Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione Granger or anything else belonging to JK Rowling. Everything but the plot belongs to her and her publishers alone. I am not earning any type of profit on this. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Pretty Painting

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Hermione loves the library.

She can walk along the shelves, and run her fingers across the spine of each and every dusty book or scroll of parchment. When she finds one she likes (which she always does) she can sit down on the long, flattened and worn down rugs to read them. The rugs are decorated with patterns of swirls and bits of scarlet and the Hogwarts crest, and she could trace every line and every shape with her eyes closed. She can wander into each corner, and go around each shelf, reading every title and just relishing in the thought that, beyond those first few words, a story lies. Pages and pages of countless words that look right when you see them and sound right when you read them. She can stand in the very middle of the entire library (where the rug is even more run-down) and just close her eyes and smell the wisdom and knowledge around her. She can smell every word, and breathe in every scent of old leather and rusted metal bindings.

Hermione loves the library.

She knows which shelf is farthest away from Madam Pince, and any other students. This shelf is full of old Muggle fairytales, where the pictures don't read to you or wave, and where they only require the reading level of a six-year-old. This is the shelf in which no one would ever catch themselves for fear of ridicule, and if anyone were ever to see Hermione there, they'd think she somehow got lost, or was studying for some rubbish Muggle class. But Hermione doesn't learn here.

She always brings her quill, tucked into the sleeve of her robes. She sits in the farthest corner, removes the quill, and stares at it for awhile. She memorizes every feather and every direction they find themselves. She memorizes the weight of the quill, and how it feels in her hands. She memorizes the way it feels to prick her finger with the sharp end of it. The way it tickles, and the way it's cold and warm at the same time.

Hermione's never been an artist. But here in the library, she creates quite a painting. One she likes to watch herself make, one she likes to keep a secret. She clears her canvas, and begins her work. This painting is one full of words. Of thoughts and feelings. Of happiness and pain. Of things that are far too abnormal, yet far too cliché to let anyone know about. She etches into the paleness of the empty canvas, presses hard, closes her mouth tightly. Every note, every reminder, every Potions formula and Arithmancy equation and pronunciation of a Transfiguration spell. Red thickness slowly spills over white nothing, and all is released from her mind. Salt flows down her cheeks in a transparent river, but she doesn't quite know why. Her insides are laughing, because her red paint is beautiful.

This painting is one full of words, etched so slowly and carefully that they've become something else entirely. Lines. Slashes. Slits.

Hermione loves the library.