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SIYE Time:13:46 on 28th March 2024
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Framed
By MichiganMuggle

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Category: Post-DH/AB
Characters:None
Genres: Action/Adventure, Romance
Warnings: Dark Fiction, Death, Extreme Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Negative Alcohol Use, Rape
Story is Complete
Rating: R
Reviews: 193
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter is training to be an Auror, and he is finally back together with Ginny Weasley. But when a young woman dies of poisoning at the Ministry’s Midsummer Ball, Harry is the first suspect, and he can only uncover the true murderer by working with his childhood rival, Draco Malfoy.
Hitcount: Story Total: 56131; Chapter Total: 1857
Awards: View Trophy Room






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Chapter 14: The Children’s Hour

June 22nd, 11:00 a.m.
Greengrass Townhouse, London


Astoria considered cancelling for the umpteenth time. It had been two weeks ago, on a beautiful summer day, when she had offered to go to St. Mungo’s with Draco. He was going to be volunteering there–Astoria suspected the Malfoy family was attempting to repair their image and Draco was the guinea pig–and he was a bit nervous about it. She had spent so much of her own time in the hospital, particularly before her diagnosis, that she had no fear of hospitals or of sick people, but she knew other people did. She had once seen someone pass out in the entrance of St. Mungo’s, not because he was the patient but because he dreaded seeing the patient in the hospital.

Offering had seemed so harmless. Draco had been posing in his window seat, and with the sunlight streaming over him, turning his silver hair and pale complexion golden, he had looked almost innocent. She had been in an excellent mood, as she frequently was when she found her way in a painting. She had been volunteering at St. Mungo’s herself since she was a preteen, so it had been the most natural thing to offer to go with him the first time. He was in charge of the children’s story hour, which is something she frequently did herself, but he had decided to make it into a puppet show. Which had something to do with distance and his fear of sickness, she suspected.

But that was before the ball. Before he had found her sketch of Romilda. She was grateful that he had returned it to her, but she still worried that he might have duplicated it first. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him. At times, she believed that he had returned it to her out of sheer decency and that he really had no intention of showing it to anyone. Other times, she expected the Aurors to appear on her face doorstep, demanding to know why she had drawn Romilda with potions bottles just minutes before her death. A death that Astoria felt positive was due to poison.

He had sent her an owl yesterday. His note had been friendly, saying what a nice time he’d had talking to her at the Ministry. He had made no mention of her drawing or the murder. She had not replied. He had clearly understood something had changed in their relationship as he had owled again this morning, this time with a single sentence: “Are we still on for St. Mungo’s today?”

She had sent back, “Yes, see you at 11:30,” although what she really wanted was to stay home with a pot of tea and read the latest Ariel Prescott novel. Even as she tied the message to the leg of Draco’s eagle owl, she reconsidered her message, toying with claiming illness, hinting at feminine issues so he wouldn’t ask questions.

But she and Daphne had discussed this at length yesterday. Daphne’s advice had been, “Talk to him. You need to find out what he knows, but do not trust him. Draco looks out for Draco and Draco alone.” This had seemed like solid advice to Astoria when she’d had a constantly refilling wine glass in front of her, but now that she was sober with a hangover, she wanted nothing less than to spend a couple of hours with Draco Malfoy.

Their parents had both been away yesterday, providing wine to an elaborate house party in Wales, so the sisters had gone through two bottles of wine, a full baguette and wheel of Brie, the jar of fancy olives their mother brought home last week, and an extra large bar of chocolate.

Daphne had been in a confiding mood over the Chablis, likely because Astoria had helped her sneak into the house that morning without their parents realizing she had been out all night. She told Astoria how Roger Davies had introduced her to Quidditch stars at the ball, all of whom he knew through his job at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Astoria who had never known her sister to care about sports did not comment on Daphne’s newfound interest in Quidditch. Daphne then described Roger’s fancy flat in Manchester, undoubtedly the product of too much family money. Last but not certainly not least, Daphne confided how Roger had charmed feathers to tickle the most sensitive spots on Daphne’s body during foreplay.

Astoria felt certain that her big sister would have never confessed the last detail if they had been drinking tea, as Daphne usually behaved as if Astoria was twelve and had been known to cover Astoria’s ears when the sisters were part of racy conversations. But it wasn’t until the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and chocolate that Astoria felt equally confiding and confessed that she had not only lost her sketch but that Draco had been the one to find it.

“Merlin, Tori!” Daph said, knocking over her wine glass in the process. “How are we going to get it back?”

