~:~ Vermillion and Umber ~:~
"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."—Thomas Merton
Chapter One: Ochre
The library had never looked so bright.
It could have been the fact that all the curtains had burned to ash, their ragged edges curled and singed into scraps. It could have been the broken stained glass glittering on the path-worn carpet, failing to shield the interior from the sun.
It also could have been the fallen shelves, bent and splintered, covering piles of ancient books, torn and sodden.
Despite the sunlight this was not a heartwarming sight; Hermione sighed heavily as she surveyed the damage, her heart clenching as she saw her favorite section entirely demolished by a rogue spell, a hole carved right through the bookcase.
McGonagall cleared her throat quietly to get Hermione's attention.
"Unfortunately, with our good Madam gone, gods rest her... you are the one who knows these shelves the best, my dear," she said, her small, fierce eyes trained on the broken front desk.
Hermione nodded slowly, looking away before her gaze could snag on any more memories of a simpler time, before she could tear up properly and embarrass herself in front of her professor.
"I know you'll be busy catching up to take your N.E.W.T.s at the end of the summer, but with the library in utter disarray... "
"Yes, we should get this cleaned up," Hermione sighed. "I'm sure the other students will need it as well."
"Indeed. Let me know if you need anything," McGonagall finished. "And don't worry about putting it back exactly the way it was, I'm sure there was a better way to organize it."
"I'll do my best, Professor."
McGonagall took one last withering look around, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and swished out of the mess.
Left alone in the space, Hermione was struck with the enormity of the task; the library was in shambles, no more than a few of the bookcases still standing. The floor was completely covered with piles of books, rubble, burnt paper, and other debris; the gaping hole in the side of the room carried the breeze in, lifting her hair off her shoulders briefly as she looked at the landscape beyond, rolling hills dipping into the singed dark forest.
She sighed, pushed up her sleeves, and began with the pile in front of her, picking up the dirty books and stacking them. Let's see... Tales from the Vampire Den, a fiction book... Hogwarts, a History, Fifth Edition—yikes, that was old... A Healer's Guide to Microtransfiguration—
Hermione sighed heavily, looking at her short stack. The books were hopelessly mixed together, this would take weeks to sort out.
"Alright there, Hermione?" a voice said, and she turned as Neville edged his way through the space.
"Hi, Neville... just trying to figure out where to start," she answered.
"I need the Herbologist Ego from last month, there was an article about how to clean wortorthal sap... oh..." He looked around at the dilapidated piles, some of which taller than him; a book fell off a nearby shelf, hitting the ground with a loud thud.
"I'm not sure I'd be able to get it for you right now," Hermione sighed.
"No, I wouldn't ask you to do that... I think the Herbology section was..." he turned, his arms raised as he oriented himself in the space with his memory. "If that's the entrance, and this is the front desk... the Herbology section should be..." he walked over to one of the remaining standing shelves.
"This is... Ancient Runes? But..." he looked around. "How is that over here?"
"Neville," Hermione interrupted, "Are there any free volunteers? Anyone twiddling their thumbs? I... I think I'm going to need a hand."
Neville shook his head solemnly. "Not that I saw... everyone is trying to fix the walls right now... Luna is working on the staircases with Padma... and I saw Terry helping Flitwick with the tower... are you going to be okay in here?"
"Yes, I'll be fine... how are the greenhouses doing?"
He looked down at his feet, nudging a large copy of Ancient Runes Made Easy away. "They're... they're awful. Professor Sprout was crying earlier."
Hermione's throat tightened, and she swallowed before she could tear up.
"Um... well, let me know if you see any Herbologist Egos laying around... or if you see One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi or Artemis Willow's Anthology of Plants."
"Of course. See you at dinner."
After a few hours of work, Hermione was able to clear away one of the large piles near the door; there wasn't sufficient space to begin to recategorize the books, but she was trying her best, at least separating the stacks into research journals, fiction books, non-fiction books, and textbooks.
