It was common for quidditch players to have unattractive hands,
coarse and ungainly. Hands chapped from the biting cold of winter winds and
rough from healed over blisters. Ron's hands felt harsh against her own
soft skin as they awkwardly took her hands into his own, and during those
gently endearing clumsy caresses in front of the fireplace. But Harry's
hands were slender, delicate, smooth fitting so exactly the graceful line
of his body. His fingers elegant and long, curled tightly around his broom,
guiding it seemingly effortlessly in its flight. It seemed to follow his
every unspoken command, an extension of his body as he gracefully swerved
and swooped, his body melding into one entity with his broom as he flew.
The pure exuberance shone through in times like this, his eyes glittering
and shining with excitement and exhilaration. It took her breath away, the
sheer beauty and innocence of his happiness. One could almost forget that
he had the weight of the world upon his slender shoulders.
He had real talent with those hands. Harry had never her capability at scoring at written tests or recalling endless facts from the tombs which she immersed herself in. But at practical, actual hands-on magic he was undoubtedly the best, although he seemed oblivious to this fact. It was an.... unique experience to watch Harry do magic. Even with a simple task of levitating a feather, one could feel the magic radiating off him almost in tangible waves. He had an aura around him that spoke of immeasurable power. Yet Harry was one of the most innocent people Hermione had ever met. How he retained his innocence with years of fighting Voldemort she had no idea, yet it seemed almost appropriate, an integral part of Harry. She would hate for that to be taken away from him.
She shivered at the thought that it almost was the previous year. Harry's relatives, the Dursley's began to abuse him when they realised that Sirus was unable to help him as his godfather was running from the Ministry. Harry was rushed to the hospital unconscious by his relatives a week before the beginning of the school year, who claimed that he had been beaten up by a muggle gang. Professor Snape received news of Harry's hospitalisation and had brought him back to Hogwarts, where Harry gradually recovered under Pomfrey's strict care. It was discovered that he was covered with old and new wounds, apparently from a whip and slashes from knives. Two of his ribs were broken and made breathing difficult for him. His wrists showed severe chaffing and abrasions as if they had been bound tightly with rope over long periods of time. Apparently these were kept from the muggle doctors with the use of concealment charms. In addition to his physical wounds, he had been sexually abused apparently by his uncle and cousin. Even after Pomfrey had healed most of his injuries he had remained silent. His eyes which usually shone with life and brilliance were dull and unpenetrable during that period. It broke her heart that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't seem to get past the walls he had built around himself.
Finally, it was Snape who managed to force him to talk about his experiences. Later Harry repeated to Ron and Hermione what he went through during that summer and she clung to him, crying uncontrollably, while he patted her head soothingly. She felt ashamed that the roles had been reversed, she should have been the one comforting him. Ron raged and cursed the Dursley's his face filled with anguish and sadness. Harry just smiled in the melancholy way that he had and said he didn't need their pity and that he thought they should know, that they deserved to know after all they had done for him. Hermione just gently ran her fingers through his unruly locks and kissed his forehead. He sighed and fell asleep in her lap. His skin fair against her navy blue silk pajamas, his sinfully long lashes dusting his delicate cheekbones. He looked like a angel, fallen from the heavens, forlorn and a little lost.
He picked up painting after she had showed him various works of Rembrant and Monet. Happy to have something to distract him from sinking into long periods of silence and further depression she sent for paints and drawing blocks from her parents. Those childish small tubes and flimsy paper lasted only a week and soon Harry began to order brushes and paints from a professional muggle artists catalogue. He showed a unrivalled genius for sketching and painting, his pieces seemed to take up life. Hermione and Ron sat for many of these paintings, each time he managed to capture the mood and the essence of the person completely. She posed for him often as she liked to watch his fingers clutch at the brush, flitting over the canvas, his cheek getting smudged with paint as he absently rubbed at his face. His emerald eyes would glint and shine with concentration as they flickered from her face to the canvas in front of him. It was with such seductive intensity that he watched her that she though she knew he didn't like her 'that' way she couldn't help her breath hitching in her throat. She would remind herself that he was doing so for the painting. She sometimes wondered if she would have chosen Harry over Ron if he wasn't gay. As it was he was like a brother to her. One she loved and would kill or die for.
He had real talent with those hands. Harry had never her capability at scoring at written tests or recalling endless facts from the tombs which she immersed herself in. But at practical, actual hands-on magic he was undoubtedly the best, although he seemed oblivious to this fact. It was an.... unique experience to watch Harry do magic. Even with a simple task of levitating a feather, one could feel the magic radiating off him almost in tangible waves. He had an aura around him that spoke of immeasurable power. Yet Harry was one of the most innocent people Hermione had ever met. How he retained his innocence with years of fighting Voldemort she had no idea, yet it seemed almost appropriate, an integral part of Harry. She would hate for that to be taken away from him.
She shivered at the thought that it almost was the previous year. Harry's relatives, the Dursley's began to abuse him when they realised that Sirus was unable to help him as his godfather was running from the Ministry. Harry was rushed to the hospital unconscious by his relatives a week before the beginning of the school year, who claimed that he had been beaten up by a muggle gang. Professor Snape received news of Harry's hospitalisation and had brought him back to Hogwarts, where Harry gradually recovered under Pomfrey's strict care. It was discovered that he was covered with old and new wounds, apparently from a whip and slashes from knives. Two of his ribs were broken and made breathing difficult for him. His wrists showed severe chaffing and abrasions as if they had been bound tightly with rope over long periods of time. Apparently these were kept from the muggle doctors with the use of concealment charms. In addition to his physical wounds, he had been sexually abused apparently by his uncle and cousin. Even after Pomfrey had healed most of his injuries he had remained silent. His eyes which usually shone with life and brilliance were dull and unpenetrable during that period. It broke her heart that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't seem to get past the walls he had built around himself.
Finally, it was Snape who managed to force him to talk about his experiences. Later Harry repeated to Ron and Hermione what he went through during that summer and she clung to him, crying uncontrollably, while he patted her head soothingly. She felt ashamed that the roles had been reversed, she should have been the one comforting him. Ron raged and cursed the Dursley's his face filled with anguish and sadness. Harry just smiled in the melancholy way that he had and said he didn't need their pity and that he thought they should know, that they deserved to know after all they had done for him. Hermione just gently ran her fingers through his unruly locks and kissed his forehead. He sighed and fell asleep in her lap. His skin fair against her navy blue silk pajamas, his sinfully long lashes dusting his delicate cheekbones. He looked like a angel, fallen from the heavens, forlorn and a little lost.
He picked up painting after she had showed him various works of Rembrant and Monet. Happy to have something to distract him from sinking into long periods of silence and further depression she sent for paints and drawing blocks from her parents. Those childish small tubes and flimsy paper lasted only a week and soon Harry began to order brushes and paints from a professional muggle artists catalogue. He showed a unrivalled genius for sketching and painting, his pieces seemed to take up life. Hermione and Ron sat for many of these paintings, each time he managed to capture the mood and the essence of the person completely. She posed for him often as she liked to watch his fingers clutch at the brush, flitting over the canvas, his cheek getting smudged with paint as he absently rubbed at his face. His emerald eyes would glint and shine with concentration as they flickered from her face to the canvas in front of him. It was with such seductive intensity that he watched her that she though she knew he didn't like her 'that' way she couldn't help her breath hitching in her throat. She would remind herself that he was doing so for the painting. She sometimes wondered if she would have chosen Harry over Ron if he wasn't gay. As it was he was like a brother to her. One she loved and would kill or die for.