Astoria went to clean up the spill in the Muggle fashion, being underage, but Daphne had already cleaned it up magically. “I have it back. He gave it back to me at the end of the night. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it behind. I had been chatting to him about nothing at all, and then we were snogging. And all that time he had my sketch in his pocket!”

That was the essence of what was upsetting her. He had kissed her as if he meant it, and all the while, he had been holding something from her.

Draco wasn’t her first kiss. She’d had a boyfriend, Michel, at Beauxbatons last year, a fairly chaste romance that involved some kisses in meadows or abandoned classrooms. But she wasn’t familiar enough with snogging for it for it to be casual for her. The kisses she’d shared with Draco, had been more intense than any of her sweet kisses with Michel, and she’d felt betrayed when she learned her sketch had been in his pocket the entire time.

“Did he threaten you?”

She frowned, trying to remember Draco’s exact words. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought you should have it back. “No, nothing like that. He said he hadn’t shown it to anyone, that he wasn’t going to tell anyone, that he wanted me to have it back.”

“But you don’t believe him? You don’t look convinced to me.”

Astoria tried to sort out her thoughts, but she was having a hard enough time staying upright in her chair as she was on wine glass number five, all of which had been consumed over the course of three hours.

“I think he meant it at the time, but I keep worrying he’ll have a change of heart.”

Daphne snorted. “Draco Malfoy doesn’t have a heart. Ask Pansy Parkinson, if you don’t believe me.”

“The thing is, I didn’t get a chance to explain anything. What if he thinks I killed her?”

“Well, the good news is Draco probably doesn’t care who killed Romilda Vane. It doesn’t affect him; therefore, he is uninterested. You’re only in danger if he thinks he can use this information to get into the Ministry’s good graces.”

Astoria thought about the melancholy boy she’d spent hours with throughout the month. Would he turn her in? She knew he liked her, that he was lonely in exile and he looked forward to her visits. She also knew he was growing anxious in his isolation, and he would do anything to be welcomed back into wizarding society.

“Merlin, do you think he will?”

“Did he have an opportunity to duplicate it?” Daphne asked.

“He was unattended for, I don’t know, twenty minutes? How long were we in the loo when you were trying to calm me down?”

“Fuck,” Daphne said. “That’s not good. Well, we don’t know if he did duplicate it. It might not have occurred to him. Or he might be aware that he should keep his head down for a while. My advice is don’t panic. You do need to find out what he knows and if he plans to do anything with that knowledge.”

They had drunkenly plotted through the rest of the Cabernet, before disposing of the evidence of their excesses and heading to bed.

Now that it was morning, Astoria was full of regret. Regret that she had to face Draco so early. Regret that she’d had wine glass number three. And number four. And five. And–Merlin, what had she been thinking–glass number six.

She was freshly bathed and sitting at her vanity table, wrapped in her peach satin dressing robe and putting on her makeup when there was a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she said, expecting her mother with a fresh lecture about Draco Malfoy.

It was Daphne with a small blue bottle. “Hey, I brought you some hangover elixir.”

“May Merlin bless you,” Astoria said. She downed the bottle in a single gulp.

“Are you ready?” Daphne asked.

“No, but I will be. What choice do I have?’

“It’ll be okay,” Daphne said, although she looked unconvinced. Then she perked up and grinned, showing the Greengrass dimples that both sisters inherited. “And if it’s not, I can always modify his memory.”

Astoria laughed. “Let’s leave that as a last resort.” She stood. “How’s my makeup?”

“Good, I think. I can’t really tell you are wearing any.”

The sisters had very different approaches to cosmetics. Astoria preferred to keep it natural, merely adding some rosiness to her pale complexion and darkening her lashes, while Daphne favored a more sophisticated look.

Astoria shed her dressing robe and put on the dark blue robes she had laid out. With the puppet show she and Draco had planned, she would be on her knees quite a bit and she did not wish to wear any of her favorite clothes. The attire she picked out was practical, not overly delicate, but showed off her little waist. Once dressed, she pulled her hair into a ponytail for practicality.

At 11:35, surprised by his tardiness, she made her way downstairs, wondering if he had changed his mind about her and decided she was too much trouble to know. If he had, it would be very hypocritical of him, given that he was the hardened Death Eater and she was the shy bookworm.

She was again surprised to find that he was already there. Her mother was serving him tea in the morning room, and Draco was listening politely to whatever she had to say.

