CHAPTER THREE - L'un y suit son plaisir / One Seeks His Pleasure There

Once outside the museum, Ron was hit by a few realizations simultaneously: no French, no money, probably no girlfriend, no idea what to do. His brain wasn't made for multiple awarenesses, though, and so he felt rather dizzy and had to sit down on a bench. But the rain coolly drizzling down on his bare head did have a soothing effect (it also turned his hair a slightly more bearable shade of red, which did nothing for his intellectual abilities but was less hard on the eye of the beholder), and so he started thinking.

Elbows propped on his knees and forehead resting on his palms, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. That, however, proved to be a rather arduous task, one that, he was sure, could be accomplished to much better effect on a solid base of lunch in his stomach. This brought him back to the insight that he didn't have any money. But he'd heard of room service, and he knew where their hotel was, so he was just going to Apparate there, tackle the fellytone and order some lunch to be brought to the room, and then set out on the stony path of deep thought.

With a contented sigh at this result of ten minutes' concentrated pondering, Ron raised his head, only to find that a pair of jeans was obscuring his view of the Quai d'Orsay. His eyes travelled upwards, over a white shirt and a dark grey sweater lazily slung around a pair of broad shoulders, until they encountered the face of Lucius Malfoy. Ron gave a most undignified squeal and jumped up, but Malfoy's hand on his shoulder made him sit back down immediately. Probably it was less the hand than the wand Malfoy was keeping up his shirtsleeve. Its tip was nestling between his fore- and middle finger, and Ron felt it press against his clavicle.

Under the unwavering gaze of Malfoy's eyes, Ron suddenly felt very small. Being made to feel small made him angry, and with anger came the sudden realization that Hermione was still in the museum, completely on her own. 'Take me,' Ron stammered breathlessly, 'T-take me, b-but don't hurt Hermione!'

He'd expected Malfoy to sneer and utter words of unparalleled cruelty and contempt, but the man merely laughed. 'That was a stupid thing to say, Weasley, wasn't it? Alerting me to the presence of your girlfriend like this…' He tutted. 'But I have no intention of, erm, taking you, Mr Weasley, whichever sense you choose to attribute to the word.'

As the various semantic values of the verb 'take' began to dawn on him, Ron felt his face go red. 'You pervert!' he spat.

'Don't worry,' Lucius said. 'You're still going to be a virgin when you return to your mother's fond embrace.'

Easily sidetracked at the best of times, and this situation certainly didn't qualify as the best of times, Ron blushed scarlet. 'I'm not a virgin!' he blurted out.

'Be that as it may – and rest assured, the question doesn't evoke even the faintest of interests – you're going home. Now.'

You'd faced the Snatchers, Ron thought dimly but grimly, you'd faced dragons and Potions classes and Voldemort, but what was the bloody point, if the likes of Malfoy didn't respect you but gave you a dressing-down, as if you were a mere child, and…

And then he was on The Burrow's doorstep and wondered whether mum was going to whack him with the frying pan, or if he'd maybe get away with de-gnoming the garden.

--..--..--

'This is highly unpleasant,' Hermione said out of the corner of her mouth.

'I know,' Severus murmured.

'At least you're dressed!'

'True, but the ground is uneven, and there seems to be a stone under my arse. It hurts like hell. My right arm has gone to sleep.'

'So has my left buttock. This veil or whatever it is isn't much good, and the ground is very, very hard.'

There was a short silence.

'Can they hear us?' Hermione finally asked.

'The people in the room? No. But they can see if we move, so we mustn't.'

Hermione sighed. 'Do you think McNair and that guy Beasley can guess which spell you used?'

'I don't think so. It's not exactly public knowledge.'

'That's good. What spell did you use, by the way?'

'It's something Lucius and I developed, while we were at school.'

'A spell to enter the portraits? That must've been fun.'

'Oh it was, it was. The things we got to see…'

'I can imagine. So how does it work? For us, I mean, now we're inside the painting.'

'Miss Granger, I really appreciate your cold-bloodedness and unflappable curiosity. But to explain I'd have to move my lips, and I'd rather not do that more than is absolutely necessary. Therefore I suggest we leave the conversation till after closing time.'

