Her eyes are brown.
That's what they tell you; that's what she says. You don't believe it. Why would you? Her eyes can't just be brown.
Brown is plain. Brown is simple. Brown is the colour of mud…
…you might as well call her Mudblood, admitting her eyes are brown. It's the same thing – the same analogy, Hermione and dirt in the same sentence.
Those who would call her dirty don't know how unclean they are; you would never make that mistake. Hermione isn't dirty; Hermione is perfection. Hermione is beauty. Hermione is so far beyond dirt and mud and brown and Malfoys and…
…Potters.
You shake your head.
To think about Hermione is pain and pleasure, all in one; there is nothing more beloved to you than dreams of those bright eyes, but knowing that they will never shine for you – that she'll never be yours – makes something deep inside of you spasm in a most unsavoury way. You grimace. You try to cast these thoughts from your head.
But those eyes regard you every day, and they permeate your consciousness. They imprint themselves permanently on your brain.
Brown, as plain and loyal as the dirt underneath your fingernails, would never betray you so.
One day, she looks insecure. She turns to her love; not you.
"Am I beautiful, Ron?"
Of course, you reply in your head.
"Of course," he replies aloud.
She blushes, and a modest smile graces her visage. It makes her eyes sparkle.
"What's my best feature?"
Your eyes, you reply in your head.
"Your eyes," he replies aloud.
"Really?" she asks, her eyes twinkling with mischievous intent. For a moment only. She covers them with her hands.
"What colour are they, then?"
Chocolate, cinnamon, chestnut, coffee.
A dozen exotic things come to your mind, none of them an actual colour.
They're not a colour; if they are, they're every colour there ever was. They're everything.
They're beautiful, Hermione, you reply in your head, as simple as that. Everything about you is beautiful.
"Brown, of course," he replies confidently, and she removes her hands, throwing her arms around him. They kiss. Her eyes shine most luminously thereafter.
You feel your heart sink into your stomach.
Another comes to sit beside you. Yours, but that hardly matters. It's not her.
You look into her eyes.
"What is it, Harry?"
"Your eyes," you reply. "They're brown."