Chapter 1: London Nights
The lights of London were a godsend at times like this. When you were bone weary and struck down with tiredness. All it ever took him was one walk along the Embankment and he felt the spring twitch back into his step and the fog began to lift from his mind.
The air was crisp down by the river, when it wasn't raining of course, London being what it was. Tonight it was crisp and chilled and dark and it felt as refreshing to him as anything could. A boat sailed past, lights blazing and revellers celebrating whatever it was which had drawn them all together. He didn't envy them, to be so squashed together and observed when you could be alone and free with your thoughts. He had always been a more solitary creature than others imagined and when he had things on his mind it was his own consult he sought.
He was pondering his current project, or his most recent 'Malfoy makes amends' attempt as Potter had so sweetly named it. Of course these days Harry's jibes were strictly in jest and their relationship was well enough established for Draco to laugh it off, or at least give him a tight smile.
An art gallery, it didn't sound like much did it? But so many of the priceless works of art had been destroyed during the wars, and not just in the Wizarding world. It had been Hermione who had opened his eyes to that fact, not surprisingly. She had been his window into the world for the last few years, for good or bad, and his first real attempt at getting his heart broken. But that was over now, and the rejection hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. Maybe this should have comforted him; instead it left him with a sneaking suspicion that he still had no real idea what love was all about.
After all, how would a Malfoy go about being in love? It wasn't as if he had much of an example to follow. Perhaps his parents had been in love once, but by the time he was old enough to understand what he saw, it had been so twisted into something more resembling hate that he would be lost to put their relationship into words.
No, Hermione remained a friend now, as much of a friend as she was to anyone these days. He worried with the rest of them as they saw he diminish year by year. Unlike the others he kept his fears to himself; old habits die hard.
One night they had been discussing her recent job. She had scoured the corners of the world trying to trace a missing sculpture which had been taken from a family home in Saigon. The family had searched for years since a muggle war had torn them from their homes and finally, one way or another, they had wound up at Hermione's office.
"How much is it worth?" He had asked as they shared a drink by the fire.
"Nothing, sickles." She had waved his question aside with a slightly suspect wave and slosh of her glass. The whiskey had caught her now and the passion was back in her eyes. It was a rare event so he let her rant.
"These people lost everything Draco. Like so many of us. War is war, it doesn't matter who's involved, magic or Muggle. People all round the world for hundreds of years have lost everything they possessed. And sometimes it's the little things, just small objects which made their home a home. There was a photo at home..."
Her voice trailed off and she notably pulled herself together with quick shake of her head before continuing.
"There was a photo, above the fireplace. It was beautiful to me as a child, the Scottish Highlands in midwinter, you could almost hear the silence, everything was covered in snow, everything was still and shining, it looked so perfect to me. I remember I would sit on my father's knee as he read to me and gaze up at the photo. I would try and imagine the people that lived in that place. I think it was part of the reason I loved Hogwarts so much, the first time it snowed the land around the castle looked just the same, it could have been taken in that very spot."
She knocked back the rest of her drink and held it out for a refill.
"I'd give anything to have that photo back."
She didn't need to elaborate, it had been lost, like almost everything or everyone she held dear.
He had done some research after that night. If anyone could understand the impact of war, he could. Of course he couldn't empathise with something which inspired happy memories from a loving home, as he had never had one. But he could appreciate the shadows of war on canvass or film, he could feel the pain, or the relief, or the rare moment of something beautiful caught among all the madness.
He had made it a personal quest to seek out anything artists who specialised in this medium, and to finance searches for pieces of importance which had been lost along the way, both Muggle and Magic. He had also financed searches for those inconsequential objects which would give a child who had lost everything, or a family uprooted and cast aside, a positive memory of their home. Of course this was done privately with no song or dance, there were a few who knew. Draco wasn't searching for redemption, not consciously anyway. But there was no doubt that these days his tastes ran a little more on the light side. This subject had struck a chord in him, something he could identify with, something he could help with, it was something he could put his name to and be proud. That was a rare thing in his life, whatever Hermione may say.
