Hermione wound her hair back into a neat twist and shoved a pin in it. When it threatened to tumble down anyway she murmured a sticking charm. She didn't want to have to fuss with this nonsense. Bad enough she had to drink that vile Polyjuice or go mingle with the pretentious snobs of the wizarding art world. She didn't plan to have a hair emergency.

Draco laughed at the sour expression on her face and came up behind her. "You could leave it down," he suggested. He touched one finger to a spot he'd learned well on their honeymoon. "Keep me away."

She smiled at him in the mirror and for a moment her eyes were warm. Then they weren't. "We have a job to do," she said. "We aren't going to this for fun."

"Oh, thank god," he said. "I wouldn't want to have any fun." She gave him a look that would have quelled Harry or Ron but Draco just quirked a brow up and remained resolutely unquelled. She tried to suppress a smile but didn't quite manage it. He'd been happier since the time they'd taken away. It made her want to slip out, run for the hills with him, and never return. He handed her the potion and she pushed that fantasy aside.

They both took a swig and pretended polyjuice didn't taste vile.

"It'll be fun," she said as she transformed into a wholly unremarkable witch. "People do go to these to have a good time, right?"

What fun there was in the world hadn't stopped in to visit that particular art gallery, however. The paintings were as bad as ever and Hermione had to keep from groaning at the one of three cats trying to climb up the legs of an otherwise unseen figure. Even with the fragmented style she recognized Arabella Figg's pants. A small tortoiseshell cat had a feather in its mouth that it kept offering to anyone who came near.

"Is that a phoenix feather?" Draco asked.

"You know your birds." The man who came up behind them wore dress slacks just a little too short. He had scrapes along three knuckles hadn't healed.

"Well," Draco said, almost simpering in his polyjuiced role of art lover. Hermione wanted to tell him not to lay it on so thick but she settled for a glare. He ignored it. "They aren't exactly difficult birds to spot. Not like the common siren sparrow."

"Plus," Hermione said rather dryly, "the feather is on fire."

"Smoldering," the man said but even as he said that the hints of red at the edge of the feather leapt upward in a glorious spattering of red and yellow and orange dots as Arabella's experiment with pointillism burned. When the feather was gone, the cat trotted off to a distant corner of the painting.

"He's getting another one," the man said. "It cycles through. I've seen him get four so far."

"Her," Hermione said.

"What?"

The cat returned and Hermione pointed at the orange and black patterns on the cat's fur. "All tortoiseshell cats are female," she said.

The man squinted at her. "I don't feel like that's right," he said. "He's the cat bringing the phoenix feather back to us. Wouldn't that make him male?"

"Like Potter," someone near them murmured very quietly.

Hermione ground her teeth together and tried to keep a pleasant smile on her face. Her job here was to recruit these people to help overthrow the government. She didn't have to like them. She didn't have to plan on inviting them back to the Manor for tea and biscuits. She certainly didn't have to get them to acknowledge she was right even though she absolutely was and how dare this idiot try to impose his feeling that a phoenix feather bringing cat had to be male because of some sexist twaddle he had embedded deep down in his worthless little brain?

One little comment wouldn't hurt.

She opened her mouth.

Draco stepped closer and his foot scraped along the back of her heel hard enough to break skin.

"Oh," came the too shrill voice of Arabella Figg before Hermione could recover from Draco's apparent clumsiness. She came lumbering toward them, wine glass clutched in fingers with nails she'd clearly chewed on wearing a truly unfortunate skirt. "You found Charlene!"

Hermione bent over and read the placard next to the painting.

Title: Charlene and Her Catch.
Artist: Doreen Ficus
Description: This work explores the relationship between depersonalization and violence. Influenced by both Pablo Picasso's Cat Devouring a Bird and recent wizarding history, this painting crafts new synergies for the modern day, leaving the viewer with insight into the inaccuracies of predicting the future.

"I like it," she said. She didn't. It was terrible. But she couldn't tell Arabella that and, besides, as propaganda it was working.

Arabella beamed at her. "I am so happy to hear that," she said. The cat in the painting let out a yowl that made Arabella frown. "Hush, you," she said. She leaned closer to Hermione and said in a whisper clearly meant to carry. "I had no idea when I used my own kitty as a model the painting would manage to capture so much of her personality. She's a very loud cat."

"I'm sure magical paints are a learning experience," the man who had been sure Charlene had to be a boy cat said. "What with you being, well -." He hesitated as though he were being delicate.

"A squib," Arabella said. This time she didn't bother to pretend to keep her voice down. "You can say it, dearie."

"I didn't want to embarrass you," he said.

"No point in being embarrassed by the way we're born," she said. She patted him on the arm and Hermione pushed her lips together. Arabella looked for all the world like she was commiserating with him on his many congenital failings. He wasn't thick enough to miss that and he bristled. Her smile got more and more condescending and he bristled and she condescended and he bristled until at last he looked away from her and back at the picture.

"The cat is a boy," he said, trying to salvage some sort of pride.

"Oh, no," Arabella said. "All tortoiseshell cats are female."

"Anyway," said the man near to them who'd mentioned Potter, "it's a very interesting piece, Madam Ficus."

"Thank you." Arabella beamed at him.

"There are many things going on in the world," he said. "A person wants to know how he might become involved."

"I think," Arabella said, "that it's important for art lovers to meet and talk about the work. Like a book club."

