Sleepygrimm asked me to write a story about immortal love and also made a gorgeous moodboard regarding the subject. Part of that moodboard is the image for this story. I highly recommend everyone checking out Sleepygrimm's amazing artistry on Tumblr. Her work is beautiful!

Remembrance

Chapter 1:

What you remember saves you. ― W. S. Merwin

As a child, Hermione loved going to the National Gallery with her parents. Her young eyes would sparkle in wonder at the beauty contained inside its walls. Her mum, always patient, would explain to her the various styles of art and the different periods of history when they were created.

"Art is a visual postcard to future generations. Paintings speak as eloquently as the books from their age if one knows how to read them," she would confide to her impressionable daughter.

Hermione listened dutifully and absorbed the knowledge like a sponge. She tried her best to understand what each painting had to say. But her favorites were the portraits. She would stare at the various faces staring back at her and wondered how they would appear in the here-and-now. Certainly, the clothing would change. And the way they styled their hair. But would she be able to recognize them in the modern world? Her fantasies often got the best of her. Hermione was a lonely child. Too smart, too curious, too different…...just too much for most children her age. So she pretended. She would imagine the people from the portraits stepping out of their frames to visit her. They all got on very well. None of them told her she read too much. They weren't bothered by her disinterest in sports. On the contrary, in that friendly world her massive intellect created, her new friends listened to all she said.

And in turn, they spoke back to her.

There was one piece that spoke to her more than the others. She was barely seven when she first saw it. It was of a young boy. His gleaming blonde hair seemed dull compared to the brighter eyes underneath it. Hermione wondered if those silvery orbs were real or just the product of the artist's fantasy. Although the face was proud, the eyes seemed to call out a silent plea. The stare mesmerized her. It looked to her that the boy was desperately looking for something. Or someone. During one visit, she asked her mum about the piece. The artist was Russian, the painting from the nineteenth century.

So long ago, thought Hermione. How was it then that the image in the painting seemed so real? More to the point, why did she have such an inexplicable feeling of knowing the boy in it? She couldn't explain the sensation, but it was strong. She was sure she'd seen his face before…...had his image been in a book she'd read? She didn't know. But she knew how he looked when he laughed, which somehow she knew wasn't often, but she'd seen it. Hermione didn't stop to puzzle that out. She could almost hear the timbre of his laugh; unlike the preternatural, starry glow of his eyes, his laugh had been rough and earthy.

When she mentioned these things to her mother, Dr. Granger frowned worriedly. Hermione had always been an exceptional child; heightened creativity and imagination were naturally part of the package of being gifted. Except…...in the case of her daughter, that wasn't the end of it. Unexplainable oddities occurred; instances where paranormal manifestations were off the scale. A mother should never be afraid of their child, but sometimes Jean was. Hearing Hermione speak about the boy in the painting gave her goosebumps. The hair on her arms rose; she felt an unnatural chill.

Then Hermione gasped. Jean jumped, badly startled.

"Mum…..did you see that?" she asked, her finger pointing shakedly at the painting and her voice sounding almost as frightened as her mother felt.

Jean Granger, I'm ashamed at you. This is your daughter, she internally scolded herself. Keeping her voice level and calm, she asked, "What did you see, Cricket?"

"The boy….he tried to talk to me."

Jean sagged, relieved. Imagination was something she could handle. This wasn't Hermione's toys floating in the air above her head or cookies taking only two seconds to bake after she, as a precocious toddler, stomped her foot and demanded them now. Compared to those instances, this was normal.

"What did he say, love?"

Hermione bit her lower lip. "Uh…..I'm not sure….But I saw his lips move."

Jean smothered a smile.

Hermione, catching that look, protested. "I'm not making it up, Mum. He did. He did talk to me!"

"Darling, perhaps it's time we head home. You're tired and a wee bit emotional. A nice, little kip will set you back to rights. And I could do with a cup of tea."

"But Mum….I can't go now…...he needs me!"

Jean tried hard not to lose her patience. "Hermione, why would a painting need you?"

Her daughter's eyes filled with tears of frustration. "I don't know. But he does. I think that's what he was saying."

Jean pinched the bridge of her nose. Yes, a headache was definitely on the horizon. A long-suffering sigh escaped her. "Hermione, really…"

"He did it again!"

Jean's eyes flashed to the painting. She saw no difference…..except for the eyes. They did seem a bit brighter than before. A shiver shot down her spine.

"I know what he said this time." Hermione turned and looked at her mother with the most solemn expression Jean had ever seen on her little daughter's cherubic face.

"He said, "Come back."


The summer of Draco's tenth year found the young wizard enjoying an uncommonly fine holiday. He liked escaping the strict standards of Malfoy Manor; his father and mother always loosened the reins when they were on the continent. Here at their villa in the magical part of Tuscany, he was allowed to sleep late, play in the vineyards, ride his broom whenever he wished and eat gelato until he felt he would pop.

But this day was shaping up to be different. He would be accompanying his mother to Rome. His father was meeting with several other heads of families to discuss something Narcissa had not wanted Draco around to hear. Despite her husband's insistence that she stop mollycoddling their son, Narcissa had put her foot down. He'll be going to Hogwarts in a year, she had argued. There would be plenty of time for that then.

