Hermione stepped out of her parent's car with delight, her shoulders warmed by the summer sun that sat high above muggle Paris. Since she could talk her parents would take her to any museum of her choosing. As she grew older they promised her they would not complain about how long she spent ogling the masters. Hermione, being prone to spending hours in one exhibit, couldn't have been happier with their generosity.
She'd never been to the Musée D'Orsay in Paris before, and the smell of dahlia blooms and coffee, with undertones of heavy smoke, invigorated her senses and excited her to no end. 'Paris in the summer was lovely if not a little hot,' Hermione decided as she waited for her mother to spread sunscreen on her shoulders despite the fact they were only a short walk from the indoor museum.
The last time the Grangers visited Paris Hermione was only grazing 7 years old and it was her parent's tenth wedding anniversary. Having yet to discover that magic coursed through her veins Hermione had no prior knowledge of the wizarding wings of Paris' most famous art collections. The Louvre hosted an impressive amount of ancient wizarding artifacts and the National History Museum's collection of ancient magical species put Great Britain's to shame, but what she was most interested in was Vincent van Gogh's secret works.
Having only being discovered to be a wizard after his death, the wizarding world was the true reason for the muggle fascination in Vincent van Gogh. Thanks to the interest of wizarding art curators (who frequently worked in tandem with muggle ones to acquire pieces) the very community that denounced van Gogh's talents felt left out of the hype and were all too happy to join in. It was a lucky thing wizards saw the paintings' value first, or the Statute of Secrecy might have been in trouble. Where muggles now see Starry Night as a swirling sky in stasis, the wizarding community sees the paint move and combine in a looping spell that van Gogh had invented. At the age of thirteen when the Grangers visited the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, Hermione couldn't stop raving about the painting's magical qualities while her parents nodded, unable to fully appreciate it's beauty.
Hermione clutched her copy of Wizarding Masters of Impressionism in her hands as her family crossed a bridge covered in locks. 'Nobody pays any respect to tradition', Hermione thought, 'they'll put locks on any bridge if they hear a bridge will safeguard love. This is not even the love bridge'. Despite her disdain for the misunderstanding of tradition, Hermione gazed at the locks longingly. Perhaps someday she would be so lucky as to have somebody of her own to pledge eternal love to. Maybe then she and her love would put their lock on the real "love bridge", the one that had been erected by French wizarding royalty in order to preserve the arranged matches and spur real love deep within the hearts of the pair. The French wizarding royalty of old were far more sentimental than the British.
Or at least they meant to be.
"Go ahead, go ahead, we will just be looking at the muses by the regular van Gogh's." Her father said, hiding the small disappointment he always felt whenever his little witch got to experience the finest treats he would never get to taste.
Hermione, grateful as always that she had such understanding and culturally interested parents, hurried ahead to the secret entrance to the Musée aux Sorcières d'Orsay. Impatiently, she waited behind a group of South Korean tourists who had become enraptured with the bronze cast of the entrance: Rodin's The Gates of Hell. When she was sure they had moved on, and that no muggle was looking her way, she stepped up onto the display and disappeared through the doors which functioned as Platform 9 3/4 did every September.
Hermione gasped as she found herself in a grand hall much like the museum's main muggle hall which was a converted train station affixed with a glass ceiling. The wizarding hall was far larger and housed immense works of art along its perimeter overlooking giantesque statues within the space that would have once been train tracks. Immediately Hermione was drawn to the statue of The Thinker that sat most prominently in the center of the floor.
She'd been to the muggle Musée Rodin before and could quite clearly remember the bronze cast of Le Penseur, or The Thinker amidst lush hedges and pebbles that tinkled like faerie bells. If Hermione was to be honest it was little underwhelming and too high up on a bronze pillar to be truly appreciated. 'Though', she thought, 'that may have been the point'. But this statue was far larger. If he stood Hermione thought he would be able to strike up a conversation with the American Statue of Liberty and not be dwarfed in the least. At this thought The Thinker paused his introspective deliberating and looked up to meet Hermione's eyes, giving her a curt nod before returning to his eternal pondering. Hermione couldn't help the bubble of laughter that burst from her chest.
This was truly magical.