Astoria paused in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you knock.”

Draco gave her a smile. It was a relieved smile, she thought. “I didn’t.”

“Draco arrived when I was getting home from the market. He helped me carry the flowers in,” her mother said.

No wonder her mother was being so friendly. She always appreciated a gentlemanly gesture.

“That was kind, as you tend to go a bit overboard with the orchids.”

“Astoria, there is a time and a place for minimalism, and my vases are not the place. Would you like a cup of tea before you go?”

“No thank you. I’ve already had my tea, and we’re supposed to meet with Mrs. Gilbert before the noon story hour.”

Draco stood. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Greengrass.”

****



Astoria could see Draco turning green as they entered the lobby of St. Mungo’s. After they checked in with the Welcome Witch and received their visitor badges, she turned to him.

“We’ll be on the second floor. Let’s go down this corridor. The lifts over there don’t get as crowded as the ones off the lobby.”

He looked relieved not to have to share the lift with a wizard sporting tentacles, and she smothered a giggle. While Draco had seemed threatening when she had been drinking wine with her sister, he was certainly out of his element here. That gave her the advantage.

Temporarily, at least.

When they arrived at Florence Gilbert’s office, they found the Lead Healer of the Isabella Black Children’s Wing for Critical Maladies, sorting both puppets and potions.

“Hello, Draco,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry, so this will be quick. The puppet stage is set up . . . oh, Astoria! Thank heavens. Perhaps you can orient Draco since you are so familiar. We’ve had a potions mishap in Room 211 with some mislabeled potions. One child is growing tulips out of his ears while the other cannot stop singing. In Mermish.”

Draco and Astoria both made a face at the mention of Mermish singing.

“Precisely. So here, I will just give you this.” With that, Mrs. Gilbert handed Astoria a large potion bottle and left with the puppets.

“She’s always like that,” she told Draco.

Five seconds later, Mrs. Gilbert swept back into her office, realizing she had handed Astoria the potions she needed while taking the puppets they needed. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know where my head has gone.” She gave Astoria the puppets and took the potions back and left once again.

“Story hour is this way,” Astoria said.

The puppet stage was already set up, and although the show would not start for ten minutes, the children were all there. The healthier ones sat on a rug, cross-legged, while others were in wheelchairs with small blankets over their legs. Draco was turning green again.

“Relax,” she said once they were hidden behind the stage. “None of those children are contagious. If they were, they would be quarantined, not in story time. Mostly, they are just bored and grateful for any entertainment.”

They sorted out their puppets, Draco taking the boy puppets while Astoria took the girls, and Draco muttered, “Lumos,” to illuminate their scripts. At noon exactly, they began their show, a modernized mash up of The Tales of Beedle the Bard they had found in the Malfoy library.

Draco was good. Astoria had expected him to be half-hearted in his roles, but he made an especially good Sir Luckless. She wondered if Lucius or Narcissa had taken the time to do voices during his boyhood story times. The children were all laughing at his lines the most, which annoyed Astoria slightly. Yet she had to admit they worked well together, and she was having fun in spite of her worry.

After the show, the children flooded them. She sensed Draco’s discomfort, and she redirected their attention until Mrs. Gilbert arrived to retrieve the children, apparently having cured the child who had been singing in Mermish.

“Thank you, Draco, Astoria. I heard the puppet show went just swimmingly. What a treat. It hasn’t been so lively in this ward since before the war. Astoria, you will be here next Wednesday for portraits?”

She promised her she would.

“You do portraits at St. Mungo’s too?” Draco asked when Mrs. Gilbert left. “How do you find the time?”

“Well, I only do them over the summer holidays. Any other time of the year would be too busy. I told you I volunteer 10 hours a week.”

“Yes, but I figured you were reading storybooks to small children. Or visiting old people who don’t have grandchildren.”

“I do both of those things, but mostly I paint. I only paint children, and only those who are terminally ill.”

“I know I should be impressed by how selfless that is, and really I am impressed, but it sounds depressing. I couldn’t do it. How did you get started painting dying kids?”

She paused. She had never told him about her illness, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to, given that he appeared to be a person who feared all types of illness.

But she did not want to pretend to be someone she wasn’t either.

“Did your mother tell you I have a blood disorder?” She asked. When he simply looked at her in surprise, she went on, “No? Well, it’s nothing contagious or even immediately threatening. Ever since I was diagnosed, it became manageable.

