A/N: This is written in response to a prompt by ravenslight in the theartoflife collection over at AO3

Two Worlds

Hermione sank down onto the bench and frowned. She let her bag sink to the floor, resting against her legs, and tilted her head to the right. Maybe a different angle would help. She tilted to the left. No.

Jackson Pollock was not her thing. She was fairly certain that if she took away Pollock's signature then no one would look twice at them. It's a doodle, she thought grumpily.

Sighing quietly, Hermione looked around the large room of the museum she was currently in. She'd been hoping it would be quieter than it was, wanting a moment of peace from her busy day.

"That's not the usual expression I see when people are admiring Pollock," a familiar drawl she hadn't heard in years said to her left.

Hermione reluctantly turned her head to find Lucius Malfoy looming over her, dressed in a fine suit of black with a dark blue shirt and a snake pin keeping the black tie in place. She stared at him, feeling her eyebrows sink down into a deep frown.

"Mr Malfoy," she said bluntly. At least her voice felt stronger than her nerves.

It surprised her to feel so unsettled by a man who she'd had no contact with in over ten years. If she'd never spoken to him for the rest of her life it wouldn't have been long enough.

"May I?" He pointed to the bench when she looked back at him after glancing around the room to see if there was anyone else here to surprise her with their presence.

Hermione answered by moving all the way to the other end, pulling her bag along the floor with her. She didn't miss the small laugh when he took a seat, remaining at the opposite end of the bench. Having had enough of looking at Pollock's doodle, and no longer having the bench to herself, Hermione decided now would be good time to move on.

"I would have thought a Muggle artist would be to your tastes?" Lucius asked her as she stood.

Hermione faced him, her deep frown back, hearing the way he said Muggle; it was almost like he was sharing an inside joke with her. "They're all Muggle artists," she pointed out. She hauled her bag over her shoulder, turning her back on him, but didn't miss his quiet comment.

"How very remiss of you to not learn the history of the two worlds you straddle, Miss Granger," he said.

She ground her teeth together, a sharp pain twinged through her jaw muscles from the movement, hearing the smugness in his voice. Don't take the bait, she silently warned herself, attempting to take another step away.

"If not Pollock, then who?" he asked her back.

Hermione paused on her retreat, glancing around at the small crowd in the room again, most of them by themselves, all taking in one painting or another. In the end, she turned back to him; he was still sitting on the bench, his back ramrod straight, watching her with an amused expression.

"What do you want, Mr Malfoy?" She ground out the question through gritted teeth, her fists jammed into her coat pocket – one of them housed her wand. He barely tilted his head, but it was enough to see the question in his eyes. "It can't be a coincidence you're here."

"I assure you it is."

"Then why approach me?" she demanded. She forced a smile when a passing woman looked suspiciously between the two at Hermione's sharp tone.

"Curiosity," he said simply. "You gave the distinct impression that Mr Pollock had offended you personally, I was merely curious as to why that might be."

Hermione took the bait into the conversation. She pointed a finger at the painting, her coat almost flapping in her face at how quickly she'd yanked her hand out of the pocket. "That is not art. It's a paint splatter that has been called art."

Again, Hermione forced another smile for a passerby – this time it was her on the end of a dirty look; they were clearly a fan of the artist, but thought better than to argue with a complete stranger when her smile dropped to a scowl.

Lucius, having not taken his eyes off her once, a smirk on his lips, stood up. Hermione wanted to take a step back – she'd forgotten how tall and imposing of a figure he could be – but she wasn't a schoolgirl anymore and he was a disgraced ex-Death Eater who wouldn't win a fight with her, even with all the cunning in the world.

"I suppose Monet is more to your taste?" He raised an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his eyes.

"Water Lilies is overrated." Hermione flinched when a nearby man called her an uncouth cretin. Lucius laughed. "This is your fault!" she muttered, turning so fast her bag swung into Lucius with a satisfying thud. She was disappointed that it didn't sound like it hurt him, though.

Hermione didn't bother to apologise either, but did swear under her breath when she head his sharp footsteps on the wooden floors following her.

"Or is it that art in general is not to your liking?" he asked once he was in step with her.

Lucius was goading her. Hermione knew that. She mentally told herself what he was doing. And yet…

"This" –she stopped abruptly in front of a painting she'd been admiring half an hour ago and turned Lucius by the elbow to face it– "is art."

She watched Lucius take in the painting: Rembrandt's Anna and the Blind Tobit.

"A friend of the family," he stated quietly.

Hermione sighed. "Thank you for ruining it for me."