Grinning, she turned her attention to the right-hand exhibits, where van Gogh's most magical work was on display. There were not many other witches or wizards in the museum at this time of day. In the summer the businesses in wizarding London got a week or so break from work at their own discretion, even the Ministry (with the exception of the Aurors and other necessary departments). It was modeled after the muggle House of Common's recesses. Hermione thought it was a bit daft and, apparently, the French agreed as while wizarding London was in the middle of this summer's work holiday, the French were still busy as bees. Hermione was admirable and grateful for their work ethic, she greatly enjoyed the click of her shoe on the pristine white marble floor. It allowed her to be solely with her thoughts as she gazed into van Gogh's landscapes, shuffling around in a semi-circle to see the fields hidden behind the frames. Wizarding paintings were like those 3D muggle postcards that moved slightly at different angles when you moved you could see more. Hermione only wished she could see the expression of the artists.
After a fair while of gazing through cornfields and trying to peer through painted glass, Hermione moved through the side halls towards the interesting sound of boisterous conversation that she could only assume was from van Gogh's lost portraits. Though she adored his melancholy static paintings, she'd read enough in Wizarding Masters of Impressionism to know that this was not the true disposition of poor Vincent.
He had been a joyous child, gifted in magic, but being born to muggle farmers he had been too poor to attend Beauxbatons Academie de la Magie. This resulted in a catastrophic internalization of his magic until the age of seventeen that labeled him a "touched" child. Albus Dumbledore himself had heard, from the village kook or soothsayer, of the talented young artist and offered personal tutelage over one summer. Van Gogh, having harbored intense magical abilities, took to the lessons like a fish to water and excelled greatly under Dumbledore's advisory. When Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts for the fall semester, van Gogh continued to experiment with magic. Working blindly, as he didn't have the money nor accessibility to purchase any spellbooks other than the those Dumbledore had left behind, he inevitably invented a number of spells that were unique to himself and still were to this day. As far as any modern wizard knew these spells extended only to his art, though Hermione believed he probably invented a number of other spells to aid him day to day as his health deteriorated. No wizard knew exactly what his incantations or wand-work had been, but their effects had been successfully replicated and today these effects were staples in magical art.
When she made it to the room that bustled with laughter, all eyes turned to her. Hermione squeaked when the room went silent and four Vincents, three anonymous women, and the kind eyes of Albus Dumbledore gazed down at her. These portraits were a good lot larger than the work that was displayed in van Gogh's muggle wing, and the bright blue eyes of the most central Vincent pierced her soul.
"Miss Granger," murmured Dumbledore from her right. "I was wondering when I'd see you here. Always on a quest for knowledge."
"Ah is this the young one who has befriended Harry Potter?"
Hermione's eyes widened as she realized that van Gogh, or rather his portrait, knew of her and her friends. Then again, the headmaster did quite curiously have his own portrait on his desk. She assumed it connected to this portrait, and that this was why Vincent van Gogh knew her.
"Yes, sir."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," chorused all four van Gogh's from their spots around the room. Hermione couldn't hold back a smile. Vincent quite reminded her of the Weasley twins, she wondered whether or not they were distantly related. Especially when one of the van Gogh's sent a wink flying across the room and the three unidentified women swooned against their frames.
"Miss Granger, I was quite impressed with your O.W.L.s, disrupted though they may have been." smiled Professor Dumbledore. His bright eyes twinkled dangerously.
"Thank you, Professor." Hermione fell back into silence as the portraits struck up their old conversation once more, the portrait of Dumbledore excusing himself a moment in and disappearing to the side of his frame. She was suddenly struck with an awkward feeling, unsure of how to truly appreciate the intricacy of the portraits without invading the space of the van Gogh's and the women. Unsure of how to continue, she bowed out of the room respectfully and found herself crashing into another person as she made her way through the doorframe to the main atrium.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I really didn't mean –" Hermione stumbled getting back up, standing tall before she realized her book had skidded across the marble and shuffled to retrieve it.
"Young lady, do watch where you throw your things. We are fine art!" Her book lay at the feel of a sculpture labeled Vanity.
"So sorry," muttered Hermione as she scooped the book up and turned to properly apologize to whomever she had clobbered.