Tonight his footsteps had led him back, in a roundabout way, to the Gallery itself. And what a strange creation that had turned out to be. The ground floor was exclusively Muggle. It showcased the best of their finds, paintings alive with emotion or photographs which captured a moment so dramatic, or so emotive, that the person viewing it had trouble tearing their eyes away. In a small anti-room there was a continuous stream of film projected against the wall, film taken by long forgotten heroes who had given their lives in their determination to capture the truth for the world to see, their names scrolled along the ceiling in a never ending circle. These images had been unseen until now, lying forgotten in vaults or disused buildings, some damaged almost beyond repair.
It was the photos which had always captured his attention the most though. Their stillness fascinated him; they were so unlike magical photos. They captured just one moment and left the observer free to wonder at the events, what was happening? Who was this person? What was happening around them as the photo was taken? Of course he enjoyed magical photos and treasured some he had taken of his new found friends, but the Muggle ones somehow made his heart yearn for... well he wasn't sure what, but something anyway. They seemed to speak out to him, eyes watching without moving, a face frozen in a scream or a smile. They broke his heart, what heart he had to break anyway, he wasn't really sure how much he had.
The lights were still on and for a moment he sought out his wand instinctively. But then he heard the distinctive sounds of Clint Mansell as they echoed eerily though the room. Melissa was here, again. Did the woman never leave?
No, and neither do you, so no need to judge.
Melissa Walker, war photographer extraordinaire. When he'd met her for the first time he had been braced and ready for the temperamental artists he had grown so used to. He was ready to bite his tongue yet again. It didn't seem to matter if it was the Muggle pieces on the ground floor or the Magical ones up on the 'secret' second floor, their creators were all the same. It was always their work which was the most important, the best, their piece which must have prominence, which must be admired and saluted. Sometimes he wondered if art had always been such an ego driven, commercial enterprise. It was rare that Draco Malfoy could truly be called naive, but on this he realised he had been.
Just when he was about to lose faith Hermione had breezed in one day and thrown down a stack of photos in front of him so beautiful and moving he could hardly look at them.
He had never been to Africa, and looking at this work he couldn't decide if he wanted to leave immediately or avoid the place like the plague. Somehow the photographer seemed to have captured a land so filled with contradictions he could make head-nor-tail of it. There was colour and darkness, smiles and tears. There were boys with guns standing in acres of flowers and a brilliant orange sun shining down on monstrous acts. How was it that so much of the Wizarding war had been fought in darkness and shade while in this world, unfamiliar to him in every way, these things were happening without any camouflage at all?
So when he'd met her first he'd been braced, surely such work would come with one hell of an ego? Wrong again Malfoy, wrong again, one day he would get used to it. She had wondered in one day unannounced and politely enquired if she could see what he had planned for her work?
"Well, you'll have to be a bit more specific seeing as I don't have any idea who you are."
In fairness she had caught him at a rather inconvenient time, head under his desk and arse in the air as he scrabbled around for the contract one of his more infuriating artists had thrown back at him in a fit of rage as he had tried to calmly explain that he would not be naming this room after their work, that they would have to share, just like the others, that this was about something bigger than their fucking enormous ego. OK, so the last part had been less than calm, but he had his limits.
There was only one artist he was interested in seeing centre stage after all...
"Melissa Walker."
"What?" Still sidetracked he hadn't really been listening.
"I'm Melissa Walker, the lady over there said you were Mr Malfoy? Pleased to meet you."
With that he had finally emerged, blinking into the bright lights of the room, dusting himself of and almost squinting at her in suspicion.
"I'm sorry, your Melissa Walker?"
She had kept her hand outstretched to shake his and smiled kindly at him, as if she suspected he might be deficient in some way.
"Yes, were you expecting someone else? I'm sorry, but you are Mr Malfoy, yes? Are you quite alright? Should I perhaps come back another time?"
No doubt the last two questions had been directed at the fact that he was gawping at her like an idiot and still had not had the good manners to shake her hand.
