Author's Note: This is set a few years after the war. Some minor changes to canon, but nothing that requires mention or AU. If you have any questions, let me know!

(Let me be the wallpaper that papers up your room!)
I want to be every button you press
And all the baths that surround you
Yes I'm gonna roll around you
Like a cat rolls around saw dusted patios
I'm gonna kiss you
Like the sun browns you

"Every Other Freckle" by alt-J

Skin

Hermione idled near the front door, carefully disentangling the knot in her chest. It was roughly eight o'clock in the morning, and around that time, she was usually on her way to the Ministry, where a hideously large pile of work was delivered to her cubicle at the stroke of nine . . . but after an intensely messy breakup and an incident involving four shots of fire whiskey too many at the Ministry Christmas Party, she was left with a large, gaping hole in the middle of the work week.

Take a day, Harry lightly advised in a kind, but authoritative fashion. Er . . . Maybe three. Given that he was now Head of the Auror Office, his 'advice' wasn't so much a friendly suggestion as it was damage control.

Hermione couldn't blame him.

She cringed inwardly, bombarded with vivid flashbacks of the Christmas Party . . . a ton of shots and maybe three flashes of her underthings, followed by a teary-eyed rendition of 'I don't need a man' by The Pussycat Dolls later, both Harry and his wife Ginny were forced to drag Hermione out of the room and onto the Knight Bus. She couldn't remember most of what led to it, but she did, at one point, throw herself at Stan Shunpike and beg him to invade her Chamber of Secrets. Shudder. Thankfully, he was more of a gentleman than she realized. Instead of seeing what the Chosen One's bookish friend had to offer, Stan escorted her off the bus and onto the front step of her building, where she somehow managed to crawl three stories, before passing out in the middle of the stairwell.

The next morning, one of Hermione's neighbours (an elderly Lithuanian woman by the name of Ludwika) mistakenly awoke the witch by treading overtop of her carrying a full bag of laundry. It was safe to assume she was generously rewarded with a gnawing, twisting hangover, as well as a gentle reminder that she made a complete and utter arse out of herself the previous night. Harry was kind about it, considering . . . but she didn't expect anything less from him. She could have detonated a bomb in the middle of the Atrium, and he still would have given her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the Atrium needed a bomb, you know? It was getting a bit boring around here.

Jokes aside, Hermione couldn't recall the last time she had more than a few hours of freedom; let alone an entire three days.

By her mother's suggestion, she decided to dive into a few of her childhood hobbies, including a ballet class at the local dance studio (to which she had arrived late, without her pointe shoes, and with a leotard that was two sizes too small) and a visit to the Art Gallery. As a witch, she tried hard not to forget her roots, but it was sometimes difficult, and although two of the three days had gone by without a major hitch in the road, she had a feeling there was about to be a big one.

For some inane reason, she took it upon herself to sign up for an art class; not as a student, but as a model. A couple days back, on her way home from the Art Gallery, she noticed a volunteer sheet in the lobby of the building. It was a little unorthodox to sign up out of the blue, when she had zero modeling experience, but she needed an intense 'fuck the world' moment, and at the time, she felt there was nothing in the universe that screamed 'fuck the world' louder, than shedding her inhibitions and modeling nude for a bunch of strangers.

Granted, it wasn't complete nudity . . . but it was enough to incite a visit to the salon. She was overdue for a wax anyway.

With those thoughts firmly in mind, Hermione clasped a hand around the door handle and took a moment to breathe, before walking in. The interior of the building was in stark contrast to the red brick, filled with neutral-tone minimalist furniture, white light and high ceilings. There was a young man at reception, who greeted Hermione with a firm smile. As expected, he was dressed in smart clothes, consisting of black trousers and a black button-up, with his bright auburn hair styled in a clean, sophisticated pompadour. And on top of the front desk, was a frosted glass nameplate marked in slate grey lettering.

Thomas Laurie

"May I be of any assistance to you?" asked Thomas in a tone that was slightly less than snobbish but slightly more than not.

Hermione stared at him a moment, blank in the face. "Er . . ." In order to fuck the world, you will first have to make it to the classroom without shitting your knickers. "I'm just on my way to the . . . to the eight o'clock art class."

Thomas arched an eyebrow. "Which one?"

Of course, Granger. There's more than one art class. Hermione cleared her throat, only slightly frazzled. "Erm . . . I believe the instructor's name is Agatha."

"There's no one here by that name."

Naturally. "Are you sure?" Hermione thought to ask, mostly because her flat was aaaages away and she had already walked a fair distance. Because she lived in a Muggle neighbourhood, the option to Apparate was unavailable.

Thomas eyed her for a moment, slightly perturbed. "I'll check for you," he said, tightly.

Hermione waited, clutching the handbag to her chest. Given that she was there to model nude, she opted to wear a simple sage green wrap dress, a pair of black ballet flats with little bows on them, and a beige trenchcoat overtop. Easy to take off. As per usual, her hair was down in a mess of chocolate brown curls. She thought to style it in some way, but she figured it was best to stay on the natural side . . . right?