“But when I was little, no one knew what it was and I spent a lot of time in St. Mungo’s with healers running tests and trying experimental potions on me. Later on, we learned my disease was hereditary . . . sort of. Apparently, my great-great-whatever grandfather was an awful person, and someone put a curse on our family, so every few generations, the firstborn male would have the then-incurable blood sickness. It hadn’t been seen in the family for at least a century. Everyone thought it had died out with generations of marriage diluting it, and I wasn’t the firstborn or male, so no one ever connected the curse with me. But one day my father mentioned it to a healer who was the first to ask some unusual questions, and sure enough, this rare disease was a perfect fit.

“Anyhow, it was pretty stressful before I was diagnosed. When I was nine, I spent the entire summer in St. Mungo’s. I was the sickest I had ever been. I had a roommate, Julia, and she also had an undiagnosed sickness. We became best friends that summer, linked by illnesses that no one around us could understand. At some point, I decided I wanted to paint Julia. She was about to turn ten, and my painting was going to my present to her, and my parents brought me the supplies.

“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was painting her as she was before the illness, not as she was when I knew her and she’d lost most of her body weight and even some chunks of her hair. Then she had a diagnosis and I had a diagnosis, and she was dying and I would get better with appropriate treatment. She was gone before her tenth birthday, so I gave the painting to her parents. Her mum asked me how I knew what she had looked like before she was sick, what photos I had looked at. I hadn’t seen any photos and I told her that, but I don’t think she believed me.

“That was the last time I was in St. Mungo’s as an overnight patient, but the story of the portrait spread. A mother of a dying child asked me to paint her son, and I received a reputation as a child painter who could paint children as they truly were inside, not as their diseases distorted them. So now I paint kids. I do it on a volunteer basis, but St. Mungo’s covers the cost of supplies.”

“How do you do it? Paint them well again?”

“I dunno. It’s just how I see them. At the end of their lives, all you can see is the evidence of their illness, but that isn’t who they are. They are kids who want to play games, go to Diagon Alley for ice cream cones, and hear bedtime stories from their parents.”

He was eyeing her carefully. “So when you paint someone, is it only the past you see? Or sometimes the future?”

Her heart began pounding. He had guessed her secret. Whether he already figured it out, or if it just put the pieces together as she told him, she did not know. “I sense many things about my subjects. Mostly, I sense their nature, but I can sometimes see defining moments in their lives. Sometimes, these moments are in the past, but usually they are in the future.”

“So, if you were to sketch . . “ Draco began, but she interrupted him.

“I am happy to discuss this with you. But not here. Will you take me home? I can answer questions there.”

When they arrived back at the Greengrass townhouse, they were quite alone. Her parents and Daphne were all at work, and their housekeeper, Arlene, had the day off.

Astoria’s heartbeat had not yet returned to normal. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. She did not like how big and echoey the house felt without her family, as it only served to make Draco feel more present. For the first time in weeks, she was reminded of just how tall he was, a full nine inches taller than her, and it made her feel fragile and childlike.

She drew herself up to her full five feet and three inches. It wasn’t much, but it was all there was of her. “Do you have lunch plans today?”

“Er . . . No.” His wry smile seemed to indicate that he never had lunch plans these days.

“Well, you are in luck because I make a fabulous Croque Madame,” she said in her best attempt at flirtation.

His eyebrows raised. “You can cook?”

“Why so surprised?”

He gestured in the general direction of some statues in her entryway. “I just thought you wouldn’t need to learn.”

“I didn’t need to learn. Daphne can’t boil water. But I like to cook. I am very close with our housekeeper Arlene and with my aunt Caresse. Both of them are legendary cooks, so I just picked it up, and I do love French food.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Draco asked, as she led him into the kitchen.

“Have you ever cooked anything?”

“No.”

She laughed. “Then you can help me by having a seat.”

She was glad she had asked him to lunch. The simple tasks of slicing bread and cheese, whisking bechamel, and frying eggs were soothing to her. On a whim, she assembled a green salad with homemade lemon vinaigrette to accompany the sandwich, thinking it would balance out the richness. And once her hands and body were calm, she knew her mind would calm as well.

“About my art,” she began, “the thing you need to understand is that I don’t control what I see. Sometimes, it’s the past, but it could also be the future or a present situation.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a Seer?” Draco asked.

“No, even though that’s probably the closest term there is. I’m not really a Seer; I’m not an Occulumens either. I am something in between.”

“How does it work?” Draco asked.

