A/N: Love to reviewers and Countess Black

'Time is the justice that examines all offenders' William Shakespeare

I'm on the mend, I think, which hurts, but hurts less than being freshly wounded. Works cures all ills but death. The many friends in my life have been supporting me, which is much appreiciated.

Incidentially, last chapter, I meant to say : House Lestrange's motto is 'Winter is Coming'. Does anyone recognise the reference? I'm re-reading, and every time, I remember how much I love a certain diminutive gentleman and hate a certain queen. :)

The silence persisted all through the night, as Lucius and Narcissa thought it best to allow the children privacy, and spent time at prayer that this would, somehow, relieve some of the tension between the two of them.

The elves, beyond thrilled, brought supper. Draco hadn't stopped smiling since he'd rolled off Hermione. Hermione herself seemed to be contemplating some inner vision, or else was sleepy again. He didn't try to cuddle with her this time- but at least she wasn't grimly insisting they rise at once.

Instead, he put his hand near hers and simply waited for her to say something. Hermione was lying on her back, eyes closed, breathing very even and very calm. "Was it...did you like it?"

"Yes. Are you hungry?"

"Slightly. You?"

"We'll have supper sent up on a tray. Or would you want a snack right now?" Supper wouldn't be for quite some time.

"That would be nice."

Draco wondered what she felt. It struck him as a little odd that she'd wept for a stranger but refused to admit her own hurts. But, he thought, perhaps that was what he loved about her, her ability to see beyond. Did she see the trees as well as the forest?

Hermione was just being. Nothing moved inside her, nothing especial caught her attention. Just being. She felt porous, like a sponge, but dry, too. The pain would insinuate itself again, she knew, but right now she was too happy for the merciful absence to care.

"Tell me about this thing we're going to see tomorrow?"

"The art?"

"Yes. What do muggles paint?"

Hermione could have told him about perspective and realism and impressionists and Madonnas and Agnes Sorel's beautiful bare breast. She didn't. Instead, Hermione smiled, rolled to him, and said 'What wizards do."

"Oh. Why do you want to go and see it?" Draco was educated-he could recite Homer and Cicero, knew his Tacitus and Herodotus, and had read most of Euripides by the time he was eleven. But the appeal of muggle relicts was rather lost on him.

"It's history, like the names on the door. It matters, it helped to shape us."

"Mmm." Draco pretended to understand what she meant and rather failed. His mind cast for something to compare it to, and he said finally 'You mean like reading old English to help with runes?"

"Early modern English. Old English was more like German than anything. But yes, something like that."

Draco huffed. "Do you never get tired of knowing more than everyone else?"

"No."

"No?'

"You're asking me this, and were close friends with Crabbe and Goyle?"

Draco nodded, a bit sheepishly. "They weren't so bad. You'd rather like Goyle, I daresay. He's funny." And possessed of a brand of honesty, which, though not subtle, could be useful at times.

Hermione tactfully changed the subject. "Well, someone has to know things, I suppose."

"What does that mean?"

"Knowledge is lost if people don't make an effort to seek it out."

"But aren't you ever lonely, being the only one who knows?"

"Yes." Hermione was looking at him. She wondered why he asked these things-there were strange hints of her childhood tormentor, who'd asked such cruel questions, mixed with sincerity and disturbing affection. Draco was frowning, eyes cloudy.

"You were always a good student, Draco."

"Yes, of course. Father said it was an honour to be educated, and a responsibility for a Malfoy." And Draco, from the time he could speak, had wanted to be like his father in all things, and that meant being as learned as he, and as clever, and as witty.

"But didn't you like it?"

"Means to an end, love. I enjoyed parts of it quite a lot, but...I could have happily had done without a good deal of the detritus. I really do think the curriculum should be reformed."

"Reformed how?" Hermione leant forward, interested, and Draco knew he should tell her firmly that he didn't wish to bore her. But she was clearly curious, and Draco could make her happy again, and did.

"For one, did anyone actually learn anything in Herbology? Or History of Magic? Or care of Magical Creatures?"

"Some people were very good. Neville is excellent at Herbology."

"Yes, of course, but the average student has no need. How many of your friends plan to raise hippogriffs, for instance?"

"It's good knowledge to have."

"I agree, but it's not practical. Wouldn't you rather they taught courses we might all have used, like magical charms for common injuries? I'd get a damned sight more from that than the various goblin wars and whatnot."

"Binns is a bad teacher."

"Yes, but it's also a stupid class. Well, stupidly taught. Everyone might have held up a bit better had the known the things that happened less than twenty years ago, versus the things that happened before people wore shoes."

Hermione nodded. "You've given this thought."

"I find many of the things I had been taught ill served me during the last year. Led me to reflection, I expect."

He'd never once, in all their weeks together, alluded directly to any of what had happened. Hermione, feeling the razor lined bear traps at her feet, said carefully 'I'd think a lot of people feel that way."