Suddenly, the salon seemed like a bad idea. Was I not supposed to prepare? Hermione thought, lip twitching. Bloody hell. I'm posing nude for an art class, not grooming for a sodding date! She swallowed a bit, shoving the sudden onslaught of tension down her throat. There was no point in having a panic in the middle of the lobby.

"Well, it appears there is a morning class taught by an Agatha Holbrook," Thomas mentioned, unbeknownst to Hermione's inner turmoil. He glanced up from the monitor and offered a slim, forced smile. "Down the first floor corridor, to your left. You'll find a sign on the door."

Hermione nodded thanks and escaped the lobby in a bit of a hobble.

The corridor was long and narrow, and on the end, she found a frosted glass door marked with the name 'Holbrook' in that same slate grey lettering. There were silhouettes on the other side of the door, undoubtedly moving about and adjusting their easels. She couldn't see through the frosted door — not clearly anyway — but it seemed the class was on the fuller side.

Her stomach clenched a little bit. You could always turn back and fuck the world in a different way. In the privacy of your bedroom, for example. She frowned. But that's the problem, isn't it? I've spent too long hiding and playing up this whole 'prudish bookish prude' thing. If I don't feed into my subconscious need to explore and find myself, I'll end up getting railed on the Knight Bus by Stan Shunpike . . . most likely without protection.

Cringing at the thought, Hermione scraped up what little confidence she could, and curved her hand around the door handle, slowly twisting it open.

"Oh, Miss Granger!" Agatha exclaimed, thrilled to see the model hadn't bailed. "Welcome," she said, ushering Hermione into a private corner of the room. "How are you?"

"I'm well," Hermione smiled, distantly aware of the shuffling and faint chatter. "Sorry if I'm a bit late. I . . . there was a bit of trouble in the lobby."

Agatha nodded, knowingly. "Yes, well. Thomas is a bit of a knob."

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, holding the urge to laugh. Because Agatha looked so much like her nan (and a bit like Molly Weasley) it surprised her to hear the last word come out of the elderly woman's mouth.

"So, before we begin . . . have you any questions or concerns?" Agatha asked, kindly.

"Er . . ." Hermione tore a look around the room. There were roughly twelve students, all hidden behind their easels, and a victorian-style chaise lounge in middle. As discussed the previous day, via Skype call, she was to pose along the chair and hold it for the allotted time. There would be a few breaks here and there, during which she could use the loo or have a snack, but she would, for the most part, have to remain completely and utterly still. "None at the moment, thanks."

"Good, good. We'll begin when you're ready," she said, kindly. "Take your time."

Hermione smiled at the woman and turned around, behind the divider, as Agatha moved to the front of the class. It took a moment for the shuffling and chatter to stop, and when it did, the nerves in Hermione's stomach began twitching and somersaulting all over the place. She forced the tension away and slowly removed her trenchcoat, draping it along the divider. Her handbag and flats followed. She placed them neatly on the floor, which looked relatively clean, and then willed her fingertips to tug at the sash that held her wrap dress in place. One light yank and the fabric loosened around her, causing a swift chill to crawl the length of her body. Wait! I should keep the dress on and remove it in front of the class. That's what people do in films . . . right? A touch of uncertainty coloured her cheeks, before she remembered she forgot to bring a robe of some sort. It was no matter, seeing as her dress functioned as a robe, as well. What about my knickers? Do I remove those here, or in front of them? There was a moment of debate, before she settled on the former option, and quickly parted ways with her underthings.

And I've now gone commando for the first time in my life, Hermione thought, slightly amused by it and slightly discomfited, at the same time. It's awfully unhygienic. Whatever. Shut up, brain.

She quickly slid her wrap dress back on and took a moment to breathe, in and out as slowly and deeply as humanly possible, before ducking out from behind the divider.

"Are you ready, my dear?" asked the instructor.

Hermione wasn't sure, but she nodded anyway.

Given the scratchy sound of sharpening pencils, she presumed the students were to do a simple drawings for the day. Good. Pencil drawings shouldn't take long. Uncertain and a little on the uneasy side, Hermione fixed her eyes downward and tugged at the sash, slowly slipping out of her dress.

The cheap material feathered down to the floor, sending a hard jolt down the length of Draco's spine. How in the hell . . . ? On cue, he glanced down, thinking of the war, and the many things that paved way for such an insane, nonsensical circumstance. It wasn't that Granger was naked — because naked women didn't frighten him in the slightest — nor that she seemed to have an intriguing little tattoo under the curve of her left breast; what unsettled him most, was the fact that they were trapped in a room together for the next three hours.

Draco ignored the gnawing ache in his stomach. If I can sit through all one hundred and eighty minutes without drawing attention to myself, there is no possible way she'll know I'm here. It'll pass quickly. I'll go home after — or perhaps the pub — and forget this ever happened.

For months, he attended Agatha Holbrook's art class.