“I”m not sure. At least, I am not sure what triggers it. I will be sketching a subject and all of a sudden, I will know something that goes beyond the five senses. It could be their mood. It could be something that will happen tomorrow. It could be something that happened last year. Usually, it’s nothing more than flashes of their personality, but I’ve picked up secrets before. Last year, this wealthy grandmother hired me to paint her grandson, and while painting, I learned that the grandson was stealing from the grandmother.”

Draco looked uneasy at that revelation. “What do you see when you paint me?”

“You’re tricky. You’re in a limbo of sorts. Entangled in the past--partly by circumstances and partly by choice--but edging towards the future. I see promise in your future, but there’s darkness there too. While I still have to do much of the shading in your portrait, I think it will be a conflict between tradition and individualism, but I’m never really sure until it is done. I just hope it satisfies your mother.”

“My mother? Am I not the customer?” He smiled at her.

“The subject rarely is. And your mother picked me, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever wonder at her unconventional choice?”

“A little. She likes being a trendsetter. Maybe she just wanted an Astoria Greengrass original before everyone else did.”

“Hardly. Tobias Gilberts should be doing your portrait, not me. He paints all of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and he would trip over himself to do an official Malfoy portrait. I’m good, but Gilberts is great.”

“I think you’re pretty great,” Draco said quietly.

Astoria plated both of their meals, and set them on the kitchen table, preferring to continue this conversation in the warmth of the kitchen rather than the formality of the dining room. She opened an icy butterbeer for each of them.

“Thank you, but I can safely guess your mother did not pick me for my proficiency. A couple years ago, she saw some of my work at a charity to benefit St. Mungo’s, and she asked me some pretty shrewd questions. My mother pretty much shooed me away and answered all of her questions before I could say anything. A month later, I had my first opening at a gallery, and your mother was there. She didn’t talk to me, but she studied everything. I am pretty sure she knows there is more than just artistic inspiration in my work.”

“And what do you think she expects to see in the portrait?”

Astoria considered that thoughtfully. She’d pondered that, but she’d never articulated her suspicions before, not even to herself. “I think she needs to know that you will be all right. I think she’s worried that she and your father ruined everything for you.”

“And will I be all right?” he asked lightly, as if in jest, but she knew her answer would carry weight for her.

“That’s up to you, Draco. You have strength and intelligence, and you can do anything you put your mind to. I knew that before I began painting you. So it’s your choices that will determine your destiny.”

“And do you think I will make good choices?” He took a bite of his sandwich.

“Draco. You are asking the wrong questions. Do you think you will make good choices? Because it is what you think that determines your future.” Draco didn’t look fully comforted at that, so she added. “You aren’t your father. Your life is your own.”

They ate in silence for a while, until Draco spoke.

“This is delicious. This may be the best lunch I have ever had.”

“Thank you. Chocolate croissants are actually my specialty, but I enjoy making Croque Madame almost as much.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes more before Draco spoke again.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened with Romilda at the ball?”

“I think someone poisoned her, but I don’t actually know. She caught my eye because she looked really sad.”

She did not know how to express the wrongness of Romilda’s sadness, of how opposite she looked from the girl she remembered. The girl she’d shared a Charms class with had been an attention seeker, always flipping dark, glossy hair over one shoulder while circulating notes throughout the class with the precision of a post owl.

“She looked just so different from how I remembered her from school. I had this funny feeling, so I started sketching. I found myself drawing a border of bottles around her, and as I drew, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” She looked up from the sandwich crusts she’d been studying and into Draco’s dark grey eyes. “I didn’t know she was going to die; I just knew she was in trouble in a very immediate sense. I didn’t get to her in time. It was all so fast. I don’t know why I even gained that knowledge if there was nothing I could do to help.”

“If it was poison, it moved quickly. I don’t think you could have helped.”

“Perhaps, but I feel awful about it. She wasn’t a very nice girl, but she didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, she didn’t. She . . .” Draco broke off, staring at something at the other end of the table.

“What is it?” she asked, as Draco had gone even paler than normal.

“The Prophet” he said.

She took a glance and immediately realized why he reacted the way he did. Almost in unison, they moved to the end of the table to read the article.

Possible Motive for Potter’s Advocate of Malfoy Pardon
By Rita Skeeter and Ellen Smith

The wizarding world has been puzzled over Harry Potter’s testimony in favor of the Malfoy family in the late May trials.

“The Malfoys are Death Eaters through and through,” said Flora Clearwater, a current student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. “Draco never even tried to hide his enthusiasm for the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.”

