Mulberry-Coloured Ink
A/N: This fic was written for the QLFC Finals, Round 1.
Prompts:
Player 3: A section written in epistolary form AND an epigraph
Prompts: #7 (word) warmth, #12 (colour) mulberry, #13 (word) tradition
Word count: 2999 words (according to Gdocs it was typed on, and wordcountdotnet)—phew! (cut down over 1700 words)
"A kiss can break a heart... but a book can mend one." —J. Glynn
With each step Hermione took, another piece of her heart broke. Hot tears streamed down her face, frizzy hair sticking to her cheeks. She didn't bother wiping the tears away as she stormed down the corridors, heading to the one place she knew was safe.
How could Ron do this to her? How could he kiss that—how could he kiss her? Lavender, of all people! And in front of everyone, too? Hermione had never felt so humiliated. She wasn't sure if it was worse that everyone in Gryffindor had cheered them on, or that Ron was completely oblivious to why she was so upset. She had thought he felt the same way about her; that he—well, obviously, he didn't.
Choking back a sob, she hurried into the library and down one of the aisles, away from prying eyes.
Hermione paced up and down. Usually, the smell of leather-bound tomes would have calmed her. Yet, as she ran her hands over the spines of the books, her mind could only concentrate on replaying that one scene: Ron's lips against Lavender's, their bodies intertwined…
Shaking her head, Hermione stopped pacing. She breathed deeply and tried to focus on the books before her. The titles were hard to read through watery eyes, but it was better than thinking about him. Crying wouldn't make him hers, after all, and although she had thought it a good idea at the time, sending a flock of canaries to scratch him hadn't helped either.
Reaching out a trembling hand, Hermione tugged at the seventh-year Transfiguration textbook that had caught her eye. Unfortunately, when she pulled it with too much force, several of the books beside it toppled to the floor. She cursed as one particularly heavy volume landed on its spine, almost crushing her foot.
Hermione bent down and picked up the books, sure that Madame Pince would arrive any minute to scold her. One book—a worn, older edition of the Transfiguration textbook—seemed to have lost several pages in the fall.
Snatching them up, Hermione flicked through the textbook to see where they were supposed to go so she could re-attach them. Funnily enough, although some of its corners were dog-eared, the book didn't appear to be missing any pages.
Hermione placed the book onto the shelf and turned her attention back to the jumble of parchment in her hands. Her eyes were still blurry from crying so she wiped them with her sleeve. When she had, she could clearly see that the writing on the parchment didn't match the fine print of the textbook. The pages were covered in messy, sloping scrawls, in the most peculiar, mulberry-coloured ink. Hermione had never seen a shade quite that vibrant, and it was for that fact that she didn't immediately scrunch up the pieces of parchment, the writing having reminded her of Ron's untidy scribble.
The pieces of parchment appeared to be a series of letters, or perhaps diary entries, of different length. The name of each recipient had either been scratched out or faded away, and there were no dates written anywhere that she could see. The parchment itself was a little dirty and hardened, and if Hermione had to guess, using the date of the textbook's release, the letters could have been written any time between the 1920s to the present.
Well, they weren't any of her business anyway. Hermione shuffled them together and picked up the book, intending to place them back inside the cover. She had other things to worry about, and if experience had taught her anything, reading another's personal writings only ever led to trouble.
But what if that was exactly the case? What if they were more writings of Tom Riddle? Perhaps at this very moment, she was holding to key to defeating Vol—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. That would show Ron if she could find a way to help Harry whilst he was busy snogging bimbos. Taking the letters back out, Hermione slid to the floor. She was just clutching at straws, she knew, not quite able to picture Vold—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named using mulberry-coloured ink.
She would just take a peek at whatever was written, take her mind off things; if there was anything too personal, she would put them away. Holding up the first letter, Hermione read it:
D ar re ,
I feel like a right old idiot writing to you—me—especially when I know you know how I feel. I didn't know who else to talk to. It's just… lately, I feel like I don't exist without the other one of us, without our twin. Don't get me wrong, I would do anything for him, but now… now I'm starting to realise that I'll always be invisible.
