lives they were always meant to live. They were free. They were no longer bound by duty, name, or the weight of a lightning bolt scar.

Yet, one year to the anniversary of Lord Voldemort’s timely death, Hermione Granger disappeared.

-*-

“How many times do I have to tell you that the packets of brown sugar go next to the packets of white sugar?”

Viola Reine stared pointedly at the now blushing waitress as she reorganized the shelf, turning her back to the girl, “Honestly,” she muttered to herself, “You’d think I was asking her to perform magic or something.”

Satisfied with the state of the cabinet, she turned back around to address the girl, her brow furrowing in irritation when she realized that the newly hired waitress had scurried into the front of the café, pretending to clean tables, clearly wishing to avoid the now cranky brunette.

Viola let out a sigh as she wiped her hands against her white apron. It was a quiet afternoon which was rare for the café. She leaned against the counter, closing her brown eyes for a moment, enjoying the relative peace that had settled around her. She’d been working at Crystal Café for nearly two years now and though she loved her job more than anything else she had in her modest life, she couldn’t help but crave something more. Something challenging, exciting, and different.

She knew she was being a fool. She wasn’t born into a life of privileges and options. Her parents had died when she was seventeen in a car accident. With no other living relation, she was left to fend for herself. The little money they had left her was enough for her to live on for a few years but she needed a job. Left with no other decision, Viola dropped out of school and bought a bus ticket to Edinburgh. She had always wanted to visit Scotland and she could no longer deal with the memories and her past in London. She needed to be in a new atmosphere and surrounding.

Viola opened her eyes and let out a sigh. She really needed to stop thinking about the past and what could have been. She should be content with her life. She was luckier than most and her life could easily be described as comfortable yet she couldn’t push down the yearning in her stomach. She bit her lower lip in frustration, mostly directed at herself. She refused to do this again.

Her hand drifted to her back pocket as she took out a worn photograph. It was relatively small, fitting in the palm of her hand. Every time she looked at it, it seemed to take her breath away. She had found it in her jean pocket a few weeks after she moved and immediately was taken aback by the shocking platinum blonde hair and the piercing silver eyes the sitter possessed. What was most captivating about the photograph, however, was the genuine smile upon his charming, aristocratic face that photographs rarely seemed to capture. He was beautiful, whoever he was, and evidently rich, based upon the luxurious black robes he wore. He seemed to be from an entirely different world altogether. She couldn’t remember how she got this photograph or who it was in the picture. Every time her mind seemed to drift to him, she would feel a migraine start to form and immediately shift her thoughts. By now, Viola had simply accepted that whoever this mystery man was, he would have to, for the time being, remain enshrouded in darkness.

Viola gently caressed the photograph, a small smile gracing her feminine features before she placed a gentle kiss to the corner of the photograph.

No matter what she did, she couldn’t get rid of the feeling that at one point in her life, she loved him. She smiled sadly to herself.

Maybe he was thinking of her too.

-*-