That did make sense, and so Hermione kept herself amused by watching the spectators, trying not to feel a slight tremor of excitement at the sensation of her former teacher's clothes brushing against her naked skin.

--..--..--

Kingsley Shacklebolt raised his head to look at Lucius with an expression of utter bafflement. 'Well,' he finally said, 'that was quick. Is he' – he got up and went round the desk to have a better look at Baxter's unconscious form – 'Is that a pink leotard he's wearing?'

'It does indeed appear to be a leotard.' Lucius prodded the body with the tip of an immaculately polished shoe. 'Jeremy Baxter has always been an idiot, but today he surpassed himself.'

'Was he going after Miss Granger?'

'Yes, he was. The problem is, the girl wasn't on her own – why she should have gone to Paris with the youngest Weasley boy is frankly beyond me, but he was there as well.'

The minister drew a sharp breath. 'That certainly complicates matters. Where is he now?'

'In the pigsty the Weasleys insist on calling their home. I delivered him to his mother – she was very much not amused, but at least she was so overjoyed at having her, erm, baby back that she refrained from hexing me.' Without waiting for Shacklebolt's invitation, Lucius sat down. 'Fudge always used to keep a bottle of Ogden's Very Ancient here for me… Or rather, I left it here and forbade him to touch it, to own the truth. Is it still here? I could use a drink.'

'You kept a hidden stash of alcohol in the Minister's office?'

'Why, yes. Cornelius's taste was awful – can you honestly imagine me drinking Jägermeister?'

'That's not really the point, Lucius. If you managed to hide a bottle here, you could've hidden anything!'

'Of course I could but, as a matter of fact, I didn't. Come now, Kingsley, don't be so pusillanimous. Bygones are bygones, and I'd really like a drink now. You can have one, too,' he added generously.

When both men – Kingsley still shaking his head – were comfortably seated, drinks in hand, Lucius said, 'I have to return to Paris today, Minister. Severus and the girl are still there, and I have a feeling as if Baxter wasn't on his own.'

'We will of course question him once he wakes up.'

'I'm sure you will, but I can't wait that long. I had to leave him at the hotel while I was taking Weasley home, so I hit him with the stunning spell normally used on dragons. It might take him a couple of days to sleep off.'

Kingsley took a sip of whisky and grunted appreciatively. 'Do you have any idea who else might be there? Did Baxter use to be especially close to anybody?'

'That's a bit of a daft question, isn't it, Kingsley? Baxter was close to being a vegetable, on account of his monumental stupidity, but otherwise being a Death Eater and being close is something of an oxymoron. We were bloodthirsty terrorists, not Gryffindor first-years, you know?'

'Erm, yes.' Shacklebolt fingered his diamond stud. 'Yes, but who would he be likely to conspire with?'

'McNair comes to mind. Baxter absolutely idolized him. And where there's McNair, Beasley usually isn't far away.'

'A rather upsetting thought, given both their, well, proclivities.'

'Indeed. That's why I intend to go back right now.' Lucius rose from his chair, draining his glass. 'Contact us as soon as you've questioned this moron.'

'Will do. And, Lucius?'

'Yes, minister?'

'Nice arse!'

'Oh, for heaven's sake!'

'Just so you know you're being appreciated.'

'Oh, fuck off!' Lucius said and Disapparated.

--..--..--

The lights had gone out, and the room was lit only by the dim glow of the lamps showing the way to the emergency exits. Within the picture, Hermione was glad to notice, the light hadn't changed. 'I think it's safe now to move,' she said.

Next to her, Severus got up clumsily and rubbed his right wrist. 'I thought they were never going to close.' He cast a look at the surroundings and quickly glanced away when his eyes registered Hermione's state of total undress. 'Get some clothes on you!' he barked.

Too busy examining her new body, Hermione didn't heed his command. 'These are really nice boobs,' she said, more to herself than to her former teacher. 'Mine aren't as big. And the hair's fantastic!' She passed a hand over her head.

Unable to refrain himself from ogling her, Severus abruptly turned his back. 'I said get dressed, Miss Granger!'

