Chapter: Primitive Inclinations
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"There are no facts, only interpretations."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
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They walked the streets like children. Their expensive shoes stepped over cracks that would normally have been enchanted to heal instantly and old, browning chewing gum that would have dissolved on impact with the sidewalks in their world.
And they hated it.
Hermione could see this. She could see the sneers of contempt and disgust on their faces, the start when a muggle—one of those despicable creatures…not really human at all, of course—brushed by them. In any other situation she would have found it sinfully amusing, their discomfort, but now she had other things on her mind.
"You're sure about this, then?" Lupin said quietly into her ear as he walked along beside her. She and her group of "students" had met with her old professor and his wife at the Leaky Cauldron, from which they had set off on their little jaunt. Lupin had volunteered for the job of supportive friend and rule-enforcer when she had explained her little plan for a field trip during his last visit to her flat, and Tonks, naturally, had insisted on joining them. The metamorphagus was at the present cheerfully chatting up the menacing-looking Crabbe and Goyle, who both looked rather overwhelmed by her gregarious personality.
Hermione smiled. "Vaguely."
Lupin didn't look very assured.
"Care to tell us, Granger," drawled the surprisingly mild voice of Blaise Zabini from somewhere behind her, "where we're headed?"
Hermione twisted her head over her shoulder as she walked, ignoring an uncomfortable crick. Zabini was directly behind her, watching her with an amused look on his face. "You'll see. Somewhere you've never been, no doubt." She smiled faintly in his direction, but her eyes were on the man, opposite in both color and personality, she had come to discover, beside him.
Malfoy had not said a word. Not once had he spoken during their walk through muggle London, and it was beginning to worry her. Now he was gazing determinedly down at the ground, but she had felt his eyes on her all afternoon.
What's wrong with him?
After their disturbing exchange last week, Hermione had seriously begun to consider his mental health. His remarks were so cryptic and obscure that not even she could pick them apart, and appeared entirely random, the work of a touched brain. She resolved to pay closer attention to his moods and appearance.
For his health.
Right.
She had begun to think just a little bit more about him.
"Hermione, watch out!"
She craned her head back around just in time to see a solid wall of iron-colored something exactly in front of her face. She skidded to a halt so quickly that she fell backwards, managing to avoid a frontal collision but loosing her balance anyway and toppling backwards into Zabini, who caught her round the waist with reflexes she would have to remember to thank his parents for passing on to him.
A bloody light-pole.
Hermione gulped and looked up its long stem, her rate of breath accelerated slightly. She quickly scrambled to her feet, a flush high on her cheeks.
"Are you alright?" Lupin said, concern and a tiny bit of laughter evident in his voice, the same voice that had so fortunately warned her of the obstacle. She scowled.
"Yes, quite." She turned to Zabini, who was unexpectedly grinning at her. "Um… thanks."
He was not the only one laughing at her, albeit behind hands and well-concealed smiles. "'Course," said the dark man, still grinning.
Hermione nodded foolishly, and before she turned to continue on her way she caught sight of Malfoy. Again.
He hadn't so much as smirked. Hadn't taunted her, hadn't drawled some cruel quip about her dirty blood affecting her balance. But he was, strangely, glaring at Zabini as if he would have liked very much to bash him over the head with something rather heavy and very blunt. Hermione resisted the urge to snatch his wand away from his belt lest he curb his primitive inclination towards something more effective. She could see it shining dark under the gray London sky.
She turned around shakily, stepping with perhaps some grace around the offending pole, deciding to simply ignore what she could not appear to change.
"Right. Onward, please!"
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"What the bloody hell is a museum?" Asked Flint resignedly, gazing up at the grand building before them as it dwarfed their little group of mostly petulant wizards against its massiveness. The fountain of Trafalgar Square was gurgling placidly behind them, the famous pigeons a faint warble against its noise.
"I suppose it depends on what sort of museum it is. This one is called The National Gallery, and holds within it everything from paintings to sculpture. I guess you could say that it's a collection of some of the finest achievements of muggles in art. Wizards, unfortunately, find art to be of less practical use, and therefore it's at least one subject that muggles have managed to outmatch us in, I'm afraid," Hermione explained with not a small amount of sarcasm in her tone and a wry smile coloring her lips as she heard several snorts of disbelief.
"As of now I'm turning you all loose. All I ask is that you be respectful of muggle customs and, not to mention, art. If I hear of obstreperousness of any kind the ministry will be informed, if you catch my drift. The majority of these paintings are worth more than any of your belongings combined. Yes," she added as an afterthought, seeing Malfoy's raised eyebrow, "even yours, Malfoy. And please don't be so idiotic as to try and steal one; even the ministry won't be able to help you if you do. Oh, and please return to this area in two hours, and we'll make our way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Go on," she said, seeing their blank looks, "entrance is free."
