Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Hermione, Ron, Pansy, Malfoy and McGonagall are the creations of J K Rowling, not me. Sadly. – Otherwise, I would be really rich, not in school and busy writing the books and she would be writing fan- fics for me.
Authors Notes: Inspired by the HP100 challenge "Draw" but then the whole 100 words thing got irritating. This is my first Potter fic as I've been doing Artemis stuff, and my first drabble. I always end up killing people… Feedback would be great.
Temporary Psychosis
Hermione glanced over, in spiteful envy, at Pansy's beautiful impressionist drawing; it was full of wonder and mystique - solemn, lonely imagination. One figure was standing half in the light and half in the dark, caught between the two. A second silhouette, which Hermione guessed to be Draco Malfoy, was standing alone in the darkness illuminated by red, dripping slowly from his hands.
Hermione cringed. How couldPansy miss that creep; how could she yearn to be with that… that traitor.
She looked back at the mess on her parchment, it was supposed to be her, exploding under the pressure of exams, but it just looked like a big blob. She hated art; it was so free and there was no right answer, but Hermione knew that whatever she had created certainly wasn't the 'right answer.' Her hand couldn't make what her mind saw.
How ProfessorMcGonagall could claim art to be 'focussing,' surpassed her never almost failing comprehension but everyone in the room was silently expressing themselves, even Ron and Harry; even Neville. And Hermione had read that it was tradition for students to engage themselves in "visual creativity" just before taking NEWTS.
It was beyond annoying; it was unbearable.
She through down her pencil in frustration.
Pansy sniggered, as if by viscous instinct, "Is that supposed to be lover boy Potter, Granger?"
Hermione, Ron, Harry and McGonagall all go to their feet simultaneously
Something had snapped in Hermione's overdeveloped brain; rage overcame her intellect; reasoning became as obsolete as her discarded quill, crushed under the weight of sixteen years of bottled up stress.
"Avada Kedavra!" She screamed, with utter precision, striking Parkinson dead instantly.
Her composure survived just one second longer,
"I can't draw, bitch." She added.
"Jesus." Murmured Ron, to Harry, as they gazed on, in disgusted awe.
END.