As she spoke the levitation charm for what seemed like the millionth time, moving a shelf off of its leaning position against the wall, a large, gold rectangle suddenly edged through the door, slowly, as if being levitated. Two small feet were behind it.
"Ah, Miss Granger, could you clear a space for some paintings?" Professor Flitwick asked, his wand raised as he concentrated on keeping the massive canvas upright.
Hermione indulged in a moment of admiration at the steady wandwork before quickly stepping over and using a locomotor charm to push the piles of books out of the way; she cringed as the delicate tomes tumbled over each other.
More people came through the door, sporting paintings of every shape and size, broken pieces of gilded frames, and rolled, singed canvasses, splintered wood still attached to the edges.
To Hermione's dismay, they quickly filled the space previously occupied by the book piles; people stacked the paintings one in front of the other while the occupants wept, trying to keep their balance as they were handled.
More volunteers struggled to levitate several enormous paintings into the tall space. One massive canvas took a chunk out of the archway, and the falling stone promptly hit the student in the head, sending her to the floor; Hermione rushed over, her wand out.
"Watch where you're going, Abbot," a familiar voice growled. "That painting is worth more than you."
"That's enough, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said tightly, fixing him with a steely glare. "Miss Abbot, please be careful. Madame Pomfrey already has her hands full."
"Of course, Professor, sorry," the girl muttered, shooting a dirty look at Malfoy as he levitated his own large canvas into the high space.
Hermione lowered her wand helplessly. "Professor—as it is, this room is already a complete mess—"
McGonagall crossed her arms, watching the volunteers lean the paintings to the side. "There is no space for these elsewhere at the moment."
"But—a corridor, or the Great Hall—"
"The Great Hall is in full repair, and we don't need the paint fumes making people sick as they eat," McGonagall explained shortly.
"Paint fumes?" Hermione asked.
"Mr. Malfoy is going to repair the paintings, and hopefully locate the missing occupants."
Hermione's heart sank as she watched Malfoy lean his gilded frame against the pile. If he was going to be repairing the paintings in here, it meant...
"Professor, there has to be another place," she reasoned.
McGonagall turned to her, her irritation finally peaked enough to face Hermione directly.
"This is the only place large enough for the bigger paintings."
"But—why is he doing this?"
McGonagall gave her that look—the one that said she was about five seconds away from deducting house points—and replied, "That is none of your concern, Miss Granger, unless he wishes to tell you."
"I see that happening," Hermione muttered.
The brunette witch watched helplessly as painting after painting made its way into her library, until the paintings at the back of the wall were covered with more paintings, all alight with noise as the occupants cried and shouted, tumbling over the objects in their scenes.
As the minutes dragged on, volunteers came and went, depositing more canvases on top of the others. Professor Flitwick came to stand next to her.
"Mr. Malfoy is an accomplished artist, Miss Granger, and the only one here who knows how to refurbish oil paintings," the old wizard said.
"An accomplished..." Hermione trailed off, furrowing her brows.
"Artist. One who creates."
"But..." She tried to recall if she knew this information; sure, she had frequently seen him watching the paintings as the stairs carried him throughout the castle... also, his fantastical drawings of Harry getting battered were a constant nuisance during lectures.
"How—I mean, I never... how did he learn that?"
"How does one learn anything?" the professor continued. "Consistency and dedication in one's practice."
"Yes, but... a professional, or another teacher, or... anyone else..."
The professor gave her a look and shuffled off, leaving Hermione standing among the rubble; the only sound in the room now was the breeze as it blew through the wall, the crying and simpering of the art, and her own breathing. She looked sideways at Malfoy as he surveyed the paintings; there must have been a few hundred of them, some tiny, the size of books, and others fantastically large, stretching towards the ceiling. To his left there was a row of fresh canvases, already stretched and bound neatly; a roll of unstretched canvas lay upon the floor, probably getting dirty with ash and filth.