“Of course, I was surprised,” said Ernie Macmillan of Potter’s testimony. Macmillan is a recent graduate of Hogwarts who is currently a trainee for Wizengamot Administrative Services. “They were always rivals and total opposites at Hogwarts. Harry frequently does surprising things though.”

Perhaps Potter’s motives were more than just mere whim. In light of the recent murder of Romilda Vane, age 16, Potter may have found the Malfoy family to be convenient for his own purposes.

“Draco was always really good at Potions,” said Pansy Parkinson, a recent Hogwarts graduate and housemate of Draco Malfoy in Slytherin house. “He could whip up a deadly poison faster than you could swish your wand.”

It is strongly suspected that Romilda Vane was fatally poisoned. Final autopsy reports will be made public soon, if the Ministry of Magic truly has made steps to remove the corruption of the last few years. [See “New Leaders, Same Corruption?” on page 5B]

While the Auror Department has not identified any suspects in the case, the wizarding world speculated on the possibility that Harry Potter, ex-boyfriend of Romilda Vane, could have been involved. Potter is also a trainee in the Auror Department and is involved in the investigation in spite of the clear conflict of interest. Interestingly, the Auror Department has recently requested all of the Daily Prophet’s photo coverage of the Midsummer Ball, prompting speculation that the Aurors may be seeking to destroy evidence and promote a cover up.

“Potter was never good at Potions,” said Parkinson of her former classmate. “Professor Snape had to correct him endlessly to keep him from blowing up the Potions dungeon.”

Could Potter’s championing of the Malfoy family been in exchange for a deadly favor from the Malfoy heir?

Reporters from the Prophet visited both the Abercrombie and Sons Apothecary in Diagon Alley and Magical Herbs and Wizarding Greenhouse Supply in Salisbury and both businesses confirmed that the Malfoys are regular purchasers of both exotic plants and rare potions ingredients.

Had Draco Malfoy, age 18, been convicted of aiding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he could have faced a minimum of 20 years in Azkaban. One could speculate that his freedom was the perfect price for his cooperation and his silence.


Astoria was able to skim the article quickly, but Draco kept his eyes on it, as if hoping the words might change if he just stared long enough. It was exactly the sort of thing one expected from Rita Skeeter, who had once accused Astoria’s father of bribing Ministry officials to keep wizarding trade policy in his favor.

“It’s pure rubbish,” she said. “Magical Law Enforcement knows better than to get leads from Rita Skeeter. No one will remember this in a week’s time.”

Of course, her father had seen his business profits plummet for a full year after Rita’s article, but she didn’t feel the need to bring that up.

He laughed without mirth. “There are plenty of people who would like to see me pay for all the ills of the war.”

“Perhaps but you and Harry Potter plotting murder together is pretty far fetched. Anyone in Magical Law Enforcement will be able to see the absurdity.”

While she didn’t doubt that many would be pleased to think the worst of Draco, they would need to think ill of Harry Potter first, and their reluctance to do so would be Draco’s saving grace, as Harry had practically been sainted after the battle.

“My entire life is absurd,” Draco muttered. He picked up his plate and put it into the sink, and then removed his cloak from the back of his chair. “Thank you for lunch, Astoria, but I should get going.”
She sensed that he wanted to get as physically far away from the article as possible. She followed him into the hall, where he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t want to go home,” he said.

She heard the unspoken words. But I have nowhere else to go.

* * * *


1:45 p.m.
The Tate Gallery, London.

“It’s full of Muggles,” Draco said as they stood outside the art museum.

Bringing Draco to Muggle London may have been one of her crazier ideas, but she felt certain that he was in no danger of meeting anyone he knew here and there certainly wouldn’t be any copies of The Daily Prophet around.

Back at the house, Astoria had changed from her day robes to a simple white Muggle dress, and she had caught Draco admiring her bare legs when she came down the stairs. Draco had discarded his cloak for the outing, as his gray shirt and black trousers were simple enough not to attract attention in Muggle London.

“It’s a common problem with Muggle museums,” Astoria agreed, trying not to laugh. “Have you never been in a public spot with Muggles before?”

“Of course I have. I just don’t make much of a habit of it.”

She grabbed his hand, pulling him into the entrance. “And what Muggle infested areas have you visited?”

She could feel the tension in his arm, but he allowed her to pull him in.

“King’s Cross, obviously.”

“That doesn’t count!”

“How does that not count? King’s Cross is elbow to elbow Muggles. I must insist you give me credit.”

