Chapter 2: The Louvre
"Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue
Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession."
-Lorde, "The Louvre"
Hermione had been in Paris for three days and had thus far not left her small studio apartment in the 19th arrondissement. Half-eaten takeaway food piled up near the door. She had gathered the energy to order meals from the wizard-owned restaurant below, but had thus far not summoned the same energy to dispose of the trash.
This morning felt different somehow. Her travel tiredness had cleared, and as she stretched under the white covers of her new bed, light began to stream through the window. She felt like all her muscles were buzzing, ready to be used, bones cracking loudly as they reawakened from a long slumber.
Ron hadn't known where she would go when she left, but Hermione, like always, had a plan. In two days, she would begin studying at L'Académie Sorcière de Paris. She was still only 24 years old, and she yearned to go back to a place where she had always felt comfortable: school. Even though her work experience had been rather all over the place during the past few years, her war hero status and Hogwarts accomplishments preceded her. She had been admitted in the spring with full funding and a grant to pursue research in whatever field of study she chose.
That was the tricky part - what to choose. After hours of poring over catalogs, she'd decided to take a broad base of advanced theory courses in alchemy, arithmancy, and finally, potions. She'd also signed up for an elective: wizarding photography. She relished the idea of throwing herself into another area of academia where she could excel. Maybe she'd find her old self there.
Hermione got out of bed with a familiar knot in her stomach that she couldn't place. As she dressed in a pair of black jeans, boots, and a loose white tee, she realized the feeling was excitement. It had felt so foreign to her.
Dumping her trash in the bin outside the restaurant, she caught the eye of the restauranteur, a wizard (and her landlord) who had introduced himself as Bernard Martin, or as his friends called him affectionately, "Le Bernie." He was joyful and buoyant, smiling at Hermione as she waved goodbye.
She took the metro to the 1st arrondissement, following the instructions given to her on a piece of paper by Bernie. At the corner of rue Saint-Honoré and rue des Bons-Enfants, she spotted it: a tiny hole-in-the-wall cafe called La Lumière. She entered and at the counter, ordered "the house special." The barista directed her down the stairs, to a very old-looking wooden door with an iron cross hatch window. She referenced the paper again before replicating the specific pattern on the iron. It opened before her, and Hermione nearly gasped.
She stood in front of a massive glass atrium, with green plants and white marble statues all around. People bustled across the gleaming floor, doing their shopping in the city's version of Diagon Alley, a busy mainstreet referred to simply as La Rue Centrale.
Once outside the atrium, she marveled at the greenery - Paris was known for its gardens and these did not disappoint, having been built by Louis XIV (a wizard himself) who wanted his fellow wizards and witches to have their own mini version of Versailles. Small shops, filled with all the supplies she would need for school, lined the edges of the expansive garden.
First - new robes. The French prided themselves on high-quality silk fashions, light and airy and much in the style of the Beauxbatons uniforms she remembered from back in her fourth year. Her new school had no uniform, but personal style was highly encouraged, and muggle clothing wasn't allowed during classes. The seamstress tittered around Hermione, taking her measurements and recommending robes for her to try on that were far too flouncy for her own taste. In the end, Hermione chose school robes in emerald green (to remind her of Harry and Ginny), deep blue, and simple black, as well as dress robes in scarlet. All were pure, smooth, minimalist silk, tied together with lace-up ribbons instead of the standard buttons. She also purchased several pairs of sturdy black boots, and a pair of heels for special occasions.
After hitting the shops for supplies like dragonhide gloves and potions kit ingredients, she made her way to the tall book shop at the end of the block. It was a small, circular shop with ceilings at least 50 feet tall and three open levels reachable by a central spiral staircase. It smelled like old parchment and fresh coffee and everything good in Hermione's world. She moved around the half-empty store in a daze, absentmindedly stroking the spines of a dozen unopened volumes. She spent the next hour languorously skimming any book that caught her interest, picking up several wizarding and muggle novels alike. Finally, she'd decided she better get on with finding her school books.
The pile she presented to the cashier was laughably large. The shop owner nodded to her in respect before casting weightless reduction charms so the books would fit neatly inside her bag. If she hadn't been so focused on the shopkeeper and her impressive haul, perhaps she would have recognized the sweep of dark hair that passed soundlessly, unnoticeably behind her and out the door.
The sun was beginning to go down as Hermione exited La Rue Centrale and re-entered muggle Paris. High off her purchases, she wasn't quite ready to return to her small, empty room. With the Louvre standing impressively before her, she decided to duck in to look at her favorite sculpture before the museum closed in an hour.
The lines were short thanks to the late hour, and the section of the museum itself was surprisingly empty, despite it holding one of the more famous sculptures in the Louvre, and the one Hermione currently sought: the Venus de Milo.
She arrived at the foot of the ancient Greek statue, still as much in awe of its beauty as she had been the first time she'd seen it at 13 with her parents. She had been entering the beginnings of adolescence then, and was experiencing all the insecurity and angst typical of the age. Looking at the statue now, Hermione didn't feel much improved.
The white marble Venus stood as ever, a pinnacle of feminine beauty that had inspired generations of artists. She is strong and beautiful because of that strength. Her clothes are draped as if an afterthought. She existed outside of the realm of Hermione's reality, an aspirational goddess of love and beauty, the very things Hermione struggled most to hold onto.
"She is quite lovely, Miss Granger," a dour baritone spoke from behind her. She recognized that voice, one that had humiliated and educated her for years. She turned to find ex-Hogwarts professor Severus Snape in front of her.
Her mind struggled to align this new image with the old. He looked different. Healthy, maybe. There was no other word for it - he looked good, wearing a white button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves and fitted black pants with distinctly French tailoring. No billowing black robes in sight, and his hair was shorter and wavy as if freed from a lifetime of greasy product. (Author's note: I'm picturing Snape in this story as an older version of my favorite French actor, Louis Garrel)
The 44-year-old man had survived Nagini's bite, but barely. He had recovered in St. Mungo's along with the others injured in the war, received awards for his service to the school and the wizarding community alongside the Golden Trio, met privately with Harry once at the Burrow, and then, silently and quickly, was gone from England and their lives.
Hermione knew that most of the English wizarding community had been relieved to see the back of him. They were thankful for his service, sure, but few understood the lengths he had gone to during the war, and many suspected something was not quite right with the potions master's double-agent story. Some even still blamed him for Lily and James Potter's death.
All that to say, she could see why he had chosen to disappear. Over the years, he would pass idly through her thoughts. She was envious of his fluidity, how he could simply slide out of one life and into another. She envied his freedom. And now, here he was. And she herself was freer than ever.
"I assure you I am surprised to see you here as well," Snape said, not approaching any closer. Hermione managed a smile. "My apologies, sir. I didn't mean to appear so shocked. It is, er, nice to see you."
Snape smirked. "There is no need to call me sir, Miss Granger. We are not at Hogwarts and I am no longer your teacher." Hermione could feel her cheeks redden. Why couldn't she bring herself to correct his use of her maiden name? "Well then, call me Hermione, " she said. A few beats of awkward silence lingered. Hermione's stomach growled, and then the words were out of her mouth before she could take them back.
"Would you like to get dinner with me? Maybe catch up over tea?"
Snape appeared to mull it over. And then he looked at her with a half eyebrow raised and nodded, and held out his arm for her to grasp.