'Oh.' Suddenly aware of her nakedness – Adam and Eve must've felt that way, she thought, after eating the forbidden apple – she cast about for something to wear. 'I don't have anything except this flimsy thing,' she finally said, holding out the veil. 'Oh, and' – she bent over, making Severus gasp and cover his eyes with his hands – 'this seems to be a dress, but…' She eyed the garment suspiciously. 'I think Manet didn't do a very good job painting it. It's not humanly possible to put it on.'

Severus merely uttered a low growl and took off his jacket. 'Wrap that veil, or whatever it is, around you like a skirt, and wear this,' he snapped, holding the jacket out to her.

'Good thinking.' Hermione grinned at him. 'What about the other two?' She pointed at the man still stretched out on the ground next to them, and at the young woman obviously gathering flowers in the background. 'They don't seem to be alive – I could take his clothes off and use them myself.'

'Are you decent?'

'I am now, but would you kindly answer my question?'

'First things first,' Severus said. 'Now that you are finally clothed, let's go to that river over there and drink some water, and then I suggest we have some of that fruit and the bread roll, and then we talk.'

Only now did Hermione notice that she was quite thirsty and more than a bit hungry, and so she followed Snape to the background of the painting, where there was indeed a river. The other woman – Hermione saw with a pang of envy that she wasn't wearing a half-transparent sarong and a man's jacket but a very nice muslin dress – was still kneeling motionlessly, her hand buried in the grass.

'So,' she said when they'd made themselves comfortable leaning against a tree trunk, 'you've got a lot to explain.'

Severus rolled his eyes. 'I know. Ask away, Miss Granger.'

'You're being very accommodating, Professor. Or shouldn't I call you Professor?'

'Call me Severus, for all I care. I've seen you naked, so using first names seems only appropriate.'

'You haven't really seen me, because this isn't my body. But I know what you mean. Are you going to call me Hermione then?'

'Unless you have any objections, yes, I will.'

'All right. So, Severus, why are you in Paris?'

'Shacklebolt sent us to France-'

'Us? Who is us?'

'Lucius and my good self. Shackle-'

'Lucius? You mean Lucius Malfoy was sent here by the minister?'

'My dear Miss Granger-'

'Hermione.'

'Hermione. My dear Hermione, answering your incessant questions would be difficult enough without constant interruptions.'

'Sorry. But why Malfoy?'

Severus sighed and muttered something that sounded like Merlin, give me strength. 'I can't go into the details. Lucius and I were sent here by Shacklebolt to carry out a, well, mission. Part of that mission was to keep an eye on you, because you might attract unsavoury company. And I'm not speaking of Mr Weasley.'

'Is he safe, do you think?'

'I daresay he is. Lucius went after him and Baxter.'

The sudden relief almost made her cry. Ron maybe wasn't prime boyfriend material, but he was still her friend. 'That's good to hear,' she said and surreptitiously wiped her eyes on the rough cloth of her sleeve. 'So it's true what Ron's dad said. The ministry didn't manage to capture any of the Death Eaters, and many of them did flee to France. Why France, by the way?'

'Lucius will be better able to explain that. Provided he finds us. But,' Severus said, trying to sound more confident than he was feeling, 'I'm sure he will.'

'Well, if he doesn't find us,' Hermione observed reasonably, 'we'll simply find him. We merely have to wait for the right moment to get out of this picture.'

A heavy silence followed.

'Erm.' Hermione cleared her throat. 'Aren't you supposed to say, Yes, Hermione, that's exactly what we'll do?'

'N-no. You see, we can't get out. Lucius has to perform the spell.'

'Oh.'

'Yes. That's, well, why I said I'm confident that Lucius will find us. Sooner or later.'

'But you aren't.'

'Well, I am, but since we can't be sure what happened after he left the building…'

Hermione tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. 'So, if there was some kind of accident… If McNair killed him, we've got to stay here for…' The lump was getting bigger by the second. 'Forever,' she finished her sentence, but her voice wasn't quite steady. 'Can we at least do magic?'

'It may have escaped your attention, but we don't have our wands.'

'That's right,' she said tonelessly. 'We don't have our…' And then the lump dissolved into tears of helplessness.

Lost for words, Severus rubbed his face and noticed with horror that he had a beard. As if things weren't already looking gloomy enough… 'Now look,' he finally said, cautiously putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders, 'I know it's probably the shock and all… Anyway, you shouldn't be feeling desperate.'

