You dudes know the drill: I don't own or profit, blahdy blahdy blah… I merely enjoy the ability to write, using JK's rightful property.
Colin knew he couldn't hold a candle to Ronald Weasley in her eyes; her cinnamon pools flecked with gold. He wasn't courageous enough, or handsome enough, and he had no talent for Quidditch –something she apparently looked for in men judging on her past acquaintances. Even Weasley was a decent player when he got past the initial nerves – or was fed several drops of Felix Felicis. It depended on your sources.
Instead, Colin distracted himself from his inability to capture her physicality by illuminating her wild nature with his camera, immortalising her beauty. There were thousands of photos, some muggle and some magical, all enchanting.
Hermione; reading languorously in the library, the myriad colours of her curly hair accentuated by the last remnants of the day's good weather.
Hermione; eyes closed, waiting for a snowflake to land on her tongue as she waited in the white snow, a laugh waiting to escape resting on her features.
Hermione; unconditional love in her large, brown eyes, as they looked past the camera, to the boy that held her heart, unaware that she had cruelly, unintentionally, and beautifully, stolen the heart of the photographer.
**
There were seven years worth of sketches – in a variety of ink, pencil and charcoal, sometimes a combination – within the she-oak box hidden in the space beneath the loose floorboard under Dean's four-poster bed in his Hogwarts dormitory. All were signed and dated.
She was his favourite model, with her perfect proportions and natural curves. But he especially loved drawing her face. Her eyes were always alight with curiosity and warmth, like pools of honey, and her high cheekbones gave her a fineness that made her resemble a delicate doll.
She would laugh in disbelief if she heard that description; she was ignorant of her beauty – perhaps this self-deprecation was her only flaw?
Seven years worth of sketches all featuring the same model; an innocent girl who was now an enticing woman.
Seven years of hidden art.
Seven years of unrequited love.
**
"I think we should tell her, Harry." Ron murmured as he looked at the second pile of images that featured Hermione. The first had been found in Colin Creevey's dormitory; hundreds of photographs, professional in their aptitude.
The Boy-Who-Lived glanced up from the sketches of the last third of their trio and gave a single nod of agreement.
"Seven years… and we didn't notice anything. It's just so hard to believe." He said as he stood, joining his flame-haired friend. "I wonder if she had any idea…"
The destruction of Hogwarts during the final battle was both descriptive of the building itself and the many students and teachers within it. Too many had been killed in the final conflict against Voldemort's Death Eaters, and Harry blamed himself.
Ron left momentarily to fetch Hermione, leaving Harry to carry the collection down to the other box of pictures. When they returned, Hermione gasped and crouched down beside them, gently caressing the first sketch.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she moved through each image, taking the time to give each the attention it deserved, something she hadn't given to their creators.
*--sniffle. I hope someone likes this enough to comment. I like reviews. Please review ^_^