They wandered up the marble steps slowly, cautiously, as if their legs refused to work. Lupin and Tonks came to stand next to her, each chortling merrily.
"Like lost puppies, they are," Tonks observed, flicking a strand of her hair from her eyes. Bright orange today.
"Indeed," concurred Lupin, grinning despite himself. "Well done, Hermione."
She cracked a smile.
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She wandered aimlessly around the grandiose halls of the museum, stopping every once in a while to observe a favorite painting or something of the like. She visited old friends: Da Vinci's "The Virgin on the Rocks", Van Gogh's "Sunflowers", Botticelli's "Venus and Mars", Vermeer's "A Young Woman Standing at a Virginal", Veláquez's "The Rokeby Venus". Each made her smile and remember a time when things were simpler, when her parents brought her here. First, when she was six, and later many times more.
"This one's pretty, Daddy."
"'Madonna of the Pinks', by Raphael."
"Ra… Raf…"
"Raph-a-el."
"The baby's naked."
"Yes, it is, darling."
Hermione found herself drifting aimlessly, her eyes unfocused and recalling images and memories that she ought not to have remembered, how insignificant they were.
"Mum, look at his use of color."
"Mhmm. Fantastic, isn't it?"
"The sky's so blue, and the detail in the red cloth!"
"I told you."
She felt her eyes tear and rubbed at themfuriously.
Stop it.
Familiar bodies on the familiar grass. Someone's arms around her and tears.
STOP IT.
She stopped it, and continued on her way, eyes dry.
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She saw them clustered around a Monet, fascinated despite themselves at his skill with layers of paint and color. She saw them in the café, sitting with a glass of water because they had no muggle money to buy food. She saw them parked morosely on a bench, among the ancient Greek sculptures, wandering about the Goyas and Cézannes and Rubens. It was enough to make her laugh.
She found him in front of "A Woman Bathing in a Stream". He was standing very close to the priceless Rembrandt, brows furrowed in either concentration or revulsion; she couldn't tell. She felt a kind of tight sensation in her throat and hurried on, intending to pass him without so much as a word. But that was before she saw him start to touch.
Lunging forward, she slapped his hand away from the gleaming surface of the painting quickly. "Jesus, Malfoy!" She exclaimed, the muggle expression slipping easily from her lips in her distress. "Don't touch it!"
He glared at her immediately, stepping away from the painting only slightly. "Why not?"
"You'll ruin it!" She cried, inwardly wondering why she was so exasperated over something so trivial as a simple mistake. They lapsed into a tense silence, Hermione having not the courage to either move or start up a conversation. Malfoy seemed intent on ignoring her, but felt the tension around him nevertheless. She discovered that her fear of any physical harm delivered by him had dissipated, for the most part, with his odd behavior last week. After his soft whisper—
It's…interesting.
—she didn't think he would hurt her. Not physically.
No, the fear that was making her heart beat like a thump in her chest was due to something else altogether.
"It was his mistress, you know," she finally blurted, flushing slightly.
Malfoy looked at her sharply through a veil of light hair, clearly confused.
"The painting. Rembrandt painted his mistress. I can't remember her name, but it's something long and difficult to pronounce," she said, offering a shaky smile. Strangely, his sudden change in behavior prompted her to attempt a truce rather than back away.
"Ah." It was but a deep rumble, and he turned back to studying the painting.
Hermione had long ago decided that there was something distinctly sexy about this painting. The woman's eyes were angled downwards, as if examining her own legs as she stepped daintily into the stream. Her shift, hiked almost up to the juncture of her thighs as she bathed, was low enough that it nearly exposed her complete left breast. It was a painting about seduction and desire, almosts and nearlys.
Hermione looked sideways at Malfoy to see that his eyes were unfocused, obviously paying little attention to the merits of the image before him. Giving herself no time to falter, she spoke. "Um…You're quite all right, Malfoy?"
She heard a long sigh exhaled beside her, before he replied slowly, all traces of malice having for some reason disappeared. "Of course." It was neither friendly nor cruel by any means, but rather…empty.
She turned her head immediately, regarding him with unease written clearly across her face. She then saw him visibly tense, his lips drawing downwards in a scowl. Quite suddenly his demeanor changed and he turned on her, his eyes severely intense on hers and angry. "Why the fuck to you care, Granger? What could possibly cause you to wonder, hmm?"
She recoiled at once, immensely taken aback. "I just thought—"
"You just thought that the poor pureblood who's lost everything was doing poorly? That something was making him behave oddly? Take three fucking guesses, Granger." He was breathing hard, each puff of air washing over her skin in a manner that would have been pleasant under a different situation. His voice had risen enough so that people in their vicinity were shooting them annoyed looks. She found herself curiously unafraid despite the wild look in his eyes as he stared down at her.