It wasn't a ploy to trick the wizarding world into thinking he was a changed person, because he, for the most part, didn't tell anyone about his art. It was, however, an escape. As early as seven years old, he showed aptitude for the arts, and although his father was never fond of his hobby, his mother was very supportive. She provided him easels and oil paints and expensive brushes, and countless other things that a child so young didn't need quite yet. Admittedly, her support was sometimes a little suffocating, but he appreciated her efforts nonetheless. It was when his eleventh birthday came around, and the Hogwarts acceptance letter was delivered to him, that Lucius strangled the creativity out of his son and forbade him to partake in his 'childish hobbies' henceforth.

Because Draco had always been eager to please his father and live up to the Malfoy name, he quickly tossed his canvases and brushes into the bin and never once looked back.

That was, until, the Second Wizarding War came to an end. He and his family had been on trial in front of the entire Wizengamot. Because they ended up aiding Potter in the final battle, their crimes were pardoned, which meant no Azkaban. Lucius softened a little after that. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to incite an apology. I have been a terrible father to you, Draco. I have led you astray your entire life. Because of me, your childhood is ruined . . . and there is nothing I can do, no price I can pay to return those lost years . . . but I will try. I seek only your forgiveness, the older wizard asked of him, sincerely.

Only a month afterwards, Lucius' dead body was found in the back garden of Malfoy Manor. It seemed a few of his former associates came out of hiding, just long enough to kill the man that listed their names to the Wizengamot.

Since then, Draco broke away from the wizarding world, inch by painful inch, and spattered his emotions onto a canvas, instead of the battlefield. On occasion, he visited the Manor, to see his mother and make sure she hadn't yet gone mental. Andromeda Tonks, her older sister, was the biggest help in that department. The sisters had a falling out as young adults, because the elder married a Muggle man and was henceforth banished from the Black Family Tree . . . but the war and its many casualties reunited them.

Draco never knew his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, but if her son was any indication as to the fun and light she brought into every room, she must have been as vibrant as her mother described. More, he imagined.

A touch of uncertainty coloured Draco's cheeks as Granger evoked a similar light in the flecks of her warm, brown eyes. The girl draped her naked body on the chaise lounge, and mimicked the angle and placement of Titian's muse in the famed oil painting Venus of Urbino. It required her to look unconcerned with the nudity.

But of course, there were signs of concern all over her body.

The twitch of her bottom lip whenever she mistakenly made eye contact with anyone; the blush that drowned her cheeks and the length of her neck; the stiffness of her dusky nipples; and the soft quiver of her left hand, as she lay it to rest below her abdomen. The pose left her brilliantly exposed, vulnerable to the scrutiny of twelve strangers, and an old classmate whom she hadn't yet seen. If the cards played to his favour, she would never know.

Holbrook was bound to make rounds and compliment his work. Well done, Mr. Malfoy! Brilliant as usual, Mr. Malfoy! Oh, what a wonderful piece, Mr. Malfoy!

Draco wasn't sure, but he gathered the surname 'Malfoy' wasn't particularly common amongst Muggles. An earshot of that, and those freckled ears would most definitely perk up. I could say I have somewhere to be and leave . . . he thought, looking to the door. No, that would draw even more attention. It seemed there just one option. If he wished to remain hidden, he would have to blend as far back into the background as he could.

Luckily, Granger wasn't facing him. She was focused on the middle students, whereas he sat more to the left. It played to his favour, of course, but the angle was a tricky thing to work around. I'll draw an average portrait. Holbrook will walk past without saying a word, and that'll be that. A wizard of his stature and upbringing wasn't accustomed to 'average' but there was currently no choice in the matter.

That in mind, Draco studied the shape and curvature of Granger's body and quietly put pencil to the stark white of his paper.

She was nicely proportioned, he came to realize.

Instead of the modest curves he anticipated, her breasts and hips were shapely for a girl of her size and height. Covered in freckles from head to toe. There was an abundance of them around the bridge of her nose, her shoulders and between her breasts. They were difficult to draw, but he managed, focusing extra hard on her clavicle and the birthmark on her left hip. It was small and crescent-shaped, and distracting in a way that lapped his chest cavity in warm waves.

Although natural in a very real, very human way . . . she wasn't 'unattractive' by any means.

The young wizard came to terms with that, breaking his concentration for a second, only to find that he dropped his pencil. It slipped out from between his fingertips and clattered to the floor. Like that, every eye in the room was focused on him. Draco blinked, forcing himself to bend and collect the fallen item. It's fine. It's OK. It's not a. . . He straightened, fixing one look ahead to find those warm brown eyes planted firmly on him. For a moment, she didn't react at all. And then the pieces fell into place.

Draco knew that look as though it were etched into his very skin.

Well. That's that.

Wordless and mortified, the brunette wrapped both arms around her nakedness, shielding her nudity from him, as though he hadn't already memorized every inch of her body — however subconsciously — for the past thirty minutes.

And when she raced out of the room, dress only half on and belongings dangling from each hand, the blonde wizard rose from his stool. For whatever reason, he followed the witch out of the room and caught sight of her seconds before she vanished from the emptiness of the corridor.

Draco slowed his pace, breathing heavily.

What the bloody hell was she doing here in the first place?

Suddenly, he had to know.

Second chapter is posted! Thanks for reading this one.