Every time someone sees me, they can never be sure who I am—they always mistake me for my brother. Blimey, our own mother can't even tell us apart. I don't exist without him, and I'm starting to fear I never will.
Hermione felt her eyes begin to prick with tears again. Whoever this person was, it sounded like he was feeling just as desolate as she was. Neither of them seemed to be noticed by the ones who counted.
With a sigh, she stood and placed the letters back inside the book, her mood worse than ever. She was right; reading someone else's personal writings had only stirred up something bad, this time a feeling of hopelessness.
Fat, salty tears plopped onto the parchment, causing the black ink of her textbook to run, but she didn't care. She didn't care if she could no longer make out the words or if she only got an Exceeds Expectations on her next paper. What did it matter when everyone already thought she was a teacher's pet? A worthless bookworm?
Closing her eyes, her head pounding, Hermione tried to push out what had happened in Transfiguration. Over and over again, her mind replayed what Ron had done. This time, it wasn't snogging Lavender—it was much worse. He had laughed at Hermione, mocked her. She could see him now, jumping up and down in his seat, his hand in the air. She could hear Lavender, too, giggling hysterically.
Her eyes snapped open, and with a loud sniffle, she pushed it all away as best she could. Thinking about it only made her feel empty.
There was a bright side to everything, though; now, she knew she could never be with Ron. She had way too much self-respect to fawn over someone like him. What kind of person would she be if she liked someone who would do that to her?
With another sniffle, Hermione closed her textbook. She would finish her essay later, and she would make sure she got it perfect. Uncrossing her legs, she allowed her eyes to travel back to the pile of letters by her side.
When she had first retreated into the library, she had automatically gone to the older Transfiguration text and pulled out the pile of letters. It was as though her feet had carried her there, her mind telling her to draw comfort from the problems of the mystery writer—to find out who he was and if his situation had gotten better. It had only been when she had sunk to the floor, choking back sobs, that she had realised it was a stupid thing to do and had pushed them away from her.
Now, her mind was urging her to pick them up, read them, and share her misery with someone else. Feeling another sob coming on, Hermione grabbed them and began to read before her morals could stop her.
Me again. Duh. Same problems as before.
How can I ever be who I want to be when people are always putting their own expectations onto me? It's like I can only ever be what they want me to be, not how I want them to think of me. I've tried to show them I'm much more than I seem, but it feels like I'm always going to be unheard.
Everyone expects me to be like my twin; a prankster… a joke. Sure, they laugh along with our jokes, but what does it all matter in the scheme of things?
Hermione pulled her knees to herself and hugged them. She knew exactly how this person was feeling, visions of Ron and Lavender springing to her mind again. When it came to Ron, it felt like she was expected to be dumb, to not be herself. In fact, it felt like Ron wanted her to focus on her looks and gossip rather than doing well.
Her cheeks grew hot, more tears welling up. She turned back to the letter.
Hope isn't all lost, however. Today has been one of the better days… if not the best. I happened to overhear a conversation and cannot help but smile whenever I think of it—acting a bit like a sissy, aren't I? Well, I don't care. I heard her telling my brother that I had potential. That I was smart, could do better for myself.
I can't begin to describe what it meant to hear that, and from her. To have someone believe in you, well… that's truly magical.
Hermione didn't know the girl he was referring to, but it lifted her heart to read it. It felt good knowing that at least one of them could be happy—that one of them had someone who believed in them. No, she shouldn't be so petty; she knew people cared about her and believed in her… just not the person she had hoped would.
Before she launched into any more dark thoughts, Hermione searched through the pile of letters. She had to know what had become of this boy and his girl, even if it was none of her business. Thankfully, she soon found another, older-looking letter mentioning her.
