A/N: Here it is - finally! That was quite a bit of work. Thank you all for being patient and for your reviews! You've made me a very happy woman. Merci beaucoup, my wonderful beta-reader LiterallyLiterary! Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

Here's the music (I've created a YT playlist; check my profile for the link):

Lucius: Brahms Cello Sonata No. 1 in E minor, Op. 38, I. Allegro non troppo interpreted by Mstislav Rostropovich & Rudolf Serkin (Brahms Cello Sonatas)

The next morning: G-Swing's Diga Diga Doo feat. DJ Brame

At the concert: W.A. Mozart, Requiem, esp. III. Sequenzia Tuba Mirum & Lacrimosa (conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt)

I'd love to know how you find this chapter. R&R.

PS: Special thanks goes to Malcheek for being such a patient reader, and nice and frequent reviewer

"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth." – Marcus Aurelius

4 Sonatas and Requiems

Lucius Malfoy II was sitting in his armchair, watching the snow falling down, coating the city in white. It almost seemed like time stood still. Only the soft ticking of the pendulum clock was the damning proof that time could not be retained; No, time cooled, time clarified. It took him four years to clear his head. It needed a divorce and a temporary withdrawal from the Wizarding world to admit he made a lot of wrong and very few right decisions. But only five minutes after signing the divorce certificate sufficed to have realised that this marked the beginning of a new chapter – one in which he was accountable only for himself. And for the first time in his life, he could finally breathe freely.

But frankly, Lucius had hated every step of the humiliating process of a divorce. He also hated to have lost what little money was left in his once so brim-full vaults. At least it had put an end to the trying rows he had with Narcissa. However, it was a resounding slap par excellence when she decided to leave the continent. Because, if she had stayed, Draco would not have chosen to follow her and commence his studies in a country whose culture did not deserve to be called one. In turn, it would not have been necessary for him to travel in such a degrading manner just to see his son.

The Dark wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not sure what was more demeaning; travelling by plane instead of using Portkeys, or maintaining a civil behaviour towards that cheeky witch who was accountable for this new ridiculous elf-protection law. The only thing he knew for sure was that both things made him want to punch the next best stupid face like the one of that particularly silly Muggle-president he saw in the Muggle-papers.

To make matters even worse; the witch even made him enjoy their disputes.

Was he losing his edge?

Hermione Granger's mere sight evoked unwanted images of his past and those horrid feelings he tried to banish from his mind day after day: Imprisonment, humiliation, defeat. They stood for his cell in Azkaban, the loss of Armand Malfoy's wand, and genuflection before a half-blood. They were etched in his mind, poisoning every happy memory he kept dear. It was the mantra of his nightmares. Imprisonment, humiliation, defeat; his cursed body, his tarnished name, his wrong choices.

The menacing voice of his own father echoed in the back of Lucius' mind. 'Do not disappoint me, Lucius.'

"Fuck you," it slipped from his mouth, secretly wishing he had spat it in his father's face the last time that old dragon had felt the need to criticise him.

Enough.

Lucius reached for a small and shiny looking contrivance that played music (a gift from his son) and let himself be carried away by the full and rich sounding sonatas of Johannes Brahms. Rostropovich's cello playing held so much passion and warmth, wisdom and vigour, maturity and self-assurance, that it created a sound of such beauty it would have moved Lucius to tears if he had any to shed in the first place.

Brahms did not defile his compositions with superfluous notes. No, they were pure, they were simple, and simplicity was ultimate beauty. But as it often happens, common folk seldom recognized genius and even less appreciated it. Brahms' compositions were wasted on humanity.

However, the music was not able to untie the growing knot in Lucius' stomach whenever something or someone reminded him of the fact that he got stripped of his rights to use magic. Being wandless, shunned, and divorced; the only logical conclusion was to withdraw from the Wizarding world. It became a lonely and dangerous place for him, especially if he could not defend himself.

But otherwise, who was he to complain? He did not suffer from any magical outbursts lately and neither old enemies, nor former allies appeared out of thin air, trying to kill him. Even the bossy Muggle-born was compliant, taking into consideration their past history as enemies.

Lucius wondered why Hermione Granger was disguised as a Muggle. Did she work for the Ministry, appointed to enforce the International Statute of Secrecy in the Muggle world? That must be the case, he concluded, otherwise she would not have reacted so cautiously during their first exchange of discourtesies.

Wizards and witches working under protection of the International Confederation of Wizards were usually very careful about disclosing their diplomatic status, as it allowed them to act above the local law in order to enforce the International Statute of Secrecy. Naturally, local Law Enforcement and affiliated officials tended to hate or envy them to the core. And those who were neither subject to the first nor the latter usually tried to win them over. They were valuable assets, able to accommodate clients with indispensable services: Smuggling, intelligence, lobbying – just to name a few. Needless to say, some of those diplomats owed him their humble fortune.