The man still sat on the ground, dusting his hands of imaginary dirt and clambering to his feet. Dressed in simple but fashionable muggle clothing, the man had an air of aristocracy about him. As he stood, the sun filtering through the ceiling seemed to hit his head of chestnut hair just so, and he appeared to have an ethereal halo before he straightened, brushed his hair out of his eyes and Hermione caught sight of his face.
"Granger?" He stuttered, surprised to be taking in the familiar girl. He noted with disdain that she was not so dull during the summer. She was sporting a nice color and had tamed her unruly hair into a French braid. She wasn't wearing the plain things muggles called jeans either. She had on a quite lovely dress he was sure he'd seen at Le Gallerie Lafayette just a few days before. This Granger was not so familiar, then.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" She frowned at the man, though he wasn't quite a man. He was more of a boy, though he was tall and lean. She recognized something about him, he had a face that she was sure she'd seen. Maybe he went to Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff quite possibly. She didn't know too many male Hufflepuffs, and the ones she knew were blonde, not brunet. But his eyes, they were surely in her memory somewhere. She knew those eyes. 'Where do I know them from?'
The man, no boy, regarded her with narrowed eyes. Hermione felt a protective need to cover herself lest he be able to see straight through her like a ghost. Perhaps she'd met him at the Quidditch World Cup, or in Diagon Alley. Maybe he had seen the Daily Prophet back in their fourth year, when she'd been pictured beside Harry in the Champions tent. Though that was a while ago, and it didn't explain why she knew his eyes, it was a good guess – because he had seen that issue.
"You don't– ?" He chuckled lightly to himself, amused when he caught sight of his hair color from his peripheral vision. He turned his face out of her view, muttering a charm under his breath, and when he turned back to Hermione, she didn't recognize his eyes anymore.
"Well, you know I'm Hermione Granger, and ... you are?" She extended her hand hesitantly, keeping watch of his eyes. She was unsure of him, and yet she didn't feel immediately threatened, nor did she feel unsafe as she had read of the museum's protective charms.
Even if somehow the museum's charms weren't as strong as they boasted, Hermione had learned quickly after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries that you can never be too wary, and that she shouldn't leave her wand at home when exploring muggle surroundings in the summers. She may not legally be able to do magic outside school yet, but the protection of herself and her family was now a priority since Voldemort and his following had, most definitely, returned.
"Philip Mal-" He paused, realizing only too late that he'd spoken his cousins name as a cover and reached to shake her hand. "Philip Malfoy."
"Malfoy?" Her hand, still held in his, instinctively jerked back towards its owner, but he held her fingers tight. He was only momentarily startled that even somebody with a kind, he hoped, demeanor would shudder so involuntarily at the Malfoy name.
"I'm sorry to have startled you, Hermione. It's only ... you so resemble my cousin's description."
"And your cousin is Draco Malfoy?" Hermione scowled at his mention, something that Philip noticed with chagrin. That certainly wasn't the respect his family had always vied for. However, this girl was a muggle-born.
"Yes." he sighed.
"Oh," Hermione took her hand back. "Well, I'm sorry for crashing into you."
"It wasn't a big deal, don't worry. I had the same reaction the first time I was greeted by the van Gogh's." He smiled gently, though something in his eyes held an emotion Hermione couldn't place. It unnerved her that Malfoy's cousin – French cousin? No, that was surely a British accent – knew her by description. Not just by any description either as the only assured indication of her identity was her presence in a wizarding museum.
"Yes, they are a little intimidating, aren't they? I – I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Philip." Her mouth set into a frown once more, wondering why it had been so ... pleasant, for lack of right description, to meet the cousin of such a vile, evil boy. Surely he shared the same beliefs, as the Malfoy family seemed to be prejudiced against her sort of blood for as far back as the line went. Hermione shook her head gently, taking a step or two back from the boy.
"Should I say hi to my cousin for you?"
"No. Definitely not. We, well, I'm sure you know why." Hermione said finally, before turning on her heel and walking back to Rodin's gate.
When she had disappeared, Draco magicked his eyes back to gray. Little miss know-it-all Granger's memory wasn't as good as she thought, but why had he decided to hide?