Astoria dimpled. “It doesn’t count because the Muggle/wizard ratio is completely skewed on Hogwarts travel days. Ministry officials are always there, in case anything goes wrong, so unless you went to King’s Cross for non-Hogwarts travel, I cannot count it.”

“I have been to the Eiffel Tower,” Draco protested.

She tilted her head. “During Muggle hours or wizarding hours?”

“It’s a Muggle landmark!”

Astoria couldn’t help her giggles. “Oh, Draco! You are sheltered in the strangest ways.”

He did not seem to find that as funny as she did, so she shared the museum map with him, explaining the different wings they could visit and how the art styles differed in various time periods.

“Which is the least crowded?” Draco asked.

“Too many Muggles for you?”

“It’s not the Muggles, exactly. But whenever you have a crowd this size, someone is always sick.”

“Draco! What is with you and disease? I have a feeling that while I and every other magical kid in Britain was little and checking under the bed for ghouls, you were under your bed, looking for Spattergroit!”

“I don’t like being sick, which is a perfectly normal preference.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, and for the smallest moment, Astoria saw him as he must have been when he was four years old and determined to stay up past his bedtime.

“If it’s any comfort, Muggles don’t even get Dragon Pox or Spattergroit.” She waited a moment before an evil impulse made her add, “They have completely different infectious diseases.”

“That is not comforting! I really don’t care to pick up a Muggle disease. How would I know how to treat it? Or if it’s even treatable?”

“Relax. You are immune to Muggle diseases, and they are immune to ours. Did you know that some Muggleborns never get sick until they go to Hogwarts? With immunity to Muggle disease and no exposure to wizarding disease, their bodies do not need to fight any illness. And Squibs have the opposite problem. Anyhow, that’s part of the reason my mum brought me here when I was young and sickly. The Muggles weren’t a threat to my health.”

“So I can’t catch anything here?”

“You can catch a cold. All mammals are susceptible to colds.”

They walked along the corridor. Draco seemed calmer now, but she noted that he seemed to tilt in the opposite direction any time a Muggle got too close to him.

“How do you know so much about disease?”

“Aside from spending so much quality time at St. Mungo’s and with Madam Pomfrey? I’m kinda interested in becoming a healer. I didn’t take any O.W.L.s last year; French schooling is a little different. But I should have the grades to take the needed N.E.W.T. level courses. I’m sure Professor Flitwick will let me.”

“That should be a safe bet as no one took any O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s last year with the war. Everyone’s grades were terrible, too. I guess I just figured you’d continue with your art after school, but I don’t know why I thought that; you have the brains to do whatever you want.”

Astoria knew that Draco did not give out praise lightly. She had spent time worrying that he might think her too immature, or too sheltered, or just not sexy enough. She hadn’t really considered what he might think of her intelligence in spite of being a Ravenclaw, but she was pleased that he had noticed her intellect.

“I could make a living off my art. It would definitely be the easiest way to go as I already have a reputation. But healers have been some of the most significant people in my life, and I’d like to do what they do. I’m thinking pediatrics, although I have some interest in obstetrics.”

They reached their intended wing of the museum.

“Nothing moves,” he whispered to her when he got his first glimpse of Muggle artwork. “No one finds it strange?”

“It’s what they expect. These people would all panic if anything moved on the canvas. It’s what I like most about Muggle portraits. A Muggle has to capture the absolute perfect moment; it’s more of a challenge.”

Astoria smiled as a random memory came to mind, and on a whim, she decided to share with Draco.

“When I was little, I was obsessed with Muggle art. I kept telling my parents that I was going to be a Muggle and an artist when I grew up. My parents thought that was really funny until some friends of theirs spent the weekend with us. They were part of a really old wizarding family, and they were complaining about managing house elves these days, or something like that, when I proudly informed them that I was a Squib and I loved paints more than anything in the world. My parents were horrified, of course, and quickly told them I was an imaginative child. I think they were relieved when I tripped on the stairs the next morning and the guests saw me do magic to keep myself from falling down the rest of the flight.”

Draco laughed. “I can’t believe you told them you were a Squib.”

“I was only six! When I first told my parents I wanted to be a Muggle artist, they just laughed and my dad called me his little Squib. They didn’t seem upset with the notion, so I figured Squib was an endearment of some sort. I thought they were telling me I was clever or something. It was years until I realized being a Squib was considered a shameful thing and that my parents thought the jokes were funny because they were positive I wasn’t one.”