Malfoy sighed and opened a case at his feet, revealing dozens of paint smeared tubes, long brushes, and vials of oils and solutions clinking together. Underneath lay a simple wooden palette, which he moved aside to get to a cloth.
Hermione opened her mouth to say something to him, to establish clear and decisive boundaries, then thought better of it, turning and walking back into the ruins of the Transfiguration section.
At dinner that night, Hermione looked around the Great Hall, checking out the progress everyone had made; the bewitched ceiling was still misbehaving, likely because of the broken rafters, exposing the real sky. Luckily it hadn't rained since last week, the day after the battle; if it did rain before the ceiling was repaired, they would likely have to eat in the corridor.
Ron was tucking into his large plate as Neville read a water-wrinkled copy of Advanced Potion-Making, sipping his pumpkin juice; at the table behind him, Mrs. Weasley was conversing quietly with Bill as he rubbed her shoulder, more people eating in silence beside them. Hannah Abbot was nursing the bruise on her forehead with one hand and holding a chicken leg in the other; near her, Terry Boot was trying to respell a shattered Sneakoscope, twisting its gears aimlessly.
"I'm surprised more people didn't come back to retake their N.E.W.T.s," Hermione commented, looking around.
"Nobody wants to go through that twice," Ron scoffed, munching on his chicken.
"Unless the job they want requires doing better than a Dreadful on their Potions exam," Neville mumbled, flipping a page.
"Still aiming to be an Auror?" Ron asked.
Neville shrugged, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to concentrate on his reading.
"I heard Harry got recruited right away," Padma put forth, cutting her food. "Clearly he didn't need any N.E.W.T.s at all."
"I don't think he's actually going to be an Auror. He's just helping Kingsley investigate Malfoy Manor with Savage and Williamson."
At the mention of Malfoy Manor, all six eyes sought out the blond Slytherin at the next table. He sat silently, his plate picked over, his normally smoothed-back hair falling in his eyes.
"He wasn't here yesterday, was he?" Luna asked.
"No, I would have remembered that," Ron grumbled.
"I overheard Professor McGonagall talking to Kingsley about it. Apparently he's stuck here helping, or he'll be shipped off to Azkaban."
"I thought—well, the Prophet said—"
"Are you still bothering with the bloody Prophet?"
Ron shrugged, still chewing.
"They made it sound like the trial outcome was pretty buttoned up. I wonder what happened," Hermione mused.
She didn't want to spare her annoying classmate another thought, but as she ate she snuck glances at him, trying to determine what had led the Minister to send him here.
He and his family were detained shortly after the battle; it seemed that they had left the fight immediately and gone home to wait for the outcome. Lucius had been arrested, and his subsequent trial had been swift and straightforward, as there was overwhelming evidence against him. Lady Malfoy had only been fined; she was not Marked, and had been instrumental in ensuring Harry's survival, which Harry pointed out to the Wizengamot earnestly. Harry had also been there during Draco's trial, but had not shared with Hermione exactly what had been said about the Slytherin, or what charges had stuck. The Prophet had reported that Malfoy was under investigation for dealing in illegal artifacts and attempted murder, but it seemed, based on his punishment, that neither charge could be proven.
But if Malfoy had been condemned to community service, this was not the first place Hermione would have chosen to put him.
"I wonder if Malfoy's going to retake his N.E.W.T.s—perhaps that's why he's here?" Hermione murmured.
"Absolutely. He was barely in the lectures last year," Padma answered, "But the Wizengamot probably just wants to put him to work."
"Why is he working on the paintings, though?"
"I bet they didn't trust him to do any of the important stuff," Ron said.
"The paintings are important, Ron, they're a part of the history of this school," Hermione admonished. "Didn't you read the chapter on them in Hogwarts, A History?"
"You know I haven't read that since first year."
Hermione shook her head, her annoyance mildly affectionate as she noticed his lopsided smile.
"It's typical pureblood nonsense, isn't it, learning to 'paint like the masters' and all," Ron continued. "Might as well stick a harpsichord in front of him while we're at it."