"Certainly do. It's a bitter thing, love, seeing everything you ever believed slip through your fingers."

Hermione felt discomfort creeping up her spine. There was a new bitterness in his voice, a hardness, she'd never heard before. She slowly put her hand out and stroked his cheek and Draco, sighing, burrowed into it.

"Sorry, love."

"It's all right." Hermione knew how he felt, actually, but she thought it would be a bad time to bring that up. Instead, she settled back and let the silence envelope them like fingers of mist.

"I'm not angry with them."

"Whom?"

"Mother and Father. I was, for a long time, but...they were ill used as well."

Hermione remembered a man who'd been perfectly willing to kill her and everyone else for the prophecy, but held her tongue out of respect for Draco. For the moment, at least. Someday she'd have answers, but Draco was telegraphing need at the moment, and so she listened.

"I know you've never...I mean, it's different for you, but...they just wanted us to be safe, was most of it."

"Oh."

Draco was making a muck of this. He inhaled. "Suppose, Hermione, your father joined a...a club, or something...political, but not...you know, mainly a place to meet, because his father had belonged."

Hermione could smell what was coming. 'Only following orders' held no weight with her. It could excuse anything, allow someone to wriggle out of any place and into a bolt hole. But she waited for him to speak, so she could refute it, as the same.

'And they didn't...it wasn't people like Greyback or McNair then. Mainly intellectuals, like...well, like yourself. But He kept asking them to go just a little further, and then...' Draco shrugged and smiled a little 'Does that make sense?"

Actually, it did, a little. "By the time it was obvious what was happening..."

"There was Mother and I to worry about. And He made examples, if he felt it needed." Draco gently took her hand, so she'd not be afraid. If he'd the same choice, he'd join to protect her, as Father had.

Hermione still felt sure there must have been another way. She and Harry and Ron had infiltrated Gringotts, fought Death Eaters on Tottenham Court road, and led the Battle of Hogwarts. She worked this in her mind, not wishing to hurt her husband, difficult as their relationship was.

"Couldn't he have fled? With the both of you?"

"Fled where? He got Karkaroff in that shack on the mountain side, he'd have found us in the end." Draco's new fatalism flared and he tiredly shoved it back.

"I'm not blaming you, Draco."

"I know. " Draco took a deep breath. 'Now, this muggle art?"

As soon as the carriage had trundled off, Lucius climbed from the bed, donned his dressing gown, and sat slowly on the window seat, looking over a small rocky outcrop nearly a thousand metres below. Crookshanks stretched and padded over, climbing onto the man's lap. Lucius rubbed the thing's velvet ears gently. 'You are worth your weight in gold, do you know that?"

The cat rolled, and a big yellow eye looked into his with calm, slightly amused deliberation. 'Of course' he seemed to say 'I'm a cat. How else?"

Lucius chuckled. 'You've brought them together. What sort of woman prefers a cat to a necklace, hmm?"

'The smart kind' Crookshanks said with a flick of his ears and a small twitch of his pansy nose. He rolled on his back, and Lucius gently smoothed the soft, dense coat of hair on the cat's warm belly.

Man and cat, they rested in the watery late summer sun, feeling it warm their bones, and wondering how they'd got so old, that their respective young were grown, and they old enough to rest in the sun and want nothing else.

Narcissa had always loved Paris. She loved the bustle, the lights and noise, the smells, the river trundling through the centre. She wanted the children to love it too, enough that she felt only the smallest pang watching their backs retreating from her and into a crowd of muggles.

It wasn't as though Hermione and she couldn't shop another day, she told herself bravely. But was it so long since she'd held a chubby, dimpled little hand in hers, and soothed the child who shrank from the noise and the crowds? Not long, surely?

She sat down at a cafe and ordered some tea, looking into the seething mass of people, where the children couldn't be seen anymore. She felt both heavy and light. She'd been at Draco's wedding, but this was the first time he'd really seemed married, somehow. For the rest of his life, he and Hermione would go off on their own, and it was wonderful, but sad, too, a sort of painfully sweet sadness that salted her joy.

Draco didn't like muggle dress. He preferred the safety of robes, the comfort of being unseen. Of course, in France, no one knew him for Draco Malfoy, the betrayer. He stood straighter and smiled brightly at his wife, thinking how pretty she looked. She was wearing a skirt and jumper, and Leesy, who liked this muggle idea not at all, had insisted on hanging one of the goblin made necklaces about her neck.

Hermione led them without hesitating, boldly navigating the street as though she had no fear, which, he suspected, he didn't. Draco was rather past wishing she'd show feminine terror at everyday occurrences, but he'd expected a foreign city would be another matter. And been proved wrong, as Hermione boldly led them, chattering happily, not fazed at all by anything round them. He'd given her muggle money, and she paid them in, chatting pleasantly with the woman in French the whole while.

"Is there anything you can't do, Hermione?"

