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