As for Hermione Granger, Lucius decided that she definitely was the raw diamond he suspected her to be. And her brown eyes, which unabashedly mirrored her ambition and intellect, intrigued him to the same extent as her other traits caused discontent. But it was unbearable to watch so much potential go down the drain; she was being wasted on donkeywork for the ministry (who obviously chose to ignore her potential), and she was far too excluded from the Wizarding world to gain real influence. But what did he expect from such hypocrites?

What a daft, incompetent bunch of imbeciles, Lucius thought.

All the better for him.

But enough of her; He was supposed to meet Draco by now. The patriarch missed his son dearly and resented the fact that Draco had spent Christmas with Narcissa. Then again, Draco had also disappointed him greatly by his eccentric choice of study and it left Lucius no choice but to axe his son's allowance and revoke his warrant of the family vaults and accounts. It was a matter of principle. Naturally, Narcissa still spoiled him rotten instead of giving their offspring the opportunity to solve his issues on his own.

Lucius put aside the electronic device and stood up. With a swift movement, he unbuttoned his nightshirt and studied his reflection in the mirror. Several of his magical scars were beginning to fade thanks to the new ointment he had been using. But most of those angry, purple-glowing streaks across his chest appeared still as fresh and hideous as they were since the day he had received them from the Dark Lord; the older ones for his failed attempt to attain the prophecy; the newer and nastier ones for the escape of the hostages. Now, his bare upper body was a sight so ghastly even Narcissa could not bear, especially because half of those scars were supposed to be hers if Lucius had not intervened.

In the end it did not matter; she continued to hold him responsible for the transpired atrocities.

She was right, however begrudgingly Lucius admitted the fact. Merlin, she was right.

Lucius dipped his fingers into the jar of ointment and carefully applied the thick green paste onto his chest and left forearm. At least the Dark Mark was beginning to fade—not drastically, but it didn't matter as long as he was able to see the difference.

Light kissed her eyelids, waking her out of sleep, and she breathed in the refreshing scent of newly washed linen. It was peaceful.

Too peaceful, she thought suspiciously as her gaze wandered to the door.

And Hermione remembered.

"Malfoy," she muttered bemusedly, almost dropping to the floor as she reached for her bag.

"Am I a witch or not?" she scolded herself, beginning a text after she summoned her mobile phone.

'What's blond, hates Muggles, and sits on a plane with a former enemy? Draco, WHAT in the name of the whole Wizarding world is your FATHER doing on a plane?!'

Draco's reply came instantly. 'OMG! You're stranded too? You're one lucky witch. Ha. Ha. Did he behave? You have Percy bloody Weaselhead to thank for that, who, by the way seems very determined to deny all of my father's Portkey applications. But don't tell me you're staying both at the same hotel!'

The witch groaned. 'Oh I will, I will…Your father's civil like a cat among pixies…and YES we are, just so you know…Btw did you give him a mobile phone? He uses it like a Muggle! I barely managed to keep a straight face.'

'How I'd wish to see you both jump down each other's throats! And of course I did (who else?). Does he use it often? Wasn't sure if he would. Was supposed to be a joke'

Hermione shook her face, not a tad surprised at his lack of empathy, and replied 'HE showed ME pictures of his book collection on it (btw, thank you for that beautiful notebook)'

'WTF…Was he sloshed? (Don't mention it. Thx for the chocolate - you just saved my life - again)'

'My pleasure! He definitely knows how to cane it but I'm not really sure if he was. Probably. I mean, why else would he talk to me?'

This time, it took Draco a while until he replied. 'Just be careful what you're telling him. Who knows what he's up to. Tell me ASAP if the situation gets out of hand'

Offended by his message, she answered him defiantly 'Thx but I can handle him PERFECTLY well'

'Alright, but as tempting it seems, just DON'T hex my father to oblivion'

'Fine, as long as he doesn't give me a reason to'

Assuming it was the end of their correspondence, she prepared for the day, settling for a Muggle version of casual elegance.

Her hand was already on the doorknob when she received another message from the younger Malfoy. 'Hermione, what's a bloody vacuum cleaner?

The witch sniggered amused. 'It's used for cleaning floors. Why?'

'Bcs my new roommate (what an oaf) wibbles sth about cleaning up the room once a week with that monstrosity. As if I'd EVER clean! But I can hardly tell him 'don't bother, I borrow my mother's HOUSE-ELF to char for me''

'XD Downright preposterous!'

'Oh, Granger! Dad's already corrupting you. Poor house-elves just lost their patroness. Never thought you'd bend so easily'

'Ah, put a sock in it or I'm going to sic the house-elves on you!' She countered his provocation.

'That's exactly what I mean!'

'Siiiilence!'

'Wahahahahahahaha'

Hermione shut her phone and smiled widely – a smile that died instantly the moment she read Draco's next message.