Lucius turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back, smiling. "A wizard." Before she could argue, he continued. "You don't seriously think someone can have a grasp on light and shadow in that manner and not have an ounce of magic in their veins, do you?"

Hermione tried to stare him out, but it was no good, she wanted to look closer at the painting – to find proof.

"Will you indulge me for a moment and then I shall leave you in peace?" he asked while she squinted at the painting.

"Fine," she answered, not really thinking about her answer.

"This way." He was already walking away before she was ready.

Hermione watched his back, his long, blonde hair making it hard to lose him in the crowd, and considered leaving. She took a step in the opposite direction from Lucius and then cursed her curious nature.

Moving swiftly, with a few whacks of her bag into passing people, Hermione found Lucius stood before a painting she hadn't looked at properly; a couple each had their heads covered with a white cloth and were kissing through the material. Hermione leant forward to read the information plaque to the left of the painting: René Magritte – The Lovers II (1928).

Hermione glanced to Lucius as she stepped back; his sole focus was on the painting, almost like the rest of the world had melted away once he'd laid eyes on it. She looked at the details of the piece, the way 'the lovers' were the focus, with very little detail of the setting they were in. It had the air of forbidden love about it and she couldn't help wondering what Lucius was seeing in the painting.

"Favourite painting, artist, or both?" she asked, no longer able to keep the question to herself after a few minutes of silence between them.

Lucius, with his hands clasped behind his back again, half-turned his body to look at her. "Both."

"Friend of your father's, I assume?" She gave him a wry grin, pointing at the year.

Surprising Hermione, Lucius laughed quietly at that before saying, "Hardly. He was Muggle-born."

Her gaze snapped back to the painting. The pure-blood supremest liked a Muggle-born artist? That couldn't be. "How long has Magritte been a favourite of yours?" she found herself asking.

When Lucius was silent for longer than was polite, Hermione looked at him. He was staring at the painting – lost in it. Without taking his eyes off it, he said, "Magritte imagines a world where all is not as it appears. It is reflected in every painting. Some" –he waved a hand towards the one they were in front of– "are not as overt or fantastical as others, but it makes the point."

Hermione took in the painting once more, trying to shove away all her judgemental reasonings when it came to art. She was, by no means, an expert, with the subject being too subjective for her tastes – not enough facts – but it didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the beauty of art. The longer she looked at it, the more the background disappeared; the chatter of the surrounding people became white noise and Lucius Malfoy was just another person admiring the image – not her mortal enemy.

A melancholy took hold of Hermione, deep in her heart and soul the longer she looked; two people so desperate to be together, but forever kept apart by a piece of cloth.

"Magritte," Lucius said quietly, startling Hermione back to the moment, "straddled two worlds as well, Miss Granger." When she forced herself to look at him, he was already facing her. "And like you, he struggled to find his place."

"My struggle is because of people like you," she snapped. She was no longer open to this conversation anymore, leaving Lucius immediately.

"I made a lifelong mistake," he said to her retreating back. He didn't raise his voice, but she heard him.

Two Days Later

Hermione, having had Lucius Malfoy's words echoing in her mind since she'd seen him, went down to her living room after another poor night's sleep, and screamed. There, in the middle of the room, sitting on her coffee table, propped up on an easel, was Magritte's La Grande Guerre. An envelope was sitting underneath the easel on the table, her name written in elegant emerald green ink across it.

Miss Granger,

Magritte was a favourite of mine from the age of twelve. I was once caught by my father admiring a painting of his and punished severely for it.

Some of us hide the two worlds we balance our lives between.

One day, when you are willing, might we sit down and have a conversation?

Kind regards,

LM

Turning the letter over for more and finding none, Hermione threw it on the table and sank down onto her couch. She had thought this painting was only available as a lithograph, not even sure where the original was, yet here was an actual painting – oil, if she wasn't mistaken – sitting in her living room. Surely it wasn't the painting.

She stared at the painting for a full hour, and could probably paint it from memory if she tried, before writing a letter of her own agreeing to coffee in Diagon Alley, if Lucius was free that afternoon.

Hermione didn't forgive easily, but her curiosity to learn something new would always take over any grudge she might hold.

Prompt:

René Magritte (1898–1967): a Belgian surrealist artist, who became well known for creating a number of witty and thought-provoking images. Often depicting ordinary objects in an unusual context, his work is known for challenging observers' preconditioned perceptions of reality.

A/N: I've taken liberties on the pieces of art mentioned being housed together. And from what I can see La Grande Guerre (The Great War), doesn't seem to exist in it's original oil painting format, but to be fair, I didn't dig deep. I'm just assuming someone like Lucius would have his means.