Chapter 28

Hermione didn't dare Apparate anywhere near the Leaky Cauldron, but even so, London was a risk. She made Malfoy wear a knit pullover cap that she sometimes saw men wearing in the cold. His longish blond hair peeked out and curled upward from beneath at the nape of his neck, but you'd have to look closely to know it was him. One wouldn't expect to see Draco Malfoy wearing Muggle clothing anyway. As for herself, she braided her hair back and donned a winter cap and sunglasses even though it wasn't sunny out, and donned a long wool coat.

As they walked through Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery, Malfoy would periodically turn his head or crane his neck, perhaps focusing on something in particular that would catch his interest. After a few moments he leaned in towards her.

"Why are so many people talking into those tiny black rectangles?"

She glanced over at a businessman, flipping his cell phone shut and shoving it in his jacket pocket.

"It's like your own personal Floo call. But you can take it with you everywhere." Hermione watched him process that information, knowing full well that communication was yet another area where Muggles had far surpassed the Wizarding world. A faint glimmer of amazement graced his features as he took in the sheer quantity of cell phone users around him, both young and old.

They walked up the stairs of the National Gallery, between the pillars and through the large glass doors. Hermione paid for tickets, took out a map and faced him. "Do you want to join a tour?"

Malfoy shook his head while surveying his surroundings with obvious interest. "Let's wander around first."

They entered one of the corridors and she let him set the pace, following his lead, and answering his questions when she was able.

"Who's this bloke with the long hair and beard that I keep seeing everywhere? It's the same person, isn't it?"

"Yes," she answered. "That's Jesus Christ."

"Muggles don't seem to like him very much."

Hermione was so taken aback by his assessment that she bubbled over in surprised laughter. Several on-lookers turned to her in disapproval, and she abruptly stopped laughing with an indelicate snort. Malfoy was completely and truly isolated from the Muggle world. It was fascinating to see how he reacted to things that she took for granted.

"What's so funny?" he asked with a shy grin. "He's always bleeding from the same places and nailed up to that cross."

She tried to recount two millennia of Christianity in a brief five-minute explanation and he replied incredulously, "And all Muggles believe this?"

"Of course not." She shook her head. "Not even the majority. And even Christians don't agree on everything about him. There are so many different religions in the world. Christianity is prevalent here in Europe, but if we were to go to India, China, Egypt or one of the sub-Saharan African countries the predominant religions would be completely different. A museum elsewhere would have subjects unrecognizable to Europeans."

"Eight billion people," he muttered softly, but she heard him.

"That's right."

The world was vast. They knew so little about it. The wizarding world had different cultures, which Malfoy had likely experienced if his family went on exotic vacations. But they were united by magic. The Muggle world was not.

The two meandered on and entered a large room. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, scanning his surroundings and then raised an eyebrow at her suggestively.

She blinked up at him, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. "What?"

Shoving his hands in the pockets of the black leather jacket, he sauntered over to a large painting, stopping a few paces in front. She followed his jean clad arse to gaze at the picture next to him.

"What's the deal with that one, Granger?"

She felt her neck prickle with heat. "You're doing this on purpose."

"I am merely interested in Muggle art." His lips quirked upward. "Teach me, Professor."

He pronounced the word 'professor' as if it were something naughty.

She shut her eyes, counted to three and then opened them again to see him looking down at her in amusement. "You're enjoying this far too much."

"I really am."

She exhaled and looked up at the devious gleam in his eyes, trying to calm her nerves. "It's just another religious story, like the other paintings here."

He leaned closer into her. "Then tell me the story."

She turned to face the two naked figures, painted by Lucas Cranach the Elder, nerve endings on fire from his proximity to her.

"It's a parable about the first human beings, Adam and Eve. They lived in paradise and were allowed to eat the fruit of any of the trees, but not that one."

"Why?" He moved his arm and it brushed against hers, leaving a dull heat in its wake. As with the Cineplex, she crossed her arms in front of her chest to minimize physical contact with him.

"It was called the Tree of Knowledge. Knowledge of things they weren't supposed to know. Of things they weren't supposed to…" She swallowed, acutely aware of Malfoy's body standing right next to hers. "Supposed to want."