'I know my father's not easy to handle (although you said otherwise) but he was supposed to spend his birthday with me today. I might ask for too much but as your friend (and we've both been through hell and made it back together) please don't let me down and be a KIND surrogate. And in case you want to weasel yourself out of it: I want to redeem the favour for your lost bet.'

Hermione screeched "What? NO! You manipulative FERRET!"

She was not surprised to find Lucius Malfoy in the dining hall, reading a copy of the New Amsterdam Post, the local Wizarding newspaper.

It was awkward. First, she was not sure if she should disregard him but as he noticed her, she could hardly ignore him any longer, and when he indicated her to join him, it would have been childish not to.

With the newest issue of the New York Times under her arm (the others were all taken), Hermione joined him and both broke their fast in silence, which felt about as comfortable as taking the NEWT exams. Draco's request hanging like the sword of Damocles above her head did not improve the situation. Whatever possessed Draco to ask for such an outrageous favour? It must have been one of his cruel jokes again, she assumed peevishly, and decided that she was not going to take any bets with him from now on.

The witch was reading the same sentence for about the sixth time when she gave up and huffed, stealing glances at the headline of Lucius Malfoy's newspaper instead.

DEATH EATER CAPTURED AFTER ATTEMPTED SUICIDE

Lucius Malfoy shifted his attention away from the papers, giving her an once-over and drily asked, "Like what you see?"

Hermione ignored his question and inquired, "Who?"

"Thorfinn Rowle. Potter caught him in Iceland. One less to worry about," he stated matter-of-factly. Then he sighed and added, sounding almost convincingly concerned, "What a shame the Rowle-line ends with him. Another pure-blood family extinguished."

The witch frowned and decided to ignore that last comment too. "Why would he try to kill himself? The Ministry doesn't use Dementors anymore," she said, earning a condescending gaze from the Dark wizard in return.

"I'm aware that you're ignorant to certain aspects of our world, but does it really escape your notice that –"

"Hold on!" she interrupted rudely. "Rowle? Wasn't a Damocles Rowle Minister? And didn't he turn Azkaban into a prison? Oh…how ironic…"

"I would say cruel," Lucius Malfoy corrected her and Hermione grunted in disbelief.

"It doesn't suit you playing upset," she told him. "Everyone knows it was your intelligence that led to his apprehension. Who else would know such things?"

"You dare to imply that his attempted suicide was my fault?" Lucius asked, his voice flaring up.

"Of course not," she answered pointedly, feeling a tad ashamed, and asked conciliatorily "Was he your friend?"

"He was a henchman," the wizard answered brusquely while his expression remained stone cold.

"Ah." Hermione raised her eyebrows and resumed reading. How silly of her to think he would call someone below his social class his friend. Do people like him even have friends? Probably not.

"So, Mister Malfoy, any plans for today since the airports and highways are still closed?" Hermione asked him as casually as she could manage after she had finished her newspaper.

"Is this an interrogation? Because if it isn't, I don't see any need for answering," the pure-blood said, to which Hermione rolled her eyes, annoyed.

"In case you didn't notice; I'm trying to make this situation a little bit less awkward than it is, Mister Malfoy."

He folded the newspaper together and said drily "Well, you're doing a bad job."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "At least I'm trying!" she exclaimed indignant. This man was unbearable! "You know what? Forget it. I've got work to do."

She attempted to stand up when she heard a small chuckle from his direction.

"What?" she hissed and gave him a sharp look.

Lucius Malfoy sighed in amusement and ran his hand through his hair. "Miss Granger, let's keep things civil. Do remain seated, and take my newspaper you've been dying to read – in exchange for yours. Accept the situation for what it is and take it with dignity. The alternative of ignoring one another would be far more discomforting than the status quo."

With a swift movement he pinched the newspaper from her and began to read.

"You are enjoying this, do you?" she murmured, her cheeks burning from embarrassment and secretly wishing that the ground would open and swallow her up.

"Oh yes, I do," he said smugly.

"This is absurd."

"The only thing that is absurd is your demeanour and that this journalist – " Lucius Malfoy spat the last word and made a dismissive gesture towards the newspaper "– accuses Nicolaus Harnoncourt of being a square conductor."

"You listen to classical music?" she asked surprised, her eyes widened in incredulity.

"You know Harnoncourt?" the wizard answered in the same manner.

"He's a Muggle."

"So what?"

"He's a Muggle," she emphasised, still holding onto her belief that he must have mistaken the conductor for a wizard.

"It's classical music – the only kind of music that has a raison d'être. Name one conductor of our kind who deserves to be called one," Lucius Malfoy challenged her.