Hermione looked at him, smiling a little. "The elves. They make me nervous."

"Why?"

"They just do. I always feel like I've done something wrong."

"Shouldn't. They adore you."

Hermione nodded. "That's what makes me uneasy."

What didn't seem to make her uneasy was the art. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Draco snaked his hand into hers and she didn't seem to mind much, too busy taking in the art all round them.

Hermione loved magic; loved it with all her soul, with every part of her, but surrounded by the master works of the Western canon, she could feel a sort of muggle magic, transcendent made manifest and given form and shape, divinity locked into clay and pigment and bronze.

They didn't speak for a long time, until Draco gave her a gentle nudge. "See there?"

Hermione nodded. "The small one?"

"What are they doing?"

"Grieving."

"Grieving whom?"

It almost didn't matter. Draco had assumed that muggles were as crude and stupid in their art as anything else. This...wasn't. There was power here, raw and vital, potent. The magic of generation, the power of beauty used to wield form and abstract, which caught the idea.

"...And so they grieved."

Draco nodded. His wife was thoughtful, as she looked at the paintings. 'I forget how beautiful they are, sometimes."

"You come here often?"

"Every few months."

"Oh. Don't your parents have to fix teeth?"

"They get time off. And it's not so far by train."

Draco nodded. "Is this your favourite part?"

"No. Let me show you."

They walked along the galleries, skirting the endless tour groups, and came to the marbles.

"Eerie, all white like this." Unmoving, frozen, carved like white ice. Draco felt a chill go down his spine as he regarded the statues, all fixed at the moment in time that the carver had immortalised the subject.

"Do you think so? I don't. I think they're wonderful."

Draco cocked his head. "Why?"

Hermione wondered what how to articulate what she felt. "Because it seems...immediate. The paintings are wonderful, but this...they could step from the plinth any second, does that make sense?"

"I suppose. They make me uneasy."

But they stayed and looked all the same, and said nothing about it.

When Narcissa met the children, she saw first how natural they looked together, Draco gently leading Hermione. They both looked happy, too, chatting softly about one thing or another, ignoring the shoppers round them totally.

"Hello, Mother."

"Hello, darlings."

"How was shopping?"

"Excellent. How was the museum?"

Draco tried to summon a word for it. "It was...very large. Hermione says we only saw a part of all the art."

"It's a mistake to try and see it all at once. Better to go in shorter visits."

They both nodded. Narcissa half wanted to ask more about all of this: what did muggles paint? Were the paintings as good as wizarding ones?

But she didn't. Rather, they went and did a bit of shopping, mainly, to his chagrin, for Draco, and some for his father as well. 'Doesn't seem right Father got to give this a miss."

"Well, he's spent twenty five years shopping with me. Perhaps he's done enough."

"It's not bad, Mother."

Narcissa gave Hermione a wink. "He lies like his father, with facility but little conviction." She smiled fondly and Draco dropped his head, acknowledging the truth of her words.

Hermione smiled politely, wishing Narcissa would get done so they could leave. Shopping made her twitchy; she didn't care about what she wore, so long as it was clean, and clutter made her nervous-give her quiet, plain rooms and quiet, plain food. The Malfoys seemed to specialise in neither, however, and since Draco had faked enthusiasm at the idea of the Louvre, she repaid the favour by pretending to enjoy shopping. And she really did like Narcissa.

Lucius and Crookshanks were reading the paper when the three returned. Well, Lucius was reading and commenting on what he read, and Crookshanks would obligingly snort, or give a grumble to show especial disdain for whatever foolishness was being cooked up.

"How was your day, Father?"

"Oh, we've been fine. I've quite decided to run this cat for Minister when Shacklebolt's term is up."

Hermione, hearing that, grinned. "I like Kingsley, but he's not as handsome, definitely."

"Or as sensible, or useful to me. The cat caught a fly earlier, which is more than I can say for Shacklebolt and his mopping up of the remaining Death Eaters."

Draco's eyes darted to his wife, who seemed to be controlling herself with great force of will. Fortunately, Mother came in before the verbal duelling could start, muttering to herself.

"We should have the cushioning spells on the carriage updated, the shaking could drive an elf to drink."

"If you'd like, love. How was France?"

"The exchange rate is very mediocre right now, but...I've got you some of those handkerchiefs you like." She sat down beside her husband and their potential future leader, rubbing Minister Crookshanks under the chin and handing the catnip mousey she'd got him.

"Ah, well, there went that plan. He's shown himself susceptible to bribes."

Narcissa raised her eyebrow. "The cat, you mean?"

"Our future Minister of Magic, you mean."

What an odd day it had been. Muggle art, her son's abrupt appearance as a married man, and now Lucius was talking about running Hermione's pet cat for Minister. She slowly put down her bags and took a deep breath.

"Shall we send for some wine?"

Everyone laughed, except for the future head of wizarding Britain, who curled up on his Girl's lap and yawned happily, and went to sleep.