Malfoy.

"The fruit from that tree was…" A slow burn spread in her core as she stared at Eve's nude painted figure handing the apple over to Adam.

She could see Malfoy looking down at her out of the corner of her eye, and she turned her face to meet his grey, fiery gaze. She felt, rather than heard, his low, husky voice complete her sentence.

"Forbidden."

With that one word, she felt a tingling jolt in her body. Her inner walls clenched, and she trembled.

She couldn't look at him anymore, and turned back to the painting, exhaling slowly. Malfoy was still staring at her. A tantalizing hunger had been in his eyes. She saw it. Felt singed by it. He wanted her too and was rearing to pounce. He'd take her now if she allowed it.

"Yes," her voice was nearly a whisper.

Hermione tried to swallow but couldn't. Her stomach twisted and her heartbeat sped up rapidly. Not knowing what else to do, she continued the story. He was still watching her.

"Eating from the forbidden fruit gave them knowledge they shouldn't have had. They couldn't unlearn what they had learned and were cast out of paradise for it. It was the first time Adam and Eve realized what it meant to be naked, and that they had to cover up. So eating the apple from the Tree of Knowledge also symbolizes a loss of…" she couldn't speak. Her throat was constricting and her face was so hot right now. "A loss of innocence."

She couldn't do this anymore. Not with him standing so close, staring at her like he would ravish her if given the slightest chance. And she… She wanted him to. She wanted him.

"So that's the story," she concluded. She turned around and walked somewhere, anywhere to where she could put some space between them.

He caught up and they continued walking through the gallery, thankfully in silence. She was mortified, and entirely oblivious to the works of art around her, mostly staring at the ground. She didn't know if Malfoy understood just how much that conversation had shaken her, but she was grateful that he continued his appraisal of the museum in quiet. It gave her a chance to calm down. She sat on a bench, watching him while he walked back and forth in front of a series of Rembrandt self-portraits painted at different stages of his life, comparing them.

She sighed in relief. At least there was nothing sexy about Rembrandt. Hermione hadn't realized Malfoy was such an art aficionado. It wasn't as if he spent time looking at the portraits at Hogwarts. Then again, if he had, would she have noticed? Or perhaps, like her, he took those paintings for granted because he saw them every day.

Everything here was new, uncharted territory for him.

He came back to her with a devilish smile. "I think we can agree that wizards are superior to Muggles in art."

"Why is that?" She wasn't conceding anything, but she was relieved that they were back to debating. Debating was a safer topic than forbidden fruit. She imagined Malfoy smirking at her before taking a bite out of an apple and slowly chewing.

Bad thoughts.

Malfoy looked at her as if the answer was obvious. "Because the pictures don't move, Granger. They don't talk."

"So if I painted a stick figure and charmed it move a bit and say a few words, my painting would be superior to that?" Hermione pointed to a Rembrandt self-portrait.

"That's an absurd comparison."

"Of course it is. But that's what you claimed."

She really enjoyed debating with him. He was quick, insightful, asked excellent questions, and didn't mind being proven wrong. That was a quality she envied. She knew how stubborn she could be.

"Alright," Malfoy amended. "If this," he peered at the name underneath the painting, "Rembrandt bloke made one still portrait and one magical portrait, the magical portrait would be superior."

"Why?"

He gave her an exasperated look. "Because then the portrait would move and talk to you."

"So the Star Wars movies are superior to these portraits because they move and talk?"

He huffed. "Of course not, they serve a different purpose. They're not comparable."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. "That's right. Movies and paintings are different mediums of art."

He looked startled at her statement, and then countered, "Why would I want a portrait in my house that doesn't move and doesn't talk to me?"

They turned back to the Rembrandt self-portrait, at the quiet, knowing eyes staring back at them. Unmoving.

"Don't you think all that talking and moving would ruin him? It takes away from the guesswork. The mystery."

"What do you mean?" Malfoy crossed his arms across his chest, his intelligent grey eyes raked over details of the painting.

"Do you know who he is? What he's thinking in that captured moment?" He continued to study the painting but didn't reply. Hermione continued. "Everyone that passes through this gallery will leave with a completely different impression of him. A different story. You can't do that when the portrait is yelling at you for breaking curfew."