"There's none. But still…it's…"

"What?" Lucius Malfoy tilted his chin proudly and drawled, "Did you assume that after I had escaped death and anew imprisonment, I would dwell in the dark of my house like a wounded dragon in its lair, bullying my house-elves, and denying myself any pleasures life has to offer?"

"Well…yes," Hermione answered bluntly.

"Then you couldn't be more wrong, Miss Granger. I am a man of opportunities, not a man of bigotry. I am going to attend Harnoncourt's performance of Mozart's Requiem this evening, in fact. And I can assure you; I am going to enjoy it," he declared with proud defiance and added, overbearingly arrogant, "but of course, how would someone like you be able to truly comprehend Mozart's ingenuity?"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," she derisively countered. "I reckon you aren't even aware of the fact that Eybler and Süssmayr composed almost half of Mozart's Requiem. And even if you're telling the truth about going; It's already sold out. Not even you would get a ticket –" she narrowed her eyes "– but of course, how would someone like you be able to understand that your name has no weight in this world?"

Lucius Malfoy gave her a piercingly challenging look and said coolly, "Seven o'clock, sharp, at the entrance." His eyes meandered over her jumper as he stood up and added, "in proper attire. I prefer seeing you losing with style."

Just like that, he turned and strutted out of the dining hall, her New York Times tucked under his arm.

Hermione was tempted to throw a cup after him if it were not for that inner voice that suddenly sounded suspiciously like Draco.

At seven o'clock, sharp, the sight of Hermione Granger in a fitted, cobalt blue dress, descending from the stairs of the entrance hall, took Lucius slightly off balance. Not that he was complaining; the cut was a liberty he quite approved of.

However, she must have noticed his lapse and snapped. "Oh, don't tell me the dress is too short! It's just a palm above my knees."

His gaze flowed down the length of her legs, maybe lingering a moment or two too long over her calves before darting back.

"Don't be silly," he answered coolly and allowed himself to wonder how he could have ever intended to let a witch with such legs die.

Adhering most painstakingly to the rules of etiquette as he let her pass through the door and helped her inside the car, Lucius took the opportunity to get a most discrete glimpse of her behind.

It's the little pleasures that matter, old chap, he thought contented. Happy birthday.

There he was, the Austrian conductor, cellist, writer, pioneer, and coryphaeus of historically informed performances, who handled compositions with such respect, care, and passion it would have made Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart blush like a maiden on her wedding night: Johannes Nicolaus Count de la Fontaine and d'Harnoncourt-Unverzagt, offspring of late Eberhard de la Fontaine Count d'Harnoncourt-Unverzagt and his second wife, late Ladislaja Countess of Meran and Freiin Brandhofen, thus, making him a direct descendant of the Holy Emperor Francis I. And the convicted ex-Death Eater and former lieutenant of Lord Voldemort, defector, businessman, and temporary wandless Dark wizard, Lucius Malfoy II, offspring and patriarch of the ancient pure-blood family Malfoy, thus, making him a direct descendant of Lucius Malfoy I, an unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Queen Elizabeth I, struggled with tearing his eyes from Hermione Granger's profile, daughter of dentists. She was a living legend, a war-hero and best friend of The Boy Who Lived (Twice), and one of the brightest and most skilful witches of her age, with a legendary right hand that had once slapped Draco Malfoy, son and heir to aforementioned Dark wizard, right into his face. It was rumoured that Draco Malfoy still felt the offended cheek sting occasionally on bad weather days.

But none of those things mattered to Lucius, who was continually engrossed in the sight of Hermione Granger. She was transfixed by the music, breathing heavily until she temporarily abandoned that necessity during the Tuba Mirum in the third sequence. The witch embraced the sweet sounds only a true admirer of classical music was able to, and Lucius could swear he heard a sigh escape her lips during the Lacrimosa. He was sure that if he had held his hand on her chest, he would have found her heart throbbing furiously. Even the air surrounding them grew tense and started filling up with the buzz of a new sort of magic that emanated from the witch's body. She was so young, full of life and power, and he realised with growing discomfort that he envied her for the capability of displaying emotions with such raw sincerity without appearing weak, whereas he sealed his heart away in a crystal box, hiding his pleasures as if they were illicit.

Lucius had to close his eyes.

"It was a truly amazing experience," Hermione Granger whispered long after the final applause had subsided and turned to him, her expressive brown eyes hard to withstand.

"It was. It truly was, Miss Granger," he said, unintentionally ambiguous, his natural aura of superiority unusually tame, their argument in the morning completely forgotten. "Shall we?"

It escaped his attention that he just offered her his hand as years of conditioning in etiquette trained his body to move before his mind said otherwise. However, the sudden touch of her soft hand scrunched up his insides, shot up his pulse and Lucius thought his heart was going to explode. But then her hand was lost, the moment gone, and the magical energy absorbed and churning inside his body. The wizard knew immediately that he was bordering on one of his magical seizures again. He had to be very, very careful.