Despite her friends' snickering, Hermione examined the silent boy, puzzling through her thoughts.
She couldn't help but remember the sight of Malfoy's back earlier that day as he hunched over his supplies, his light hair reflecting the falling sun streaming over the crumbled wall. Later, she'd caught him cleaning a painting, rolling a small wad of cloth against the filthy surface while the painting's occupant watched. And when she was leaving for dinner, he had just finished repainting a section of another painting, having replaced the hole blown through the center with a fresh spot of canvas.
He was a pureblood aristocrat forced to learn specific leisure skills, there was no doubt of it, but she also knew when Malfoy thought something was stupid or not worth his time. She knew because he made it known by moaning about it. He was always complaining about homework, or tests, or needing to put on gloves in Herbology, or pretty much anything that required some level of effort. On top of that, though he'd still managed to get decent marks, he was always skiving off in class, twirling a quill or doodling. He rarely concentrated when he didn't see the need to. And he would certainly never concentrate so hard on something he thought was silly.
It was possible that he actually enjoyed painting.
Unless he was afraid of what would happen if he complained...
Hermione finished her dinner and stood, and a few of her classmates did as well, chatting about the progress they'd made or how they should start a game of Exploding Snap in the corridor. Hermione was intent to keep working, put the library back in order as soon as possible, so she could start studying for her N.E.W.T.s.
As she pushed through the doors to the corridor, Ron halted her with a hand on her arm.
"Hey," he said.
She stopped, turning to face him.
His eyes met hers, sporting that wide-eyed, uncertain look he'd given her on so many occasions since he'd kissed her the first time.
She smiled, and he smiled back tentatively; they were still trying to navigate new territory, and it was difficult to determine where their friendship ended and their romantic relationship began.
He took a step forward and gently pulled her into a hug; Hermione sighed, letting her thoughts settle and just enjoying the feeling of being encased in a protective shell. They had been doing this more and more, finding time to be together away from the prying eyes of their friends, of his family; trying to sort out what was happening between them, what they wanted.
"I was going down to Hufflepuff to relax for a bit," he said. "Want to join?"
Nervousness tingled in Hermione's hands, and she quickly said, "Actually, I didn't get as much done in the library today as I wanted, and I was going to try to get rid of the broken glass before tomorrow."
She tried not to cringe at the disappointed shadow passing over his features, and quickly wrapped her arms around his neck.
"I'll be there to sleep in a bit," she qualified quickly, her voice dropping. "See you later?"
He nodded, turning and planting a kiss on her cheek. Her skin tingled when he pulled away.
She said goodbye, trying not to feel like she was putting off spending time with him alone, but after seeing the library today... she had to do something to clear her mind, something productive.
The library was dark when she entered, only lit by the dusk visible through the large corner taken out of the wall. Hermione shivered in the high night breeze, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
She loved this place, she loved every stick of furniture, every book, every run in the carpet, everything, and it was heartbreaking to see it violated so. She had so many memories here: climbing the stairs to reach the heavy books on the second level when she was eleven; pouring over research, trying to find any account of a secret chamber when she was twelve; studying for O.W.L.s, her books piled so high that Madame Pince had accidentally snuffed the lights out for the night while Hermione was still there.
As she wiped her eyes, she realized that there was a candle lit somewhere behind where the tallest stacks shielded the paintings leaning against the wall; had someone come in without her knowing?
Hermione muttered a quick lumos and went to investigate.
As she rounded the corner, she sighed heavily.
Of course he just had to be here.
Draco Malfoy was a few paces away, crossed-legged on the floor as he sealed a torn canvas carefully with his wand. Now clad in a T-shirt and dark trousers, his arms were bare, his Dark Mark twisting freely on his wrist.
Hermione averted her gaze from it, swallowing the strange taste in her mouth.
"What are you doing?" she asked, crossing her arms.