Malfoy uncrossed his arms, still staring at the Rembrandt.

"It's different," she emphasized. "Not superior."

He didn't reply, and then turned to her. "Let's go see those other paintings."

"Which ones?"

"The ones a first year could make," he retorted, raising his eyebrow in challenge.

She rolled her eyes with a smile and opened up her map. "Let me see… Impressionists are down this corridor and to the left."

They walked through the halls slowly. Occasionally Malfoy would pause and saunter to the side, focusing more closely on a particular painting that piqued his interest and Hermione followed his lead, letting him determine where to go and how long to spend in each area.

Finally, they turned a corridor filled with the colorful visions of Monet, Degas, Van Gogh, Renoir and many others. Malfoy scanned the room, seemingly looking for something specific, found what he was looking for, and stalked over to a painting of a sunrise over grey skies and water. She followed him and read the label. It was a Monet, on loan from Paris.

"This." He held out his hand towards the painting and turned to her, almost in accusation. "This is exactly what I mean. If Muggles are capable of painting in such exact detail, why ruin it? The colors don't blend together. The brushstrokes are choppy. It doesn't look real. Eight billion people in the world and this is what England decides to display in the National Gallery?"

The Wizarding world mostly improved techniques involving magic to impart more knowledge and personality into their portrait subjects. The art itself hadn't changed much. Again, the differences in how art had developed showed a clear diverging of paths between the two societies, in this case with Impressionism starting in the 1800's and never appearing in the Wizarding world at all.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm not very knowledgeable about art history but I do know that the first critics of the Impressionist movement made the same claims."

Malfoy looked vindicated. "So I'm right."

"And yet, these paintings are classics. Priceless. They eventually became accepted and are now a part of our history and culture."

"But why?" he asked, exasperated, his voice rising in volume. "I could take a paint brush myself and toss a few navy strokes over the water. It doesn't even look real. Where is the skill?"

"Excuse me, young man."

Malfoy jumped and turned around to see an old woman staring up at him disapprovingly. She wore one of the red blazers given to volunteer docents. Her white hair was tied back in a bun and large glasses sat on the edge of her nose. She blinked up at him, seemingly ready to deliver a scolding.

"I apologize, Madam." He stepped gracefully out of her way and held his hand out so she could have a better view of the painting. Hermione smiled at how he easily he slipped into aristocratic mannerisms, leather jacket and Levi 501's notwithstanding.

"I'm quite familiar with this painting, thank you. But you are not," she said in clipped tones that reminded Hermione of Minerva. A very short Minerva. "I want you to take a few steps back. These paintings aren't meant to be appreciated up close like that."

He stared down at her in surprise, but obeyed, backing up a few paces. The museum docent followed him and asked, "What do you see?"

Malfoy turned to the old woman and then back at the painting, letting his eyes roam over the brush strokes and features. "A sun on the horizon, possibly setting or rising. Its reflection on the water. Two… no. Three small fishing boats. Some larger boats hidden by clouds or mist. Smokestacks."

"Very good. Now tell me young man, is the water moving?"

"Of course not," he replied without thinking and shoved his hands in the jacket pockets.

"Look again," she pressed. "Is the water rippling? Is the light from the sun reflecting on tiny currents?"

Hermione watched Malfoy's eyes widen slightly as he suddenly understood what the docent was explaining, and the woman continued.

"Is the smoke slowly rising, blending in with the mist over the water? Are the boats bobbing back and forth over small waves? Do you feel like you're standing in the middle of a cool, wet morning haze with the fishermen at work?"

Malfoy's lips parted and he stepped closer to the painting, looking more intently at the brush strokes, and then backed away again. Hermione tried to identify the emotion that she was experiencing while she watched him. It was pride. Pride in that he persisted in his questions and in his struggles, despite the fact that every truth he unearthed toppled what was familiar.

Hermione studied his face while he focused on the painting. She looked at his eyes, similar to the color palette, while he scrutinized the Monet with the museum docent. A myriad of expressions passed over the contours of his face. She watched his eyebrows lower as he inspected some small detail, and his jaw shift to the side in concentration as if putting the last pieces of a puzzle into place.