"If I might get a shot?" A photographer pushed her way over and Hermione almost said hullo. It was the same woman who'd shot their wedding. She had the same little necklace on. Before she could ask how Percy was the woman's eye's slid over her without recognition and she remembered she wasn't Hermione Granger. Malfoy now, she supposed. Arabella Figg had recognized her, but she'd expected to see her here. The photographer wasn't on the lookout.

"Of course." Arabella stood next to the painting with a broad smile on her face. "Art saves us all."

The photographer snapped a picture, then another, saying, "People sometimes make the worst faces," before handing a card over to the man who'd asked about what he could do. "We have a little group you might like," she said. "Meets every Wednesday. We talk about art. Modern art. Art history."

"History?" the man asked.

"The past always influences the present," the photographer said. "People who don't study history are doomed to repeat it and all that jazz."

"Imagine having to repeat those medieval things," Draco said. "Where important people were drawn larger than less important ones."

"Some parts of the past you don't want to live again," Arabella said with a laugh.

The man Hermione had started to think of as Potter-man was studying the card. No one had offered to introduce themselves and it seemed awkward to ask. He frowned and said, "Didn't you shoot the Malfoy wedding?"

"I did," the photographer said. "Beautiful event."

"If you like Death Eaters," he said. He handed the card back to her. "I don't think your group and I would be a good fit."

She refused to accept it. "I think you'd quite like the free exchange of views," she said. She put a bit of emphasis on 'free.' He hesitated and she pushed his hand back toward his chest. "We've been planning some public art appreciation events and we need everyone we can get."

He closed his hand around the card and shoved it into a pocket. "I'll think about it," he said. "Just not sure I trust someone who cozies up to that lot."

"At least she didn't sleep her way in," someone said. There was a round of laughter that tickled as if it were sophisticated and charming. It sounded just like the laughter Hermione had heard at the Malfoy parties. "Woman had a job to shoot some pictures, she did. I saw them in the Prophet. They were nice work."

"Thank you," she said.

"The bride, though."

"Harry Potter's best friend."

"Married into that world."

"Makes you sick."

"Wonder if she regrets it already."

"I feel sorry for her."

"I don't." That was the man who'd been so sure the cat in the painting had to be male. "She made her bed. She can sleep in it."

"I doubt there's much sleeping involved."

Another round of laughter and Hermione could feel bile rise in the back of her throat. Draco set a hand on her lower back and she watched Arabella's mouth tighten in a line so narrow if she'd painted it she'd have had to use the tiniest of brushes. "I wouldn't be so quick to judge," she said softly. "People are often not what they seem."

He patted her on the arm. "You're an artist," he said, unable to hide how pleased he was to be able to condescend to her about something after she'd slapped him down earlier. "You see the best in everyone. It's why we love you."

That might have led to an awkward pause. It might have led to Hermione hexing him under her breath. She'd been running through what charms she could do wandlessly that would sting a bit without really hurting him or giving herself away. A loud slam as the door of the gallery opened and closed interrupted her. She looked up, expecting to be annoyed. The sight of an Auror turned that annoyance into sudden, sharp fear. "There's been an incident," he said.

"What sort of incident?" a woman asked. She had gone from smugly arch art lover to pale and afraid. "Muggles?"

"Sort of," the Auror said. He scanned the crowd. "A disturbed man has attacked a Muggle shop. He cursed fifteen people before someone contacted us, then ran."

"Was he… was he a Death Eater?" someone asked.

The Auror frowned. "We don't know anything yet," he said. "We're asking everyone in wizarding establishments to shelter in place until he's caught."

"But that could be hours," a man protested.

"Then aren't you lucky you're in a place with wine," the Auror snapped.

Hermione glanced at Draco and he nodded. Whatever else might happen, they needed to leave. The polyjuice would wear off if they didn't drink more, and neither wanted to be caught sneaking sips from flasks tucked in their pockets. Not with an Auror in the room. He'd take them into custody just to find out who they were, that they'd broken no laws be damned. And it wouldn't be good for the Ministry to find out the young Malfoy couple were at an art event in disguise. No rules against it, but it looked bad. They couldn't afford to look bad.

"Are we at least allowed to use the loo?" Hermione asked in a timid voice. She made herself seem as mousy as possible and lifted up her barely touched wine as if to explain her need. The Auror grimaced and she could see him wanting to say no but that was too authoritarian for him to justify.

"Just don't be too long," he said.

She nodded, and linked her hand through Draco's. "I'm scared," she said in the same voice. "Walk with me in case he's back there."

The Auror visibly rolled his eyes but didn't stop Draco from escorting her to the back of the gallery and down the hall to where the public loo was. She dropped the act as soon as they were out of sight. He pushed on an exterior door and, when it seemed to be locked, muttered a quick alohomora. It opened.

"Wandless," she said. "Nice."

Out in the alley they both took a deep breath. Hermione could feel the polyjuice start to wear off and reached a hand up to touch her hair. It had stayed in place but it was definitely back to its curly self. "Home?" Draco asked.

A ruckus started by some garbage cans and she nodded. "Side-along me," she said.

There was a bright flash of light right as he sucked her away into the void of apparition.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N - Thank you to sparkleme26 for her generous offer to beta read and salazars, who always saves me from myself and finds my misplaced commas.