The only indication that Malfoy heard her was the annoyed huff escaping his mouth; he continued sealing the tear in the canvas gingerly, staring at the torn and scorched painting in front of him determinedly as the candlelight danced.
"I asked you a question," Hermione tried again.
"And I'm ignoring you," Draco rasped, his voice uneven from disuse; he cleared his throat angrily and continued, "Go away."
Hermione shook her head, turning back to the darkness of the library. She had known better than to engage with him, but couldn't help but feel something wriggling in her stomach, something like disappointment. With everything that had happened over the past year—not even, the past few months, the past week—surely he had more to say than "go away?"
She stopped by the shattered windows, watching the shards refract the moon. It was a strange, new time for all of them, and she was willing to try to be decent—but if he wasn't willing to give an inch, then fine. She would leave him alone.
Hermione sighed, knelt, and began vanishing the glittering glass away.
The next morning was oddly surreal, as all her mornings had been over the past week.
For a moment when she awoke she was untroubled; the bed was unfamiliar, but her covers were soft, her limbs were heavy with sleep, and her mind was still clouded with a dream that was slowly fading.
But then she remembered why she was here. How much her home had been destroyed. Who she would never see again.
How she barely had a life to go back to outside of these walls.
And they were the walls of the Hufflepuff dormitories, the only rooms that were completely untouched by the effects of the battle as they were too far within the depths of the castle to have sustained damage. Unfortunately, Gryffindor Tower had partially fallen during the final fight, and Ravenclaw tower was still a mess, though intact. The Slytherin dungeon was mostly fine, but cracking in the school's plumbing had flooded the rooms, making Slytherin as delightful a sleeping place as a swamp.
Hermione squinted against the dark gold upholstery of the armchair near her bed, her eyes tracing the quirky cabriole legs down to the stone, rug-covered floor.
Another day was upon her, and she best get up and get to work on the library.
Once she dressed and made her way there, Malfoy was already in his corner, shuffling the wood and ripped canvasses around, apparently trying to organize the mess; Hermione ignored him pointedly and went back to the towering pile of rubble she had worked on the previous day.
By lunchtime she had sorted through that mountain as well, adding the mismatched books to their respective stacks. Her stack of ripped and sodden books was growing at alarming rate, and she paled to think of how long it was going to take to repair them, find the missing pages, clean the spines... if she could at all.
She resolved to stop tinkering around with the rubble and start trying to make a dent in that pile, as soon as she cleared away the last few books.
As she spoke the levitation charm, Neville was suddenly by her side, his hands on his hips.
"How's it going?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed as she concentrated.
He sighed, swishing his wand. "Sorry to bug you again. Need another book." He paused, then raised his arm. "Accio A Herbologist's Guide to Carnivorous Aquatic Plants."
"That's not going to work," Hermione reminded, shuffling books into the precarious towers carefully, her concentration unbroken.
"Shoot," Neville sighed, "I thought I'd try anyway."
"You need to have an idea of where the thing you're summoning—"
"I know," he muttered. "I was hoping to not have to dig around."
"I'm working on at least getting the sections back in the same vicinity," Hermione put forth, opening her eyes fully and letting the last stream of books fall into place on top of her stack. "Once that is done, it should be easier to search."
"For potions, at least some of the books are in the dungeon, but all the materials in the greenhouses are a mess... we're still trying to salvage the plants..."
"I've got to at least get the textbooks sorted, then I can get to the Herbology section."
He nodded, looking around; Hermione had gotten rid of most of the glass the previous night, and had already resolved to talk to McGonagall about hiring an artisan to replace the stained glass windows, perhaps with scenes of great historians and authors instead of the oddly gruesome classical tales that were illustrated on the previous windows.
"I see you have company," Neville commented, his gaze shifting ever so slightly to the right.
Hermione looked over his shoulder at Malfoy across the library, sitting in front of a wide dark canvas, painting in broad strokes.
She nodded mutely, letting her gaze fall away and back to her neat piles. "Yeah."
Neville looked down as well, his shoulders square. "Well, let me know if you find any plant guides."
