for hogwarts: writing club [showtime - to break in a glove; days of the month - austrailia day; liza's loves]; insane house comp [serendipity]
384 words by google docs
Walter didn't understand his daughter. Hermione would sit down every day after school, pull out every paint bottle they owned, and painted, except she wouldn't make anything. It frustrated him, to an extent.
He loved that his daughter loved painting, but it seemed like she just took the colors and mixed them together, not caring how her paper looked. He couldn't help but smile whenever Hermione ran up to him, the paint still dripping down the sheet. She was proud of her mess—browns hitting reds, greens hitting oranges, blues hitting black—but something about it still bothered Walter.
Why, when his daughter was so advanced for her age, couldn't Hermione figure out what colors when well together?
It hit him in bed one night, out of nowhere—maybe Hermione couldn't see the colors.
"Martha?" he said, tapping his wife on the shoulder as she lay next to him, not quite asleep yet.
"Yes, dear?" she said, rolling over to face him.
"Have you noticed Hermione having a problem with colors before?" he asked, testing the waters.
"Colors? No. Why do you ask?" Martha pushed a piece of Walter's hair back, looking into his eyes, concerned.
"Every painting she paints never has matching colors." Martha rolled her eyes as Walter frowned at her.
"Darling, she's four. You need to have patience. She'll learn eventually about colors, but let her be a little kid, for now." She looked as if she was on the verge of laughter.
"I guess," he conceded, rolling over to drift off to sleep.
The next day, Walter sat down with Hermione as she painted.
"'Mione," he said, pulling over the yellow, red, and blue paints. "Let me teach you about colors."
"Okay, Daddy," she said, beaming at him. She always seemed to be beaming.
"These," he said, motioning to the colors he had picked out. "are primary colors. They go well with—" Walter picked up green, orange, and purple. "—these secondary colors."
Walter looked over at his daughter, prepared to explain about warm and cold colors, but his daughter had completely lost interest in him and began to paint, covering the sheet.
He looked at her, smiling, and found serendipity in her simpleness. Maybe Martha was right. Her knowing the colors wasn't that important, as long as she was happy with her art.