Hermione woke, hair in her mouth, still on the rug in front of the fire. Sometime in the night Draco had summoned a blanket and both of them had curled under it, too sated and lazy to move even to their own bed. The fire had burnt itself out, and even the ashes looked cold. Draco pulled himself up next to her and shook his head. "The floor is not as soft as one might hope," he said.

She groaned. "I want a shower." She was sticky in ways that, in the cold light of morning, seemed not the slightest bit appealing. She didn't even want to look at the rug in case they'd left evidence of their night. Were there cleaning charms for passion on the floor? She certainly wasn't going to ask Narcissa.

The shower was hot, and the towels divine, and when she emerged Draco tossed her a tiny glass bird. She gasped, and reached out for it, afraid its tiny perfection would shatter if it fell, but it flapped its wings and stayed aloft, just out of reach. She laughed with delight and the bird finally settled down into her outstretched palm, fluffed its wings, then hardened into immobile glass.

"You are a wonder," she said.

Draco shrugged, but she could see the pleasure in his eyes at her compliment.

They had to get out, had to feel air and see people who weren't wrapped up in politics and betrayal. Without either of them seeming to make a conscious choice, they ended up in Diagon Alley, fingers laced together, walking over the cobblestone streets and window-shopping.

And overhearing conversations.

"It's not right," a witch said in a voice so righteous Hermione had to look over. A pointed green hat sat atop dull red hair and the nose pointing out into the street had lift to it almost as sharp as the witch's complaints. "If I'd gone around painting graffiti onto the walls, my mum would have taken a switch to me."

Her companion didn't bother to hide the roll of her eyes. "Your mother spoiled you rotten, Edna," she said. "She'd have no more beaten you than you'd beat that girl of yours."

Hermione had the distinct feeling the second speaker felt the girl in question could, perhaps, have used a firmer hand with the discipline. People who went on the longest about the failures of other people's parenting always seemed to have the worst kids. "That doesn't make it right," Edna said with a sniff. "It's defacing public property."

Draco nudged her and pointed at the wall. The message was half hidden by a barrel filled with used Quidditch brooms for sale, but We Wait to Rise writhed on the wall in orange and red paint that mimicked flames.

"Huh," Hermione said. "I don't think I've seen that spell before." She'd seen portraits that talked, and portraits that moved, and very angry portraits that screamed, but she'd never seen lettering move the way wizarding photographs did.

"It's a new technique," said a man coming up behind her. He had on Muggle sandals he probably thought were trendy and wore a string of hollow metal beads around his neck. Hermione was sure if she looked closely enough, she'd find a 'Made in India' inscription on them somewhere. He looked familiar, though she assumed at first that was because this type of wizard seemed to pop up everywhere. He knew just a little more about any subject than any woman did, and was prone to hanging around young witches, holding on to texts about female magic and talking earnestly about the divine feminine while staring a little too hard at his conversational partner's breasts.

"Oh?" she said. It seemed too awkward not to reply at all.

"There's a very cutting-edge artist – I'm sure you haven't heard of her – Ficus is her name. She does modern portraits, cubism. That sort of thing. Cubism is -."

"I know what it is," Hermione said. There was being polite and then there was subjecting herself to a half-arsed lecture on an art movement.

"Well," he went on, though he made sure to level a censorious look at her for interrupting him. "She's developed a new paint technique."

"That's actually quite interesting," Draco said. He leaned closer to look at the letters. The fire jerked and danced. "A new potion, maybe? Or do you think it's a charm?"

Hermione was herself charmed by the pure academic interest in his voice and she stepped closer to see the paint better herself. It was easy to forget Draco Malfoy had been as good a student as she had been. Easy to forget he'd had a mind that turned easily to solving complicated magical problems, even if he'd used it for obnoxious tricks like those 'Potter Stinks' buttons. Maybe when this was all over, they could set up a laboratory somewhere at Malfoy Manor and enjoy the intellectual pleasure of research and let someone else handle the politics.

"Has to be a potion," the man said. There was a sneer in his voice and when Hermione turned to look at him, the curl of his lip echoed his tone. "She's a squib."

"I know who she is," Draco said idly. He reached a finger out to touch the paint. "My mum is a bit of a patron. I think she has some commissions in mind." He turned and looked at the man, running his eyes over the twist of his mouth and the beads around his neck. He let his attention rest just a moment too long on the receding hairline before he held a hand out. "Malfoy," he said. "Draco Malfoy. Have we met?"

The man took the hand and shook it with a little too much vigor. "No," he said. "I didn't know your family was interested in art, Mr. Malfoy. I'm delighted to hear that, delighted."

Draco freed his hand and shoved it down into the pocket of his trousers. "Oh, yes," he said. "Though I think my wife prefers photography, don't you, love?"

Hermione sighed. So, it was to be lord of the manor, then. "I do," she said. "There was a young woman who did the society photography for our wedding I've been meaning to track down. I'd like to have her do a series of still lifes for when we redecorate."

"Redecorate?" Draco asked.

"I can't live with all the ancient Malfoys," she said. She waved her hand as if annoyance with old paintings was the worst thing in her world and leaned closer to the pretentious twerp they were, for some reason, talking to. "They judge, you know," she said. "All of them."

"And what are you planning to have her shoot?" Draco asked. He was every inch the indulgent, rich husband and she thought she was going to laugh.

"The rose garden," she said blandly.

"Mr. Malfoy." The man was still talking. She wasn't worthy of that much attention but Draco, oh, he wanted something from Draco. "There's a show. The Ficus woman has some pieces in it, but I do as well, and I'd love to have you come over, take a look." He already had a flyer out and was thrusting it towards Draco with pathetic eagerness.