"I will," she murmured.
Draco exhaled slowly as he finished the dark underpainting, setting the flat, dripping brush aside. While that part dried, he could perhaps look at the painting of the young sir with the hole taken out of the bottom. For the sake of his sanity he'd decided to start this endeavor with the art he recognized first, the paintings that were both easily identifiable and had minimal damage. The other paintings, the ones that were little more than singed, crumped piles of refuse... well, he would have a much harder time repairing those, if he could at all.
Draco stood, stretched until the satisfying pops of released tension sounded from his back, and pushed the freshly cloaked canvas aside to address the damaged painting.
It was actually somewhat of a relief to be doing something he actually enjoyed while he fulfilled the terms of his sentence; there had been no hour limit, but instead an ominous deadline of "whenever he was finished."
The real punishment wasn't the work in that sense, but being back here, feeling people's eyes on him as he made his way around, hearing conversations stop whenever he entered a room, dark mutterings whenever he walked past. After the first day he made it a point to avoid everyone as much as possible, and just try to stick to his paintings; whenever he opened his mouth there was always the chance that he would lash out without meaning to, surely earning him a hex or more dirty looks. So for now his goal was to keep his head down and finish out his sentence before the people he'd spent the last seven years tormenting caught him in a dark corridor and finished the Dark Lord's work.
It wasn't like he could retaliate... whatever the Wizengamot had done to his wand made certain spells not work, so he couldn't even enjoy having that piece of himself back. Wielding his old wand was like trying to ride a carriage with square wheels: he experimentally blundered around, waving the thing about, trying to learn what spells he could and couldn't perform, only to be rewarded half the time.
Cleaning spells seemed to be working, but he knew better than to use them on something like an oil painting. Merlin knows he would strip some of the paint away if he attempted to magic away the soot. On the other hand, spells that should have been perfectly innocent—alohamora, for instance—were blocked. He'd scoffed at that—what secret room did they think he was going to sneak into?
The actual act of painting was an easy silver lining in all of this. Draco was by no means a master, but painting wasn't a pastime employed by a lot of people in his community, especially not the style of painting he did. Most people enjoyed more modern forms such as printmaking, or using watercolors or ink, but Draco wasn't interested in that. He was fascinated by the high fidelity, grand paintings of old, the withering shadows and muddied tones of works dating back even to the 12th century. His favorite tended to be the renaissance works of the 1600s however; when artists learned more about proportion and composition, and could replicate scenes with more integrity, more detail. And Hogwarts had a load of those: classical scenes depicting pagan goddesses and stories of the ancient world; scholars in wooden rooms, pouring over shining instruments and magical objects of great power as they conversed; old kings and queens, knights, sires, dukes and duchesses, and famed inventors from all over Europe; even some previous Hogwarts teachers, forever celebrated in the halls they once walked.
There were other works as well: depictions from every goblin war, detailing great battles and treaties, assassinations and the reclaiming of rights; beautiful rare creatures, majestic in their natural habitats; and odd characters of old stories, immortalized in scenes of risk and reward.
His training had started on his own actually; the paintings in Malfoy Manor had always appalled him, except one: a shining, flowery painting of a girl in a garden not unlike the one outside his chamber window. She had apparently been his great great great aunt on his father's side, the one to initially inhabit the Manor when the land was first seized hundreds of years before his birth. The Manor's details had apparently been painted white back then, the stone clean and unmarked from the weather.
Draco shook his head; he didn't want to think about his home right now, knowing that it was being torn apart by Aurors as they investigated the Death Eater's hideout.
He looked back at the painting he was about to work on; it was one he knew, as it had been right next to the fourth-floor corridor staircase, the first painting around the corner. It was of a man by the name of Sir Coleville Green, who could not resist saying hello when someone passed in front of him. Draco had never responded to the man, and he felt a twinge of something uncomfortable in his gut at the thought now, for the young sir was slumped over in his chair, apparently not breathing.