"Yes... no... sorry, gosh I mean..." he had paused then, gosh? Gosh? What was wrong with him, had he suddenly been transported back to the 1920's? Pull yourself together man.
"Ms Walker, I'm terribly sorry, you must think I'm very rude, either that or insane." He flashed what he hoped was a devastating smile as he finally shook her hand, but she seemed unmoved.
"I am definitely Mr Malfoy, but please call me Draco. I've just had rather a bust up with Morwena Costard and I'm afraid it's left me a little bruised. I just thought, well I suppose I thought you'd be older..." He trailed off again and mentally kicked himself. He'd been doing so well and no doubt she would, once again, think him an idiot.
But he was at least being honest. She didn't look a day older than him, and she was so unassuming. On the shortish side, curves in the right places but nothing awe inspiring, a pretty face and an impressive array of unruly auburn hair, but unassuming all the same. She was not the warrior artist he had built up in his mind and she had somehow made him feel very off balance.
That feeling had not quite gone away. They had worked alongside each other for the last two weeks, but had barely said a word. She left him to deal with his artists, and didn't question his frequent disappearances. For this he was grateful, how did you explain to a Muggle that you had to go upstairs because one of the paintings had lost its subject the others were threatening a revolution?
She had found him last night, groaning in frustration as he sat among a pile of Muggle CDs trying desperately to work out a theme for the music which would accompany the film show. He had run his hands through his hair for the millionth time that evening and looked at her dejectedly.
Suddenly, and completely without meaning to, he had been completely honest with a total stranger.
"I think I should put someone else in charge. I'm clearly fucking this up and it's so important that it's right. The artists hate me, I can't figure out the music, the fucking painter has got it into his head to paint that wall pink. Pink I ask you? Didn't he see any of the pictures? This is a nightmare."
He felt bedraggled and beaten and she looked as fresh as a daisy. He wondered again how she had ever gotten close enough to the hell on earth she had captured on film.
"Draco Malfoy, I've never heard such a load of bollocks. Artists hate everyone, luckily half the women want to sleep with you and half the men too probably, so they'll stick by you. There's also the fact that people are already talking about this exhibition as the event of the year. The wall can be painted over, the artists will stay in line because it's in their favour to, and you will make it a success because you have to. Every image on this wall is willing you on, counting on you. And you will NOT let them down."
Ah, right, that was how.
He had gazed up at her from the floor with a rueful smile.
"Right, of course. Thankyou. I needed that."
Then, giving in to his nature, he had given her a lazy smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Half of them want to sleep with me you say? Which half do you fall into?" He didn't know why he was hitting on her, after all she was nothing special. But he did want to see how she would react, and he wasn't disappointed.
"I'm a journalist, not an artist. I'm exempt. Now get off the floor, you look absurd."
Feeling suitably put in his place he pulled himself up and dusted himself off, wondering how it always came to be that he was covered in crap and at a definite disadvantage whenever she was around, he extended the bottle he had hidden behind him when she'd come in.
"Would you like a drink?"
They had sat in semi-silence for nearly an hour, neither quite sure how to start a conversation, both feeling strangely unsure. In the end she had saved the day, and his sanity, pulling out a small compact disk player and placing the CD carefully in the stereo.
"This might help, it's from a film called Requiem for a Dream. I listened to it a lot when I was away. It's called Luz Aeterna"
Slowly, quietly to begin with the sound of strings filled the room. It was a sinister sound, but strangely beautiful too, like her work. He felt suddenly as if he may have caught a glimmer of what it was which made her tick. The music sounded dangerous, but poetic as well. It was dark, it was compelling and it was perfect.
"Melissa, you're a genius. I finally have some direction, this is perfect for the ending, all I have to do now is work out the previous hour." He couldn't help his smile fall, right, problem solved yes? He had an hour to fill, and all he had was one measly piece.
With a smile she had tipped out a jumble of CDs onto his desk.
"The soundtrack to my life, I never go anywhere without it. You'll want to start with The Quiet American, look at The Thin Red Line and definitely pay attention to Blood Diamond. They're all war films, all amazing, all appropriate. I think you'll find what you need."