"Don't you dare try and make out that your problems are worse than everyone else's, you selfish prick. You have everything you could ever want, and yet you still want more. You don't even know the meaning of the word 'loss,' so don't attempt to magnify your problems into something worth getting upset over, when some people have really lost everything during the war." She said this all very quickly in a whisper, her consonants hissing through her teeth in her frustration.
Surprisingly, he quieted. His brow smoothed and his eyes went cool once more. "I wasn't talking about the war," he explained, and turned on his heel to stride away.
Hermione stared, aggravated, after him, before turning as well and catching sight of Vulpe, who was standing some distance away with the look of someone highly entertained. Hermione glared at her. "Any hints, maybe?" She asked, leveling her question at the girl.
Vulpe chuckled. "Hermione, for someone so smart you can be a bit thick sometimes."
This did not help Hermione's confusion at all, and with an exasperated huff she turned and headed towards the main entrance of the museum. Their two hours were almost up.
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"You took them to a museum?" Harry asked the next day, loudly enough so that both Ginny and Hermione shushed him. He then promptly burst into peals of raucous laughter.
Hermione cautioned a glance around the dreary interior of the well-known wizarding pub. The Leaky Cauldron had been the only edifice in Diagon Alley that had suffered little harm during the war, and had stubbornly remained open throughout the entirety of those five years. It was a regular lunch spot for the trio of friends.
After seeing that Harry had not drawn much attention towards them, Hermione turned to answer him. "Yes, I did. I actually think some of them might have enjoyed it, in fact," she said, with a slight smile on her face.
"Really?" Ginny exclaimed, grinning as well. "Should've invited me!"
"Remus and Tonks took up all available positions, Gin, sorry. They had the time of their lives."
Ginny pouted cutely, but Hermione ignored her and made quick work of the rest of her lunch. "Where's the fire, 'Mione?" Harry asked, referring to her haste.
"I have to make a stop and the apothecary…run out of powdered moonstone."
"Indulging in Draught of Peace again?" Harry's tone was light, but as Hermione looked up from the remains of her lunch she caught a strained expression on his face.
Don't worry for me.
After the war Hermione had indeed been regularly brewing the Drought of Peace to calm her anxieties and dull her grief. She had gradually weaned herself off of the potion several months ago, unwilling to become addicted to its effects, but liked to have a small stock available lest everything…pile up on her. She shook her head to satisfy her friends.
"Not for some months, Harry. You know that. Oh, by the way…did you by chance talk to the minister and finish the preparations for the next lesson? I know it's a stretch, but I think it will be worthwhile."
Harry nodded. "Scrimgeour was a bit confused, but I convinced him it was for the best. He's provided you with three guides. It's fortunate that all the Dementors have left, or else he would have never allowed it."
"Thanks, Harry. You're a dear." She fished several sickles from her bag and dropped them on the sticky table beside her now empty plate. "Now I've got to run…see you." And, bestowing a kiss to each of their cheeks, she went out to the cobbled street of Diagon Alley.
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She saw Malfoy through the window and nearly turned right around and went back to the Leaky Cauldron. She didn't feel up to another conflict today. It was only her strength of character and determination to not let her plans be interrupted by him that prevented her from leaving. Perhaps he wouldn't see her. She stood behind him in line, foot tapping, head swimming for some reason she could not identify, let alone attempt to banish. He didn't appear to notice her, and she was not about to announce her presence. She heard his order only in mumbles, his voice was so low. She resolved not to be curious.
After receiving his enclosed package of goods he turned so abruptly that Hermione's nose was nearly touching his chest. She let out an uncivilized yelp and jumped back quickly. He gazed at her with an air of surprise, his eyes wide, and stood there, just…watching her.
"Er…hello," she said lamely. She forgot to be annoyed, forgot yesterday's anger. "Sorry," she added, as if on reflection, for the invasion of his space.
He waved a hand at her dismissively and finally turned his eyes away. He seemed determined not to speak, and started to stride quickly from the store, resolutely averting his face from hers. It seemed their disinclination for conflict was mutual today, and Hermione found that confusing. Again.
Just as he was about to reach the door, Hermione called out. "Malfoy!"
He sighed and turned towards her, irritation clearly evident in his tone as he snapped, "What?"
"Um…next week's lesson is going to be a bit hard. So come prepared, will you? Just…be ready for something difficult." She didn't know why she said it. Maybe she thought he deserved a warning.
She imagined maybe he knew. Maybe he could see it in her eyes, but he just nodded and said the first mildly sociable thing he had ever said to her: "Thanks." And then he left.
She had not missed the way his fists clenched when he saw her, so surprisingly close to him.
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"For believe me: the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is—to live dangerously."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
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Author's Note: It's been awhile, hasn't it? I try to get at least a chapter a week done, but it simply wasn't possible these past two weeks for reasons that are far to boring to share. Anyway, I hope this makes up for it. Thanks so much to all my lovely reviewers, and enjoy and tell me what you think, as always.