This was such new territory for him, repairing paintings that had already been enchanted to move, paintings that hadn't been touched for hundreds of years. Even the paint that had been available at the time this work was painted was vastly different than the pre-mixed oils Draco had at his disposal; a lot of artists had still mixed their paints by hand back then, and didn't have the same cataloging system for color that wizards had today. Besides, there was no guide for which colors the artist had used, which underpainting technique they had employed... and when it came to the scenes themselves, each artist had their own way of painting certain objects, which would be impossible to replicate without extensive research... there was a lot to think about, essentially.
Draco tapped lightly at the canvas, hoping that the man inside awoke, but nothing happened; the painting still appeared to be enchanted, as the clouds were moving outside the man's window, so the spell didn't seem to be malfunctioning.
Giving up, Draco returned to the tear at the bottom and resealed it quickly so he could paint in the missing chair leg.
Hermione had yet to see Malfoy in the Hufflepuff common room, and for the first few days she wondered if he was sleeping at all; whenever she appeared in the library in the morning he was already there, cross-legged and dabbing away at a beaten canvas; he was usually at dinner, numbly picking away at his food, but afterward if she went to the library he was there again, silently working.
She had barely spoken more than a dozen words to him, and they were usually something like, "excuse me," or "found a piece of frame."
By the next week she had cleared away much of the debris and sorted out most of the books; unfortunately the ones that remained were on Malfoy's side of the library, where the tall canvases leaned against the wall. He had begun leaning the finished and undamaged paintings against the backside of the broken shelves of the Arithmancy section, exactly the place she needed to tackle next; the devastation there was particularly nasty, splintered wood, singed paper, and jutting nails everywhere.
As she stopped near that section, she observed Draco work, as she sometimes did, for a few seconds. This particular painting was one she had seen him work on pretty frequently, and she'd watched it go from a dark wash of blue, to strips of red and purple, to what appeared to be a beach scene bathed by a sunset, rolling mountains just discernible.
She looked on curiously; she'd never seen this painting in the castle before. It wasn't very classical... in fact, the style was all wrong, nothing like the austerely academic works that adorned the corridors, or the warm, playful scenes that lined the tower of the open network of stairs. It was a landscape, and there definitely weren't many landscapes at Hogwarts. It seemed... almost modern, and with a wildly vivid palette compared to the browns and muted blues and yellows of the rest of the paintings. It didn't seem like he was repainting something that had already been in the castle... so what was this?
Hermione grounded her nerves and asked, "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" Draco muttered, not looking up.
"I've never seen this painting around the castle. Which room is it in?"
"This isn't a Hogwarts painting."
"Then what- "
"This is my painting, okay?" he sputtered, throwing the brush. The brush clattered against the only intact bookshelf, leaving a spattering of red paint across the wood.
"Oh, for the love of—can you try not to destroy the library while you work?!" Hermione scathed, brushing past him and kneeling next to the splatter.
"Can you leave me alone?" he retorted, fetching a new brush and dabbing it on his palette.
Hermione rolled the brush aside and took out her wand, and with a quick scourgify the paint was gone; in fact, that part of the shelf looked much cleaner than the surrounding area, which was blackened with soot and dirt. Hermione sighed heavily, rubbing a thumb over the worn oak.
She knelt and continued cleaning the bookcase; this wasn't the best way to clean, but she needed a clear shelf to start putting books, and she might as well start somewhere.
Once the bookcase was clean, she began sorting through the debris near the paintings, lifting the large pieces away and vanishing them if they were beyond repair.
This would have been a simple task, but unfortunately every few seconds she could hear Malfoy sigh in annoyance as he hovered over his beach scene, occasionally placing delicate strokes. He seemed frustrated, with her yes, but also with whatever he was doing. He wasn't painting in broad strokes anymore, but was making singular marks on the canvas, then leaning back to survey the change.