The next hour had been much less awkward. They had skipped from track to track and he marvelled at the music. How had he gone without this for so long? Come to think of it, with the photographs, and the Thames at night, and now the music, he had an idea he'd missed out on a lot the Muggle world had to offer. She'd seen his look of wonder at looked at him curiously.
"You've never heard any of this?"
"No."
"Have you been living in a bubble?"
"On a slightly different plane to the one you live on I think."
She hadn't replied, she'd merely raised her glass and offered a toast...
"To new experiences."
As their glasses clinked together she looked over his shoulder and her mouth fell open. It had nearly given Draco a heart attack, what on earth had she seen? The possibilities were endless considering what was going on upstairs, no matter how hard one tried to control magic; it had a way of seeping out.
But when he twisted to look in the direction of her gaze he saw nothing but her own work. Once again he was captured by the sight of the images blown up large on the wall, but not so much as to forget the look on her face. He had a serious moment of panic. He had changed the lighting on her pictures earlier in the day, a small bit of magic never hurt anyone and he thought they looked all the more perfect now. But he knew better than to assume she would see it that way. She was his favourite, the most talented of all of them, although he hadn't quite found the way to mention that yet, and now he'd pissed her off. Excellent work.
"What is it? Don't you like it? I'm sorry, I thought if I just adjusted the light it would bring out the shadows in that one but still keep the focus on that woman's eyes. I'll change it back though, I should have asked."
He stood and began to walk towards the wall before a firm hand on his arm stopped him.
"No, don't. They're perfect. I've been trying so long to get them like that, it's just like it was when I took the pictures, every one of them, exactly the same. How on earth...?"
She trailed off, searching his eyes with her own, he hadn't noticed quite how deep a green they were before.
"Magic." He offered with a wink. There was no harm in being honest when he knew she wouldn't believe him.
He sat back down and poured them both another drink, enjoying the way she couldn't tear her eyes from the wall.
"Well you really are a magician, Draco. It's amazing. You'll be pulling a rabbit out of a hat next."
Now it was his turn confused.
"Why would I pull a rabbit out of a hat?"
"You know..." she was at a bit of a loss to explain.
"Is it stuck?"
"What?"
"Is it stuck? The Rabbit?"
"What? No, you know, it's in the hat, it's magic."
"Why would a rabbit be in a hat in the first place? Why would you magic a rabbit into a hat?"
"Well, I don't know. So you could pull it out, I suppose."
"Where would it come from?"
"Where would what come from?" She was almost exasperated now, but her voice still had a trace of humour.
"The rabbit. You can't just pull a rabbit out of thin air you know, it has to come from somewhere."
That was enough for her and her peal of laughter snapped him back into focus, Merlin, he'd be explaining the laws of magic next.
"You're a very strange man Mr Malfoy." She gazed at him from under her eyelashes and he felt an unexpected little jump inside him.
"Very strange..." as she walked towards the door.
"But I think I like you."
And now she was back, and the music was playing. And she was painting the wall. The fucking wall which had caused him so much grief yesterday. She was painting it... the wall... He couldn't quite process what he was seeing. This woman had seen him last night at one of this lowest points and she hadn't kicked him when he was down. She had snuck back tonight, when he was out, like the fucking painting fairies or whatever, and done the most practical thing she could think of to help him. She hadn't held his hand and joined his pity party, she'd snapped him out of it and shared a drink, fixed his music problem and now she was painting the wall.
The lights from the gallery shone off her hair, it really was impressive. In fact everything about her seemed that little bit more so tonight. Her jeans highlighted just how her curves were in the right places and her jumper was dark against her milk white skin. And then she turned to face him, guilty smile on her face and a fleck of paint on the end of her nose. The paint steadily dripped unnoticed on to the floor as he gazed at her, surrounded by the images which had led him to be so intrigued by her to begin with.
She was like a force of nature, like no one he'd ever met, nothing he'd ever seen.
So this was how a Malfoy loved?