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