More than an hour later—Hermione had already unloaded enough books on the shelf to start on the next one—Draco sighed audibly, his arm dropping to sign the bottom. Now that the creative part of the painting was done, he needed to charm it to move, then cover it in a layer of varnish once it was dry. The movement charm tended to work the best when the paint was still tacky, or so he'd read, so it was best to charm it immediately. After the paint dried and the movement charm stabilized, he could seal it and be done.
Draco set down the brush, picked up his handicapped wand, and closed his eyes, concentrating on the painting charm; he'd only performed it a few times before, so while it wasn't entirely new to him, it was still a complicated charm that he wasn't a master at.
Unfortunately, Granger was saying "Wingardium leviosa" several times a minute, and the sound of the splintered wood and heavy books falling and scraping as she cleaned was irking him.
"Can you be quiet? I'm trying to charm this thing," he muttered.
She didn't respond, but her next wingardium leviosa, spoken in that nasally voice he remembered from first year, was clipped and edged in annoyance.
Draco sighed again, squeezing his eyes shut as he focused his thoughts, trying to block out the noise. He held the vision of the painting in his mind's eye: white beach, waves. Mountains, stretching sky, vivid in the fading light of the sun. His sanctuary, his beach, the only light in his darkness, the thing he wanted...
Unfortunately he could vaguely see Granger's silhouette as well, threatening to break his concentration as another wingardium leviosa rang in the air, but he firmly suppressed annoyance as he took a deep breath.
The words came out clearly: "Aperiam en porta. Vitae modica vitam. Resurgemus... leviosa."
As the incantation left his lips, he suddenly noticed the silence, and his eyes opened automatically; Granger was watching him, her wand still raised, a soiled book still hovering in the air next to her.
He met Granger's gaze; that expression he knew all too well, the haughty and insecure arrogance she always exuded was there, but there was something else there as well. His attention was captured for no more than a moment, but it seemed to stretch on as he processed many things at once—the well-polished wand in her hand, her fingers gripping it; her disheveled muggle clothing that in his opinion too closely resembled a Hogwarts uniform; her aged eyes, framed in pink as though she had been crying earlier that morning.
Her eyes were a color he should have recognized, and as he did with works of art he automatically mixed the color in his head... but the refractions were so complex that it seemed impossible to recreate through pigment. Except... what?
As the moment passed, he knew instantly that something was wrong; the light that usually engulfed a freshly enchanted painting was supposed to be soft, not wild like this, crackling with lightning. And the light wasn't just around the painting, but the rug and the books propping it up as well, around the plant next to the shelf... and around Granger herself.
"What—"
Hermione looked around in alarm as the light engulfed her, and an unfathomable pain seared her skin; her flesh began to harden and crackle, like rubber going brittle with age, sizzling as the lightning scorched her skin.
She opened her mouth to scream but her throat was paper thin, crackling and tightening, fusing together; a crushing weight like a compactor was compressing her body, flattening her limbs.
And then the pain was gone, leaving nothing more than a series of trembles, and she became aware of the floor beneath her feet again... looser, but it was there.
She shook, falling to the ground, her hands splayed over... sand?
And it was... warm?
As her eyes refocused, she looked down at her arms, shaking from the trauma. Her skin looked normal—it wasn't flattening and cracking—but it felt... different. It was smoother, silkier, not like skin at all, but like something fake. Where those tiny hairs on her arm, or were they... brush strokes?
Hermione looked behind her, her eyes wide.
She was on a beach, similar to what Malfoy had painted, but she could actually hear the waves crash, see the details of the sky and clouds as they moved overhead. The color of the sky was the same frightening purple and red, the sand ivory under her fingers.
A potent sense of dread filled her body; her brain was starting to piece it together and it was terrifying, unthinkable.
She turned back; a gilded frame was suspended in the air in front of her, with the sunlit library beyond... and Draco's horrified face filling the center.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Author's note (11/25/18): Hey everyone, new story here. I'm super excited about this one, I've been concepting it for a while. Feel free to drop a review and let me know what you think! Chapter two coming next week!