'And ho-how exact-exactly am I sup-posed t-to feel?' Hermione hiccupped.

'You're supposed to use that superior intellect of yours. You're supposed to consider that Lucius has survived this far, and therefore isn't likely to give up the habit. He's a fighter, and a survivor. He's fought more dangerous opponents than McNair-'

'Like what?' Hermione interrupted him. 'Like a bunch of fifth-years?'

'There were others, trust me, Hermione. He will come back for us-'

'For you,' she said, glaring up at him.

'For you as well. And he'll search for us, and when he doesn't find us, he'll go back to where he last saw us both, which was in this very room. And then he'll look at all the paintings, and then-'

Hermione yelped. 'And then he'll see me naked! Shit, Lucius Malfoy is going to see me naked!'

'But it's not your body, you just said so yourself.'

'As if he cared!'

'There's a grain of truth in that remark,' Severus conceded, amused despite their dire predicament. 'Anyway, once we're out of here, we'll both be fully clothed and have our wands back.' This assurance was answered by a wet sound that might have been a snort. 'Blow your nose,' he said, trying to sound severe.

'I'd like to, but there isn't anything to blow it on.'

With a sigh, Severus reached for the discarded dress Manet had done such a shoddy job of painting. 'Use this.'

'Any art historian would throw a fit,' Hermione murmured, but she obediently trumpeted into the chiffon frills.

'Wait until they discover we've eaten all the food,' Severus said. 'And now I think an eyeful of sleep would do us some good.'

'What if we don't wake up in time?'

'I'm a very light sleeper. The slightest noise or movement is bound to wake me.' He stretched out on the grass and attempted to find a comfortable position. 'This is bloody murder on my back.'

Instead of answering, Hermione merely curled up against him and gave a contented sigh. 'You're being very nice,' she muttered. 'I saw the memories you gave Harry, so I already knew you could actually be nice, but it's a good thing you're being nice now. Otherwise…' She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. 'You even said my intellect was superior.'

A few minutes went by in silence, while Hermione's breathing grew slower and more regular. The resilience of youth, Severus thought dimly and moved so her head was pillowed on his shoulder. She was a bit heavy, but the warmth emanating from her body was rather reassuring. It was going to be a long night, was Severus's last thought before he, too, fell asleep.

--..--..--

When Lucius returned to Paris, it was too late to go back to the museum. Although he would never have admitted as much to anybody but Severus, his knowledge of all things Muggle went much further than people generally assumed. There were things a pureblooded Death Eater simply wasn't supposed to know, such as for example the fact that Muggles had invented devices very similar to alarm spells in order to protect their treasures. A nightly visit to the Musée d'Orsay was therefore out of the question.

Severus wasn't in their room, and the Granger girl wasn't at her hotel, and various tracing charms hadn't yielded any result, not even the illegal ones. Going back to the museum seemed like the obvious starting point, but that would have to wait till the next day.

Sure now that Baxter hadn't acted on his own, Lucius had tried to identify McNair and Beasley's whereabouts as well, without expecting a result though. Well, he hadn't got one, which wasn't surprising, since the two wizards were likely to have taken any possible precaution against being found. Lucius was fairly certain they hadn't spotted him, but it wouldn't do to take any superfluous risks. So he ordered a light supper – just a nice Chateaubriand, with all the trimmings of course, to keep him going, and a soufflé au Grand Marnier, a bit of cheese and two bottles of wine – to be brought up to the room, added a few wards of his own creation to those they'd already put in place, made himself comfortable and started to ponder his situation in earnest.

He wasn't the kind of man who drew happiness or even contentment from things like sunrises, dew drops on rose petals or the wind whispering through a summer meadow. Still, he couldn't quite get rid of the feeling that he'd been incredibly lucky. A month after Voldemort's final defeat, he was free, he was rich, and if his wife and son weren't talking to him, well, that had to be borne with equanimity. He'd been quite fond of Narcissa, until the point in time, that is, when he'd come to the shocking realization that a) she hadn't moved a finger to get him out of prison, b) she'd been making passes at Severus while her husband was languishing in Azkaban, pretending to offer payback for the Unbreakable Vow she'd persuaded Severus to take, c) she'd dropped Lucius like a hot potato the moment Voldemort and Bellatrix had taken over the manor.