I'm confused. Tonight, the ball I was sort of dreading was actually pretty fun… until I spotted her. I had thought I was meant to be with my date, like it was destiny we were together or something like that, but when I saw her, how she transformed from someone who was always a bit of a looker already to this stunning beauty… well.
It feels wrong to like her, somehow. I've always thought of her as a sister, but now I can only think 'wow'.
Although she didn't approve that the boy had been thinking of another girl whilst on a date, Hermione smiled at the last comment, warmth flooding through her. Whoever this girl was, she was special.
A few of the other letters went into details of plans for what could have been practical jokes, whilst others complained about the mound of homework he had. At these letters she rolled her eyes, strongly reminded of the Weasley twins. She had once toyed with the idea that perhaps Fred or George was the author—being the only male twins she knew—but quickly ruled them out. Neither twin struck her as the sort to write heartfelt letters.
She tried to put the letters into some sort of order, using the content and age of the parchment as clues. When she was satisfied that they were in chronological order, Hermione selected one that mentioned the girl. Her heart was pounding, thoughts of Lavender and Ron slipping away, as she read it:
I can't stop thinking about her. Believe me, I've tried. She's not my usual type, but man, she frustrates me.
The other day, she acted like I was an awful human being simply because I wanted to have a house-elf when I got my own place. You should have seen the way she ranted and raved about their rights and mistreatment.
The whole time she went on, however, I couldn't help but think… she was right. She was absolutely right. And dammit, now I can't stop thinking about it. I don't even want a bloody house-elf anymore.
She's never afraid to tell me and my brother off. I'm now finding myself questioning everything I do, every prank I pull. How can someone so infuriating be so… ahh. She's always on my mind… always in my heart.
On the plus side, her nagging has given me and my brother a new business idea. I'll let you know how it goes.
Hermione groaned. There was no doubt in her mind that the girl hadn't intended for this mystery boy to start a new business venture. Nevertheless, at least one other person in this world now cared about the rights of other creatures. It felt fantastic knowing that not every boy on the planet was as stubborn or ill-mannered as the ones in her life.
It wasn't there. The book wasn't there.
Hermione pushed the books on the shelf, moving them from side to side. Her heart was pounding, hands trembling, but even when she reached into the back of the shelf, she knew she wouldn't find it. Her shoulders slumped.
It was probably for the best, though. If she really thought about it, she could see that it was kind of pathetic spending hours thinking about the mystery writer and his life, her attention wandering away from her own. It was wrong to live through someone else.
Her cheeks grew hot thinking about how she had all but ran from the school carriages to get to the library ahead of the other arriving students. Going to the library had almost become a tradition of sorts in the week before the Christmas holidays. Every day after classes, Hermione would go to the library and take out the Transfiguration text. She would spend hours shamelessly browsing through the letters, becoming invested in the unknown boy's life.
The last entry she had read had been about his intention to finally ask out the girl he mentioned so often. He had described the perfect plan to whisk her off her feet and show her how he had changed. Hermione had spent the greater part of Christmas wondering if he had been successful.
"I hope you're not messing up my shelves," a crisp voice said.
Spinning around, Hermione saw that Madame Pince had snuck into the aisle, a pile of books in her hands. Hermione shook her head in reply, feeling small as the bird-like woman peered down at her through her spectacles.
"Good," Madame Pince said, placing the books onto the shelves.
Hermione froze. There, in the librarian's spindly hands, was the key to her happiness. She watched the woman ever-so-slowly place the Transfiguration book into its spot on the shelf.
It was agony waiting for Madame Pince to walk away. Even when she did leave and Hermione reached for it, she was sure that the woman was still watching her.
She had to take a few deep breaths to calm her nerves. What if the letters were gone? What if Madame Pince had discovered them and thrown them away? Hermione couldn't bear it if she had. With a final, deep breath, Hermione cracked open the book, flipping through the pages until she reached the chapter she had hidden them in.