He laughed harder, and she was pleased to note that he no longer looked terrified to be surrounded by Muggles and all their Muggle diseases.

She frowned. “You know, I think it might have been Pansy Parkinson’s parents that were our houseguests.”

“Merlin! They definitely would have told everyone you were a Squib and campaigned to keep you out of Hogwarts. Be grateful for your staircase clumsiness.”

She commented on a Pre-Raphaelite painting, telling Draco a few things about the techniques, before she transitioned back to their earlier conversation. “So, what are your plans now that you are out of Hogwarts? I’ve told you mine.”

“I’m still working that out. I think I can rule out any Ministry job. My reputation is too tarnished. Ever since I was cleared by the Ministry–or semi-cleared, as I can’t leave the country for five years–I’ve been trying to work out that out. I’ve been thinking about what I’m good at: potions, charms, even more technical skills like writing. But I’m still drawing a blank.”

“Do you have a daydream job?” she asked.

“Curse breaker,” he said quietly.

“Sounds exciting. Are you able to pursue that, or does it require too much international travel for your Ministry restrictions?”

“There are domestic jobs,” he admitted, “but my inability to travel until 2003 leaves me at a disadvantage. 2003! Doesn’t that sound like a completely new era?”

She smiled. “Not as much as it did when I was a kid, but it does a little, yes. Why curse breaking?”

“In my sixth year, I had a . . . special project. I had to fix a broken magical object. I was under a lot of pressure, and it took me a while to figure out how the object even worked. It basically had a series of enchantments on it. One of those enchantments had been removed, which not only kept it from working, but it put the other enchantments out of balance. I had to figure out not only what charms had been placed on it, but in what order they had been cast. I had to remove all of the charms in reverse order and then re-cast them in the correct order.

“It was really stressful, but I enjoyed it. Or I would have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been under a very real threat to fix it. And somewhere in the process, I realized I was good at it, understanding how magic works. And I think that’s why I like potions. You need to understand the essence of things. You need to know the characteristics of pixie wings and doxy venom, and how they work together, how things change if you add one ingredient before they other, and how stirring in a particular direction will bring out certain properties. It’s logical.”

He broke off, looking embarrassed. Astoria guessed he hadn’t intended on giving her a speech. “And that’s what curse breakers do. They figure out how things work and then they deconstruct them.”

“You should pursue it,” Astoria said. “Even if you can’t leave the country for a few years. Gringotts has plenty of dig sites in Britain. The Druids did all kinds of weird stuff back in the day. You could become an expert all things Druidic and when the futuristic year of 2003 arrives, you can go anywhere you want.”

“You think Gringotts might take me?” Draco looked more boyishly hopeful than she had ever seen him.

“Why not? You aren’t the one who broke in and grabbed a dragon on the way out.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe he is not in trouble for that. Or actually, I can.”

“This one!” Astoria said gleefully.

Draco looked around. “The what?”

“The painting,” she told him. “This is my favorite painting in the whole world.”

They stood in front of Sir John Everett Millais’s Ophelia, which Astoria had gazed at many times in her life.

“It does have a peculiar beauty,” Draco admitted. “Even if it doesn’t move.”

“It’s perfect,” Astoria said. “Look at these brushstrokes. I have never been able to create texture like this. And the emerald green is just gorgeous.”

“I think you appreciate beauty more than anyone I know.”

“I have to,” Astoria said. “I won’t live to old age. The healers told me that when I was twelve and declared old enough to hear the bad news. Oh, I’m not dying next week or anything, but it could be at thirty. Or forty. But I won’t die an old lady snug in my bed, surrounded by my grandchildren. In fact, I have been strongly advised not to have children at all.”

She was aware of Draco’s sympathetic gaze upon her, even though she refused to look at him, preferring to keep her eyes on Ophelia. It was funny how opposite their desires were. Draco wanted time to speed by, so he could be twenty-three and free to leave Britain. All the while, she wanted time to slow down, so she could savor things.

She continued on, “So, while I’m here I want everything. Every sunset. Every glass of wine, every piece of chocolate. I want to see every piece of art that I can. Because it’s all just too perfect to be ignored.”

She felt him take her hand, and they just stood in front of the painting, side by side, drinking it all in.

A/N: From my very hasty research of art museums of London, I understand what is now known as Tate Brittain was known as the Tate Gallery from 1932 to 2000. Hopefully, this is accurate. I have only been to London once and am hardly an expert on their museum scene.
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