She felt something new in her chest. A pull on her heart and a warmth from within. She wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy.

Right here, right now.

Spy.

Ron.

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and closed her eyes.

Forbidden.

The woman tutted at him. "Among other things, the impressionists were trying to capture movement. They often painted water because it is in constant motion. Take a look at some of Renoir's paintings to see how the movement of light is portrayed through moving trees onto people. It takes quite a lot of skill-" The docent used Malfoy's word choice on purpose to make a point. "-and imagination to create the impression that we are actively witnessing water ripple or light play across a child's face. It's not as if paintings can really move, but look at the beauty of those that attempt to capture it."

The old woman walked off, giving Hermione a curt nod, and leaving Malfoy wide eyed and speechless. An overwhelming sense of wonder washed over her in that she was able to watch him in this moment. She felt honored.

His lips were parted in amazement, and goosebumps spread up and down her arms.

There he was. Her childhood bully. First to introduce her to the word 'Mudblood' and the Wizarding world's bigoted views on Muggles and Muggle-borns. Once a sniveling coward hiding behind his father and now a Death Eater trying to save his family despite his father's choices.

She wanted to tell him how proud she was of him. She wanted to burst into tears, to hug him and cry on his chest. She wanted to let him know how much this moment meant to her.

But she couldn't do any of that.

Instead, she sniffed, wiped away the tears that threatened to fall and asked in a choked voice, "Would you like to see a Renoir?"

"Hold on a second, Granger," he said softly, completely oblivious to how emotional she was getting. "I'm not done with this one."

A hot tear pricked her eye and made its way down her cheek. She had just witnessed the last vestiges of Draco Malfoy's bigotry disappear into the hazy mist of a Monet.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They wandered the National Gallery until closing time, and Malfoy suggested they Disillusion themselves in order to stay longer, undetected. She didn't want the day with him to end and was scared of the implications of how she felt. Regardless, Hermione had to leave to meet Ron and Harry, and he offered to walk her outside to where she could Apparate without Muggles being aware.

They were silent as they strolled along the Thames River while the sun set and evening approached. Hermione was still somewhat in awe of what had happened today and at what she had just witnessed. She supposed he was too. She had been grinning so much her cheeks hurt. She knew that she cared for him. It was undeniable at this point. She didn't know if he felt the same, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter that it was wrong or that this would never work out while the war was going on either.

Hermione had to cut things off with Ron. She couldn't lead him on knowing she felt this way about Malfoy.

They walked through a group of pigeons and he stopped abruptly, causing a few birds to fly away and then land right back down on the stones again. She turned around to face him, wondering why he had paused.

"Thank you," his voice was low. Husky. And his Adam's apple bobbed, as if he was feeling and swallowing his emotions at the same time.

"I'm glad that…" She gazed down at her feet and then back up into his eyes. Shades of grey like the Monet, like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. "I feel grateful to have been here with you today." She didn't doubt she would be able to make a Patronus from this memory, and her eyes brimmed with tears threatening to fall again. "It meant a lot to me." She eyed the pigeons hopping around them and then returned her focus to him. "To see you in that moment. More than you know."

He was visibly stunned at her statement and his lips parted slightly, perhaps in shock. If he looked at her any longer like that, she would kiss him. She knew it. She desperately wanted to. And so, she turned around, wiped the tear that had fallen, and walked slowly to where she would Apparate back to Paddington safe house. His long strides quickly caught up with her.

He kicked his legs outward, making a few pigeons fly up to escape.

"You've never met me during the day before," Hermione commented, trying to change the subject to one less emotional.

"Yeah," From the sound of his voice, he was just as affected as she was. He cleared his throat. "Things are pretty calm right now. My mother had errands to take care of today for some event she's planning, and father has been in the States for the past week."

Hermione's stomach lurched and Malfoy stopped walking, knowing immediately that he had said too much.

"In the United States?" she repeated with mounting horror, slowly turning to face him.

His expression abruptly to one of disinterest.

Fucking.

Occlumency.

