Hermione Granger and the Theft of Magic

Chapter 38: Contagious Wrackspurts

[A/N: Thanks to Calamity Owl for beta-reading this chapter! BTW, I think I forgot to mention in a previous author's note that the mind-eating opera mask is a reference to an SCP.]

Hermione pulled her capelet tighter around herself as they emerged from the warm theatre into the February London night. "So, what did you think, Harry?"

"Of the play, or whether the painting really did qualify as 'art'?" he responded.

She shot him a cheeky grin. "Both."

"I just don't buy the painting as art. Sure, you can throw it up on a wall and call it art, but where does that stop? I feel like there has to be something more to 'art' than a mere declaration," Harry said.

"A lot of people would disagree with that statement," Hermione said, "but not me. I suppose it makes me old-fashioned, but I see 'art' as being something more than a magical spell that someone can speak into being. It reminds me of something Tom Stoppard—another playwright—said he saw in a novel. Two landscape gardeners are vying for a job, and one says that the client should be able to distinguish the picturesque and the beautiful. The other says he does distinguish those, but he adds to them a third character he calls 'unexpectedness.' The first gardener responds, and this is what really stuck with me, 'Pray, sir, by what name do you distinguish this character when a person walks round the grounds for the second time?'"

Harry laughed. "I see what you mean, and how it applies to that painting, too. The first time you see a few white stripes painted on a white canvas and someone calls it 'art,' it's intriguing. After that, though, it's just boring."

"I agree," Hermione said. "So, what did you think of your first West End play?"

"I really enjoyed it," Harry replied. "It was both funny and thought-provoking, and I thought the actors were great. Well, except for Richard Griffiths. He really rubbed me the wrong way for some reason. How about you?"

"I loved it, too," Hermione said. "I'd heard that it was a great production and I'm glad we went as part of my mandatory relaxation time."

"I am, too," Harry said, "but I have to admit enjoying the rest of the way we spent your mandatory relaxation time a little more."

She blushed. "I did, too, but we can't do that all of the time."

"True," Harry said. "I mean, wi...um...people occasionally try, but they invariably end up dead of exhaustion, dehydration, asphyxiation, or some combination thereof."

"I don't want to know, do I?" Hermione asked.

"I wish I didn't know." Harry shuddered. "So you said you wanted to do this again in a few weeks?"

"There's another play by a heavily-awarded playwright named Sam Shepard that a lot of my old classmates said was absolutely amazing," Hermione said. "If it had just been a few of them, I'd be sceptical, but so many of them saw it and liked it that I'm curious."

Harry shrugged. "OK, I'll give it a go," he said. "If he's won a lot of awards, it's probably at least reasonably good. Hopefully things will be quiet at work and I—bugger."

"Harry?" Hermione was so shocked she didn't even think to reprimand Harry for his language.

"I need you to promise me something," Harry said.

"Anything."

"Never, ever tell Sue I used the 'Q' word."

She arched her eyebrows. "Fine, but I just want to be clear that I don't buy into that superstition. Absolutely nothing bad is going to happen because you said—"