The warmth of his feelings for his wife had diminished considerably.

The self-righteous attitude she'd adopted after it was all over had done nothing to increase their temperature.

After careful contemplation, Lucius decided that he'd stay married to her, but once this French interlude was over, he was going permanently to relegate her to one of the family's numerous smaller estates. He'd lost, but he wasn't a loser, and he was loath to live in the same house as the woman who'd so quickly forgotten the loyalty she owed her husband and gone over to the side of power.

Lucius reached this conclusion at the same time as he arrived at the bottom of the first bottle of wine, and when he opened the second one, he was ready to direct his attention to the current problem.

Baxter had been taken care of and would surely be eager to spill all his secrets once he woke up. As Lucius had already told Shacklebolt, McNair and Beasley did seem like the most probable co-conspirators. As to the purpose of their – hopefully! – failed attempt at capturing the Granger girl, well, there weren't that many possibilities. Had the ministry managed to capture any rogue Death Eaters, exchanging one war hero for all the prisoners might have been what they had in mind. With no Death Eaters in Azkaban, the likeliest motive was the extortion of ransom money, or, taking into consideration McNair and Beasley's penchant towards cruelty for cruelty's sake, it might just be blood, torture and a slow, agonising death.

Since Lucius knew for a fact that both McNair and Beasley had hoarded away more gold than they could ever hope to spend in the depths of Crédit Sorcier's vaults, money seemed like the less realistic option. So it was probably bloodlust.

Although not opposed to killing people when it was strictly necessary, Lucius couldn't bring himself to condone something as tasteless and essentially useless and messy as raping and cutting up young girls. Young girls were there to be seduced so they came to your bed willingly, to be tasted and cajoled into doing things they would never have dreamed of doing. But where was the fun, where was the challenge in tying them up and brutalizing them? He'd never understood it, and he'd always deeply despised McNair and the likes of him for enjoying it. It wasn't a question of morals, because morals always had a loophole so you could lie your way out. It was a matter of style; the laws of style were a good deal more strict than moral principles, which was probably the reason why most people pretended that following the latter made you a Good Person while obeying the former made you a Superficial Tosser.

Only an uncultured brute like McNair, who enjoyed slaughtering animals, could possibly take pleasure in the stench of blood and other bodily effluvia… Lucius shuddered. The Granger girl may be Muggleborn, but she was clever and quite pretty. Besides she'd testified in his favour, so he owed her.

His thoughts were becoming a little incoherent, Lucius noticed. He'd better get some sleep then, so as to be well rested for his mission.

--..--..--

Despite her reputation of being a fearsome matriarch, Molly Weasley had never managed to subdue any of her brood permanently. With the exception of Percy, of course, but then Percy had already been born subdued and probably asked the midwife whether it would be a frightful bother if he uttered his first piercing scream.

Percy's siblings, however, had never been afraid of their mother. They'd grown used to putting on a show of tame obedience in the face of her wrath, but as soon as they were out of the reach of her frying pan, they dropped the mask and did exactly as they pleased.

Ron was no different from his brothers and sisters in that respect, and his mother reading him the riot act after the Lutetian adventure had merely served to increase his sense of having been badly wronged. While busy de-gnoming the garden, he told and retold himself the events of the day, and by dinnertime he was convinced that the brief explanation Malfoy had given his mother was nothing but a smokescreen, and that Malfoy had merely disposed of him in order to be free to go after Hermione, capture her and do unspeakable things to her. The fact that Molly, who really wasn't one of Lucius's biggest fans, had swallowed the story without a question and even thanked Malfoy for bringing back her son, unharmed and in one piece, was easy to overlook. Mum had clearly lost her marbles, and so had Dad, who had sternly admonished Ron and made him promise to stay put at The Burrow.

Back in his room after dinner (but without pudding – when it came to punishment, Molly had her principles) Ron arrived at the conclusion that he'd have to do Something About It, and he'd have to do it all by himself. Harry, to whom he would normally have turned, only had eyes for Ginny these days. The sound of the door to the left of Ron's room being opened and closed almost noiselessly, and then of the door to the right of Ron's room being discreetly knocked on had been enough to confirm Ron's suspicions. Harry was busy shagging Ginny and, for once, Ron would have to save the world on his own.