"You have to tell me these things!" she slammed her hand on his chest.

Pigeons took off and scattered around them at her outburst.

His face creased in anger and he grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again, holding her hand against his chest. "I don't have to tell you shit, Granger!"

"Do you want him to win?" she hissed. "Do you?"

He swallowed, and his voice lowered. "Of course not."

"Then you need to let me know what's going on! You have to fight!" she yelled, wrenching her hand out of his grasp.

Hermione was so angry. She knew he didn't believe in pure-blood superiority anymore and now he didn't even consider Muggles to be inferior either. But he was still cavalier about his role. And while he was helping the Order, his motivations were not to topple Voldemort, even though he didn't want him to win. He was scared for himself and his parents, and there was something else she didn't quite understand about his motivations.

"I am helping Granger, what did I just give you this morning?" Malfoy's voice came out in a harsh low whisper so he wouldn't be heard by passing Muggles. "But I'm not going to endanger my father for the Order. It's not as if my parents are happily tucked away, blissfully unaware that their daughter-"

SMACK!

His face whipped to the side with the force of her slap, and he slowly turned back to her, eyes blazing in anger. Hermione was so enraged that he would use the Obliviation of her parents against her and hot tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She didn't even care how he knew what she had done.

"Not good enough," she growled, pointing her finger at his chest. "If you don't help, we're not going to win. Serving You-Know-Who? Is that the life you want for your parents?" She wiped her tears angrily from her face. "For yourself? For your children? Tell me where You-Know-Who is staying. I know that you know. Tell me now, Malfoy!"

She hit his chest with her fist again and he simply looked to the side, disgusted with himself. Taking it.

"I'll be lucky if my parents' deaths are quick, let alone my own." He glared angrily down at her. His eyes were bright in contrast to the reddened skin from her slap.

"What your father is doing in the States could cripple us! You should have told me! You should put more effort into helping us win. If you don't want a life serving You-Know-Who then you need to fight! You need to do the right thing!"

"The right thing?" he scoffed. "You think I'm fucking Saint Potter? You think doing everything the fucking Order wants is doing the right thing?"

"You know it is! You're chasing after small details instead of fighting for your future!"

"My parents' lives are small details?" he snarled, his voice low and menacing.

Hermione knew she was out of line, but she was so angry right now she could spit. She had watched him change over the past half year and had naively expected more. It hurt because she was disappointed, and she was disappointed because she really and truly cared for him.

"That's not what I meant!" she protested angrily.

Malfoy bared his teeth with a sneer. "Fuck. You."

He turned around and stalked away, pigeons flying out and upward in his wake.

...

Chapter end notes:

Here are the paintings. The Rembrandt and Adam and Eve are actually at the National Gallery in London.

Adam and Eve by Lucas Cranach the Elder

Rembrandt self-portrait, there are so many:

The Monet they were looking at:

If this fic were a three act play, we would be at the end of Act I.

I think some of you knew this was coming but I need to take a pause from the almost daily postings for a few weeks. I have 2 - 3 chapters to write about halfway through the fic, and need to work my way up to them starting in Chapter 29 so those chapters don't appear to be randomly inserted into the story.

Why 2 - 3 new chapters? To break up the smut. There's too much of it and it bogs the story down. 'Is that really possible?' I can hear all of you asking in shock. It is. Trust me, these chapters will make the fic better and will make the plot more complex. I already know what I'm going to write, I had some time to think about it.

So if any of your friends are waiting for a spot to binge read, this would be the spot.

If you want something to read while you wait that isn't a WIP, I highly recommend checking out every single thing my beta, bek_48, has ever written. She is one of the cleverest writers I have seen and can do everything from fluff to deranged smut. She's the reason the postings have been daily so please go check her out and give her some love.

Another recommendation is Misdemeanor1331, who has really helped shape my writing over the pandemic. She was my beta for Blackmailed and the latter half of They All Taste the Same. Like bek_48, she's extremely versatile: fluff, romance, horror, smut, mystery - you want it? She's got it. And she writes everything so well.

Feel free to contact me on tumblr mistresslynndramione or reddit /u/PrincessRapBattles, I am chatty. See you all in a few weeks.