Draco kept his hands firmly in his pockets, but Hermione took it. She also took a harder look at the man handing it over and a smile twitched at her mouth. She'd seen him before. They both had, at an art opening they'd gone to in disguise. He'd been condemning their politics as she recalled. They were both in league with the current Ministry, she'd betrayed Harry, made her bed, had to lie in it. No pity for her. Funny how the discovery the Malfoys patronized artists rendered all their politics moot.

According to the flyer in her hand this man was Carlton Avery, painter of mostly naked women. He didn't seem to be interested in doing their heads, and wasn't especially good at fingers, but the close ups of torsos and thighs were certainly something. Her face must have betrayed at least a hint of her scorn because he said, "The female form has a long history of being a central subject in art."

"Uh huh," Hermione said. She passed the paper over to Draco, who deigned to take it from her hands.

"No need to be defensive," he said with every upper-class vowel he could summon. "I like naked women as much as the next man."

Hermione turned back to the graffiti so no one would see the exasperated roll of her eyes. Arabella had managed something quite spectacular with that paint. She suspected Percy had helped her. He might have been the dullest of the Weasley children, at least as far as most people were concerned, but no one had ever accused him of being unintelligent. And dating that photographer might have piqued his interest in the visual arts. "We should go to the exhibit," she said. It wasn't as if they had anything else planned today.

"Exactly what I was thinking," Draco said. Carlton nearly fell over himself offering to lead them there in case they got lost. Hermione hooked her hand around Draco's arm and listened to the babbling about art and support and how no one really appreciated the sacrifices artists made.

"Do you ever dabble in political work?" Draco asked.

Carlton shook his head. "Even Ministry workers buy art," he said with false heartiness. "Why alienate a potential client, right?"

Hermione flicked a glance at him. "Right," she said.

"I mean," he went on, "you've certainly changed your tune, right? First Harry Potter's best friend, now Draco Malfoy's wife? People are people on both sides of the political divide, right?"

"Even squibs?" she asked quietly.

He had the self-awareness to flush, which surprised her, and she let go of Draco's arm to push her way into the gallery. Arabella's work hung in the most prominent locations. It was growing on her and she stopped to look at a sallow, hook-nosed figure in black. He scowled at her from one of his two mouths. One of his hands tried to use his wand to stab a snake wrapping itself around his feet. She bent down to read the title plaque. He Who is Detached.

"You like that one?" Carlton asked her. He didn't seem to have any intention of letting them be.

"Yes," she said. "I'm curious about the title."

"A play on the figure's structural composition," Carlton said as though that were the most obvious answer in the world. He clearly delighted in being able to educate her. "As you can see, there isn't a single perspective and we're looking at the man from several different angles, and the different geometric shapes that build up his body appear to be not attached to one another and, indeed, to be tumbling down."

"Yes, I believe I said I knew what cubism was," Hermione said. Draco had come up beside her. "Do you think she had a specific model in mind?"

"No," Carlton said.

She didn't think he was right. She was pretty sure she knew who this was meant to be. "I want this one," she said suddenly. Uncomfortable sympathy, maybe, or maybe it was the way the portrait looked at her with too much understanding. She shook her head to try to clear that thought away. She was surely projecting that.

"This one?" Draco asked. Before she could confirm he'd waved over a gallery assistant and was murmuring to her in a quiet voice. Wealth was so odd. She wanted something, and now it was hers. She heard the delight in the sales girl's voice as she assured Draco the work would be delivered as soon as the show was over, would he like her to send an owl to confirm the best time?

"That would be fine," Draco said. He took her arm and led her deeper into the gallery and instead of Arabella Figg's disjointed and fascinating portraits, she found herself staring at a very large set of nipples.

"The Nymph," Carlton said. Someone came up behind them and hissed something at Carlton. "Not now," he said. "Can't you see I'm talking to a man who likes art?"

"No," the man said. "Now."

"Have we met?" Draco asked.

"No," the man said. The words were clipped and dismissive. "I don't think we have."

Draco held his hand out. "Draco Malfoy," he said.

"I know who you are," the man said. Draco kept his hand out and the utter awkwardness of that forced the man to take it. Point to Draco, Hermione thought. So few people could stomach being as flat out rude as Harry could manage without batting a single, green eye. "You can call me John Smythe."

The agitator from one of their earlier visits. Of course. This one was far less of a hypocrite and the Malfoy money didn't move him the way it moved Carlton.

"Great," Carlton said. "Now that you've introduced yourself, John, go away." If they wanted to maintain any sort of pretense that John wasn't a fake name, Carlton shouldn't have put so much emphasis on it, Hermione thought. These people just weren't good at conspiracy.

"I can't," John said. "It's starting."

Hermione shoved past him at that, almost running to the glass panes that faced the street. Dozens – no more – of witches and wizards were marching in the street. She saw an effigy of Corban Yaxley. It was on fire.

"We rise," screamed a witch as she went past.

"The time is now," yelled another.

"Maybe you don't want to be here right now," John Smythe said. He sounded smug and she had a feeling he wanted to throw her to the mob.

Harry apparated into the street right in front of the door and shoved it open. "Hermione," he said. "Christ, I've been looking for you everywhere. Is now really the best time to be looking at art? And what's with that ugly portrait of Snape?"

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N - Many thanks to moonlightmasquerade for a most excellent and quick beta reading job! Any remainings issues are, of course, mea culpa.