Author's Note: Yes, Making Shade is complete! I'm so glad that you all enjoyed it, and I really appreciated the positive reviews. I'd like to introduce my new story, entitled, Eye of the Beholder starring Emily Grace Weasley in her fourth year at Hogwarts. This is the second of four in my "Hogwarts: The Next Generation" series. Now, on with the story! Don't forget to review!

A/N²: Just a brief mentioning that the symbol of *↔* means that the point of view is switching from Emily to Ron or vice versa. Had a little too much fun with that one, didn't I?  Hope that this keeps confusion to a minimum.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Co. is the intellectual property of Ms. JK Rowling.

Eye of the Beholder

Preface

Photography is my favourite form of visual art. A brief moment in time can be etched to film and stored away forever; generations to come can relive memories that were far before their time. 

Seeing is not always believing. What you see is not always what you get. Your eyes can betray you, and with that brief blink, it's too late. A sight-good or bad- is etched in your memory, ready to be unearthed on command- by a smell, a word, a sound, a sight, a taste- and has a nasty habit of re-entering your mind when you least expect it, and at the most inopportune times.

No one ever thinks that the blinking of an eye can change his life. I didn't, that's for sure, especially in the middle of my Hogwarts years. I had friends, I had a reputation, I had Quidditch, and I had art. Everything was going just fine, and then, bang! My life changed just that quickly.

I never asked to see what I did.

Sight, to me, is both a blessing and a curse.  Memory is a menace and a haven. The experience in the summer between my third and fourth year wasn't something that could be changed. It had to happen, and is now ineradicably in my mind's eye. I used to wish with all of my heart that it would go away, but not anymore. It's a blessing, yes. It helped me discover who I am- who Emily Weasley is- and changed my life in a way that I would never want to take back. Yet, the paradox continues, because it's also a curse.  It took away my innocence, and my childhood was lost to me from that moment on. There was no going back, and that scared me; it scared me more than anything- even more than what I saw.

Art is in the eye of the beholder. One time, I remember that I was very frustrated with an oil painting that I'd been working on. I couldn't tell you what the hell it was that I was painting, but I must have wiped that canvas clean at least three or four times before setting it aside and starting a new one- an abstract. It was a total blend of colours and shapes, with no form or meaning. When I looked at it, I saw utter frustration on canvas.

When Mum saw it, however, her opinion of it was much deeper. She saw life that lacked vision, ambition and individuality. She saw the lack of colour scheme as a lack of uniqueness, a way to blend in with the crowd.

Landon said that he saw utter chaos.

Dad's was the closest on target. He said that he saw frustration and disappointment; that I had gotten fed up with my other painting and this one was merely a form of venting.

Dad and I had always been a lot alike. We even saw art in the same way- not trying to find a deep meaning for it, but taking it a face value without even giving it a benefit of a doubt. Our personalities were naturally outgoing and funny, which is kind of sad. I don't try to be funny-it just happens and people find my life to be hysterical. We both have a nearly insane obsession with the Chudley Cannons (they will win the Championship this year).  We were both good natured, loyal, and honest. Of course, I've got that explosive temper, as well. I loved my Dad almost more than anything, I think, and he was my biggest role model. People sometimes say that my modelling Dad is rather strange when I have Mum and Landon to look up to.

The difference between Landon and I is that I say what I'm thinking. I'm sure that Landon's got an inner cynic, even if it never shows. That's why he never gets in trouble, and I do. I say without thinking of how it might affect someone, or something. Maybe it's a psychosomatic thing to get attention- I was always rather passed over.

Life is a matter of perspective. Nothing changes about a Van Gogh painting, only how you look at it, just like your outlook on life with affect the way you live it.

Sight, to me, is both a blessing and a curse.  Memory is a menace and a haven. Seeing is not always believing. What you see is not always what you get. Your eyes can betray you, and with that brief blink, it's too late.

*↔*

I wonder, as I have many times in my lifetime, what is it that causes us to do what we do? What is that 'gut feeling' that often lends its' aid when it is time to make a hard decision? Could it be The Fates that so often played a part in Greek mythology, or is it a conscience in the form of a little bug that will occasionally pop up on your shoulder?

Perhaps, and most likely, it's experience nagging you and pulling at your heartstrings, just like Hermione does. She is quick to remind our children (and me, at that) "do you remember what happened the last time that you did that?" Landon, Emily and Jack would shake their heads solemnly, with wide eyes in horrid recollection of a burnt palm, a bumped head, a lost pet or a bad grade (in Landon's case), and then opt to do either exactly what their mum had warned them against or exactly what they wanted to do. Usually, what they wanted to do would result in a burnt palm, a bumped head, a lost pet, or an A minus (once again, in Landon's case).

I was so used to having to make tough decisions for my children, as any father is, I suppose. It was a very hard thing for them not to be dependant on me any longer, but it was something that I had to get used to. I also had to get used to their decisions leading them into trouble, and had to accept the fact that they were growing up and it was something that they just had to go through. I hated that part of parenting- letting go.

If I had been protective of Hermione, which I sure as hell was (and am), I was doubly so with my children. It was quite a different experience when I caught boys looking at Emily than when I caught them looking at Hermione (when we were younger, obviously). When Emily was the object of visual amusement for a certain boy, I had a strong urge not only to kill him, but gouge out his eyes (as well as the eyes of every boy between the ages of thirteen and twenty-one), simply because experience allowed me the 'luxury' of knowing exactly what was going on in their mind. With Hermione, on the other hand, I wanted to kill him not only to prove somewhat of an ownership over her, thus boosting my ego, but so he would stop thinking what he was so I could continue thinking the exact same things without the distraction of someone else mentally undressing her. I could mentally undress her myself, thank you very much.

A new sense of responsibility came with fatherhood, as well as new depths of love. Love, so I discovered, was not to benefit yourself in any way, but should be completely selfless as every fibre of your being longs to make that other person happy. My children, in this case. I want with all of my heart for them to be happy and content, safe and protected, successful, and to experience the same kind of love that I feel for them and Hermione. When any of those four things are threatened, I get madder than Emily does when the Cannons lose. Nothing stands in my way anymore, and nothing matters- only my children and the insurance of their well-being.

And I mean nothing.