Instead, Narcissa wanted them to meet the Zabinis; both witches had secured a reservation with an exclusive wizarding designer to select a couture robe for an upcoming gala. While they were there, Draco and Blaise were going to tour the ancient Roman Colosseum. Mipsy, Narcissa's personal elf, was going with them to watch after the two boys. Blaise giggled when he saw Mipsy after she had been transfigured to look like a young woman.

"Mipsy's got a…..booty," he whispered loudly.

Draco rolled his eyes, but it was hard to tell whose cheeks turned pinker; his or the elf's.

Once they were there, the boys ceased paying attention to Mipsy's anatomical upgrades and listened with interest as the tour guide fed them thrilling tales of the games and gladiators who had fought for their lives and freedom. During the tour, they passed one stall that caught Draco's attention. It was little more than stone walls and dirt, but he felt pulled by an invisible force to enter. As he did, he saw a stain on the wall that looked like blood. With a natural, morbid curiosity all boys seemed to possess, Draco wondered if it was blood left behind by one of the contestants of the games. He moved toward it to get a better look. On closer inspection, he saw it was not blood at all, but a complex hieroglyph etched into the stone. Draco was not old enough to have studied Ancient Runes, but he knew the meaning of this symbol. He had seen one like it above the arch outside the family mausoleum. It was a remembrance rune.

Draco's brow crinkled. Had wizards fought as gladiators?

So distracted by that thought, he didn't notice when he absently touched the rune with his index finger. Instantly, Draco was pulled into a vision. He was still at the Colosseum, but now he was outside in one of the spectator boxes reserved for the families of the senators. Lush cushions supported the tall frame of a handsome young man. A handsome young man who happened to have an uncanny resemblance to Draco. He gasped.

That's me! he realized in amazement. Yet, not quite him. The young man's skin was tanned. His body hardened like steel. He looked like he could use a bath.

He watched this older version of himself lean forward toward a bowl of grapes and grab one of the fruits in apparent boredom. Throwing it into his mouth, he asked his friends nearby how long it would be before the chariot race started.

A darker-skinned youth answered back and asked, "Claudius, are you bored already?"

The young Roman nodded, which caused the other youth to state there was scheduled an execution first; the chariot race would follow afterward. Draco heard this version of himself speaking in a strange language, asking who had fallen out of favor this time with Nero.

The dark-skinned lad shrugged his shoulders, obviously uninterested, but the black-haired girl lounging nearby said she heard it was a band of Jews who had converted to the strange new belief arising from Judea. When he heard that, Claudius paled considerably. He stood unsteadily to his feet when the condemned were led out. His heart pounded painfully when he saw a curly head of hair stand out among the others.

Hadassah, he mourned. The young Draco caught up in the vision didn't understand how he had instant knowledge of this girl, but he somehow knew she'd been the slave of Claudius' mother. Faithful. Loyal. Beautiful. She had been captured at a young age. He saw Claudius' memories of her when she'd first been brought to their home. A wild little thing, with even wilder hair. They had grown up together. Hadassah was clever, for a slave. She had a natural affinity for the healing arts; but Claudius' father, a stern Roman senator, never warmed to her. She had been whipped once by him, when after becoming nubile, she had accidentally soiled some of the linens she'd sat upon. Young Claudius had tended to her wounds, and when she'd healed, he asked his father if he could have her as his slave.

His father had smirked; his only response had been to say, " Be discreet, my son. Have her if you must. But do not get her with child. Your mother would not approve."

It had only been a matter of time before they had fallen in love. If Claudius had just kept her as a slave to warm his bed and heart, she would have remained safe. But Hadassah clung to this strange, new faith that upheld purity. She begged him not to defile her by reducing her to the role of a mere concubine. So Claudius did the only thing he knew to do to have the woman of his heart. He freed Hadassah and asked her to be his wife. When his father found out, he was furious. He conspired with certain members of the Praetorium guard to have her arrested on a trumped up charge of stealing his wife's jewellery.

Innocent, pure Hadassah would die because his father thought her beneath them.

And there she stood now. Claudius could hardly see her for all his tears. He had not been able to reason with his father, who could have gotten, if he'd needed it, the full backing of the Senate and with it, the approval of that madman who was Emperor.

He whimpered when he saw lions being led into the arena. Of all ignoble deaths, this was one of the most cruel. Claudius didn't want to watch, but he couldn't turn his face away as the beasts charged. He saw it when one of the great cats reached Hadassah. She instinctively raised her arm as a shield; springing up, the lion captured her forearm in its powerful jaws and brought her down.

When Claudius cried out in horror, Hadassah turned her eyes from the lion to him. Despite the distance separating them, he could clearly hear what she said.

"Remember," she pleaded, her soulful brown eyes growing and growing until they were all Claudius could see. They became all Draco could see, too, for he had become the young Roman in the dream. He didn't think he would ever be able to forget that face. The doomed woman's eyes would forever haunt his memories.

The shock of that scene hurled Draco out of his vision. He found himself in his day and time, breathing hard, pulse racing wildly. Tears poured down his cheeks.

"Young Master?" Mipsy whispered worriedly as she turned around to look at him. "What happened?"

Draco honestly didn't know.


AN: I'm thinking this will be a 3 to 4 chapter story. We'll see. This chapter was written under the influence of strong meds and fever, so please excuse any unique spelling or subject / verb agreement.

PS to everyone who reviewed the final chapter of The Ring. I'm so sorry I haven't responded back. But I did read your kind and lovely words and they meant the world to me. I will do my best to get back to you. It just may be later than normal.