There, making her heart soar, were the letters. Hermione snatched up one and started reading:
The day was perfect. I had everything planned, from the picnic to showing her how far I've come with the store plans.
The gut-wrenching truth though is, I don't think I'll ever be going out with her, at least not in this lifetime. Today, I found out that my little brother likes her—really likes her. I know she wouldn't approve if I went after her now. Blimey, she must really be in my head, 'cause even I don't approve of it. It feels wrong to still want her, to stand in the way of my brother's chances… even if he is a right little git sometimes.
It's probably for the best, though. I've not long realised this place isn't for me anymore, anyway. Hogwarts isn't the place it used to be, and with our business having the chance to take off, it's time I left.
I suppose this is adeui. Aduie? Whatever, you know what I mean.
P.S. If any nosy gits are reading this right now, stay out!
P.S.S. Don't forget to get my autograph; I'll probably be famous by the time you do read this.
So he didn't get the one he wanted after all. Neither of them had in the end, had they? Running her fingers over the letters one last time, Hermione put them back into the book and replaced it on the shelf. She felt empty as she left the library, the corridors colder than usual like something was missing.
Her mood didn't improve like she thought it would when Harry jogged up to her, presents in his hands.
"Hullo, Hermione. Good holidays?" he asked.
"Oh yes, it was great. And yours?"
Harry smiled and held out two parcels. "It was alright. A lot to tell you, though." When Hermione looked at the presents, he added, "Those are from Fred and George. Turns out their organisation skills are limited to buying presents, not sending them on time."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione tore open the first gift. Pulling it out of the wrapping, she held out a Boxing Telescope and grimaced. "Very funny, George," she muttered.
Harry took it from her as she unwrapped Fred's gift, wary of what he might have given her.
She needn't have worried, however. Inside the red paper was a leather journal and a beautiful quill.
"Pffft, a typical Hermione present," Harry said.
Hermione's eyes were now fixated on the tag, however. It wasn't what was written—a simple, scrawled, 'Merry Christmas, Hermione, love Fred'—but the colour ink that had been used to write it that had caught her attention. Her heart thudded against her chest.
It couldn't be… could it?
"It's perfect," she finally said, clutching the journal and quill to her chest.
Additional, boring A/N: I am Beater One of Falmouth Falcons. For this round, we had to write about the OTP of the player writing before us, chain-style. Since Player 2's OTP is Fremione, I tried my best—to me, they're easier to ship than write. It was also either them or Tomione, or Tomarry, or tomato (and I'm sure you don't want to read about Drapple reworked). Please keep in mind that the OTP was set at the point in which their relationship starting (hence why there was mention of Ron).
I paid special attention to not using too many 'ing' words this fic, so hopefully that went well. I also debated with myself over commas and 'ran' vs 'run', so hopefully grammarly and good old Google hasn't lead me astray (even as I type at 3.30am, trying not to drag the chain). The epigraph is a little awry, I know, but no other quotes seemed to quite fit the story and I wanted to have something to suit it. I also hope my use of a section written in epistolary worked out well. The letters themselves intentionally have some grammar mistakes from how I imagine Fred would write... not too many, though, just one here and there. The 'D ar re ' is also intentional to show the faded top of the parchement... convenient, right? XD
Ummm what else? Well, if you weren't sure by now, this is set in sixth year (and as Fred would say, 'duh'). Just for anyone who might have forgotten, Hermione sent canaries after Ron in anger when he kissed Lavender, and got a black eye from one of the twins' inventions, the Boxing Telescope, at an earlier visit to Diagon Alley... hopefully the story links well enough. Oh, and Lockhart is the only other person who would probably (not that I believe in boy/girl colours at all, just his penchant for lilac and all...) use that coloured ink, so, yeah, if he wrote the letters, well, that would be awkward.
I hope everyone had a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Tiggs Xx