Disclaimer…Hah. Like I own anything.
Author's Note…Never written anything like this before…if it's not good, wouldja please let me down gently? It's my first Ron-Hermione pairing, and my first hidden-talent fic. It's like the first day of school all over again.
White, you know, is anything--actually, everything-- but devoid of color. The truth is that it's bursting of shades and hues…you just can't see them. White is a safe haven for tones, a hallelujah for tints and blushes. So, technically, there's no reason why any artist, amateur or professional, should insult a crisp, blank, white, canvas by staining it with reds and blues and greens and turquoises and golds…
At least, this is what Ron thought as he stared at the fresh canvas before him.
But leaving a canvas empty without splashing personality onto the surface…he couldn't do that. Carefully, Ron picked up a wide brush with thin bristles and dipped it into a liquid marriage of gray-blue and a rather dusty red, wondering where the dull combination would take him. Slowly, he swirled the two together, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the union would never make it to this particular piece…
Frustrated, Ron tried to recall his first time, but could find no such memory. He wasn't sure when exactly he had begun to occupy himself with this dirty little secret; perhaps the habit would find its roots along the borders of his History of Magic homework, or maybe scratched onto the side of a cauldron. Yes, he decided, this surreptitious voyage, like all his others, must have begun at Hogwarts.
After all, years of doodling didn't amount to nothing.
The colors took him nowhere. Ron sighed and put down the brush, replacing it with its much thinner, much sterner brother. He dipped the counterpart into a pool of pale green, but didn't make a move to bring it towards the canvas. For some reason, Ron didn't think the light tone deserved to meet the slender ridges of the taut, thick, sheet.
He took another look at the gaping hole of art and moaned in despair. It was hopeless. How could he even hope to develop a 'talent' in secret if he could barely do a square job of maintaining the ones he already had out in the open?
With another dramatic sigh, Ron picked an old, battered brush at random and dabbled it with a musty shade of brown. He clenched his fist around the splintered wood and, with one angry swipe, ran it along the striated surface of the canvas.
It looked so bold there, so brazen. Like a blemish on the face of a perfect history, it stood out, sharp and unique.
In fact, it was rather beautiful. A muted sort of beautiful though, obscure and cerebral. The kind of beauty you notice after years and years of staring it in the face and in the flesh.
Oddly satisfied with the result of his little tantrum, Ron made another stroke, this one with an obtuse, delicate curve. The next mark was a wide, bended line; the next a tight curl.
As Ron's movements became looser and more fluid, the scores grew more distinct and, although they were abstract, they seemed to be almost…framing something. A stray scratch here, a spontaneous smear there, it could practically be…
Ron smiled, thoroughly inspired. He carelessly swept a slender yellow brush through a puddle of orange paint and streaked the amber smears. He mixed a bright red and a reserved green together and highlighted one rebellious arc, and splattered a series of skeletal, lanky lines on the strain of another.
He worked like this for hours, curving and blotting and sweeping and brushing. Finally, he stepped back to admire his work.
Something was missing.
Ron racked his mind for what it could possibly be. Was it the slight ridge in the middle of her nose? The dimple behind her left ear? The Orion's Belt of freckles that stretched from the apple of her cheek to the bluish smudges of worry under her eyes? No, no, he had all that. It was something else.
Rather mystified, he rifled through a messy drawer that was practically overflowing with rumpled clothes until he found it. A picture. A slightly tattered and torn picture, one that had obviously been exposed to all the elements of love, but still, a picture. Ron studied it intensely; memorizing every feature of her face until he was sure the welcome image would forever be etched onto his mind.
He was sure now that it wasn't a physical dimension he was missing, but the more he looked at his piece, the stronger the curious void grew. He knew it wasn't something he could touch and hold, because he had touched everything on that face…Ron exhaled sharply; all this hard work for nothing. How could he complete it if he didn't know how?
Ron's knuckles faded to a stark white as he balled his fists out of sheer frustration. He might've even worked up the courage to give it to her and let her critique, if only he'd finished it…but damn the thing! It almost seemed to be winking at him.
"I dunno if you're mocking me or what, but…" Ron muttered ambiguously, trailing off as a familiar voice inside his head informed him that there was no such word as 'dunno.'
Even though it was a nuisance, Ron smiled at his grammatical conscience. Although he really couldn't call it his, could he? The voice was unmistakably hers; she practically owned the very tone. It was somewhat relaxing to know there would always be someone who just knew, just knew everything.
A shiver crept down Ron's spine suddenly and he jumped. That was it! That's what was missing!
He impatiently returned to the expectant canvas and, with a grace no one would have thought he possessed, traced a determined sliver of knowledge into her iris. Carefully, Ron made thin, silver lines that danced between tawny streaks.
That's just how Ron always imagined her. Dancing, where only those who loved her could see.