Apparating back to Paris wasn't an option; the longest distance he'd ever Apparated was from Ottery St. Catchpole to London. Cross-channel Apparition was something entirely different, and certainly not to be undertaken lightly. Unfortunately he'd never paid attention when people made illegal Portkeys, which meant that he'd have to go by broom. Paris wasn't that far away, was it?

When the last light had gone out and The Burrow lay in complete darkness, Ron made sure his wand was safely up his sleeve, tiptoed down to the kitchen to prepare a few sandwiches and, munching one after he'd shrunk the remaining five and put them into a matchbox which he slipped into his back pocket, he sneaked out of the house and towards the broom shed.

He'd already mounted the broom, when a sudden inspiration made him hop off and go back to the house. He didn't speak any French and had never quite got the hang of translation spells. So he quietly sneaked into the living room and searched for Fleur's old French-English dictionary. Paris may not be far away, but surely two hours on his broom would be enough to absorb the basics of French. Besides he had a French sister-in-law, that ought to count for something with Les Frogs.

--..--..--

In her eighteen years, three months, five days and seven hours of time-turner-extended earthly existence, Hermione had woken up in various states: hungry, excited, happy, anxious and always alone in her bed. There had even been a few instances of waking up wet and aroused, but she'd had a bit of trouble admitting that to herself, because the state of wet arousal hadn't been caused by dreams of Ron or any other suitable male.

Deeply upsetting though it was, there had only ever been two recurring dream prototypes that had left her wondering whether writing ten feet of Charms essays was really the most satisfactory experience life had to offer her: one of them started with the skirmish at the Ministry of Magic, but events didn't unroll in exactly the same way they had done in real life. She and the others fled from the room of prophecies all right, but then there was a squadron of Aurors who captured all the Death Eaters except for Malfoy. While everybody was wandering around the Department of Mysteries, looking for Malfoy, the blond Death Eater sneaked up behind her, silenced her with his hand over her mouth and dragged her off into a small closet that contained nothing but shelves chock full of jars of mango chutney. Once safely secluded there, he proceeded to kiss and touch her… Much to Hermione's regret, they'd never gone beyond snogging. Mango chutney was sometimes involved, though.

The other dream began traditionally in the Potions classroom – although there were variations, with her being in Professor Snape's office – where everybody was brewing the Draught of Living Death. Only Hermione was staring disconsolately at a cauldron full of bouillabaisse, anxious that the strong smell of fish and garlic might cause her teacher to think that something wasn't quite right with her potion. And he inevitably moved nearer and nearer to her worktable, until he was standing so close that she had to tilt back her head to look at him. Sometimes the dream would end right there, but on better days Professor Snape slowly lowered his mouth to her exposed throat, while his hand played with the loose thread at the seam of her skirt. Unlike the mango chutney, the bouillabaisse never played a part in that scenario, which probably was a good thing.

Given the relatively innocent nature of those dreams, waking up wet and aroused because she was humping her former teacher's leg was definitely a first.

Hermione bit her lip to suppress the yelp of embarrassment that wanted out. Then she remembered Severus's assurance that the slightest of movements was sure to wake him. Cautious not to stir too much, she turned her head and looked at him. He was fast asleep. She turned the other way to scrutinize their surroundings – room 19 was still dark. So far, so good. But she was still in the same position as before and didn't dare move her leg for fear of disturbing Severus's sleep.

'Fine,' she muttered to herself, 'that's what I'd call being caught between a rock and a hard… Oh god!' There wasn't a rock, but there was definitely a hard place. Maybe less a place than a… thing. Well, cock. 'Fine,' she repeated. 'I'm in a painting, I'm not wearing any underwear, I'm feeling so horny that I could shag just about anybody, and here's Professor Snape…' Erect and fast asleep, her mind completed the sentence.

An evil grin spread over Hermione's face. Being in a painting, not wearing any underwear and alone with one of the protagonists of her erotic dreams wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was certainly better than being in a hotel room with Ron and having to find excuses for not wanting to have sex with him. The body she was currently inhabiting wasn't hers, and Professor Snape, well, Severus, wasn't in his own body either, and that was kind of exciting, too, come to think of it. Her hand crept back to the hard place and began to explore.