Forgive and Forget
Blue. Green. Yellow. Red. White. A little pink maybe. A dab of brown. Some more white. Much more white.
The colors flowed like the flooding of the Nile each summer, casting their hues upon the starch primed canvas without abandon. With each fresh stroke a layer of paint was applied, a layer of pain erased. The soothing and hypnotic blending of colors eased the soul in a way no amount of consoling words, warm embraces, or shots of biting liquor could. Having tried nearly everything to keep her mind from spiraling into the black abyss of depression, Hermione Granger had finally found the one thing that could possibly save her in the end: painting.
For hours on end Hermione spent her nights--after forcing down a simple and tasteless dinner after work--standing before an easel, paintbrush in hand, her clothing, hair, and face spattered with flecks of every color in the spectrum. Her friends tried—and failed—to understand the pull of something so seemingly unimportant. But then they—with the exception of Harry—had all grown up in the Wizarding World, where no one painted for pleasure.
Since she was a little girl, Hermione had always been fascinated with art. The way it transported her into another realm, far exceeding her own imagination, was so addictive she found herself immersed in art books, trying desperately to replicate the works printed on the pages before her. At age eleven, when she received her letter to attend Hogwarts, painting, drawing, and the like had been abandoned in the pursuit of magic. But now, after all her years of study, magic had proven itself inadequate to calm her raging heart. It had been magic, in fact, that had broken her to begin with. For had she never entered into this world she would surely have nothing to "get over".
Her friends could only speculate as to the reason for Hermione's sorrow. The destruction and loss of life during the war. Her failure to defeat Bellatrix LeStrange, leaving her with an unfixable bad ankle for the rest of her life. There were innumerable reasons for her grief. Though her friends couldn't have been more wrong. But, thankfully, each finished painting she produced took her one step further towards her goal: to forgive and forget.
Forgiveness was the easy part. Every time she picked up her brush and slathered on the greasy oil paint the fibers in her screamed. She had always been a calm, rational, clever girl. After all, forgiveness was divine, and most everyone would agree that Hermione Granger was as close to divinity as anyone could get. She had forgiven the Death Eaters, forgiven Voldemort who controlled them, forgiven those who shaped Voldemort into who he became. She forgave Snape one Sunday afternoon at his court trial, his face sunk and parchment white as he received his sentence: the Dementor's Kiss. She forgave Harry immediately for not being able to stop Voldemort from killing Ron, though she knew Harry could never forgive himself. She had forgiven everyone of every crime they'd committed. Not because she thought they deserved it (except Harry, of course), or because it was the right and just thing to do, or even because some of them hadn't truly done anything wrong save being afraid or forced.
No. The reason Hermione forgave everyone was because she herself sought forgiveness. And if she were to withhold a grudge even to the most deserved of all, then she would be forsaking herself, forsaking everything and everyone she ever cared about.
So she had forgiven them all, finding it easier to breathe somehow. The only problem was she had yet to forget. She knew it was silly of her to hope for such a thing. How could anyone forget the horrors of wars? The death, the bloodshed, the pain. It was ridiculous to even think it. And yet, everyday, with a glob of paint on the end of a chewed-up wooden brush, Hermione Granger strove to forget.
"What do you paint all the time?" Harry would ask her often at tea or dinner or the graveyard that they visited regularly--Hermione hated it. How the hell was she supposed to forget if Harry constantly dragged her to the graves of her loved ones? But she endured for his sake.
"My pain," she would answer with a sigh and a sad smile. She never showed Harry or anyone else what images graced her canvases. She had hundreds upon hundreds of finished paintings stacked all around her flat, and she alone had seen them. And though people visited her sometimes five times a week, no one had even glimpsed so much as a corner of her pieces. She could be gone from the room for twenty full minutes, preparing dinner, while Harry waited in the living room, and only because she asked him not to did he refrain from turning one of them over.
She knew it was selfish of her to keep such things from those closest to her, but in her defense, she really didn't think they would understand. Hell, Harry would probably incinerate every last painting into ashes if he saw them. For every single one was of the same subject, the underlying reason for her pain, the reason above all others she wanted so desperately to forget.
It was a chilly autumn day when Hermione stood back from her latest painting and made a startling discovery. Without dropping her brush, she clamped her hand over her mouth, smearing a good deal of burnt sienna on her cheek in the process. For so long she had been painting the same thing, day after day, month after month, her brush would only produce that which caused her the most unendurable pain. Only the image that stood before her was not that which lined the walls and crowded the rooms of her flat. The image was...of her.
Grabbing a dingy rag off the table beside her, Hermione tried to wipe off the offensive paint, only to rub it deeper into her pores. She cursed under her breath, threw down her brush, and retreated to the bathroom for a mirror and sink. Instead of cleaning off the paint, however, she opted for a full shower, cleansing her from the jarring portrait she'd created subconsciously.
What did it mean? For so long she'd put the blame elsewhere, and now what? Did the shallows of her mind know something she did not? Or was she finally going mad, the way she conceived her friends thought she'd gone long ago?
Squeezing a generous amount of soap onto her loofa, Hermione closed her eyes and projected the image of a blank canvas in her mind's eye while she washed. But the more she pushed for the smoothe off-white surface, the more her face bombarded the space, until finally she could no longer concentrate on her shower properly and shut off the water, her hair--though thoroughly sudded and wet—still caked with paint.
Despite the gray skies, the damp ground, and the slight breeze, Hermione found the weather to be quite agreeable, warm even. Dressed into her tattered painting pants, a gray thermal top, and a light cloak, she made her way down the sidewalk of a street she'd vowed never to visit again. The streetlamps were already lit, their yellow light casting strange shadows on the pavement; in a few minutes the sky would be black, and she would arrive at her destination.
The first thing he noticed about her was her hair; partially wet, partially soaped, and partially speckled with flecks of color. He didn't know why she was there, her face disturbingly serene, a vast contrasted to the last meeting they'd had. Flashed of angry words struck him so violently he nearly shuddered.
When she said nothing, he asked, "Why are you here?" It couldn't have to do with the Ministry of Magic; she'd quit her job nearly a year ago. Her unflattering and mildly haunting appearance suggested she'd just happened to wander into his neighborhood and knock softly on his front door. She looked barking mad.
"I have something to show you," she said. Her voice was softer than he remembered.
"You have nothing I want," he snapped, going to shut the door on her, on everything she represented.
Before he could stop her, however, she grabbed his wrist and, so harshly it made him want to vomit, hundreds and hundreds of images assaulted his brain. He didn't know what magic she used to project these pictures at him, but whatever it was got his attention. He shoved her back, staggering into his living room, searching for a place to sit. With the gentleness of a mother, Hermione led him to his sofa, though chose to remain standing.
"What the bloody hell was that!" he demanded, hands in his hair, nerves rattling. He couldn't help it, couldn't control his body. He was actually shivering and nothing he did could stop it.
"My work," she answered simply. "My paintings."
He frowned and shook his head at the carpeted floor. For years he'd lived without once having to see her face, having to hear her voice—and now, in the blink of an eye, she had him back in her pocket. He swore loudly and looked up.
"What do you want?" he asked, unable to make his voice any higher than a whisper.
"I thought I made myself perfectly clear."
He shot up from the sofa so fast it knocked against the wall. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he forced her to meet his eyes. She looked startled for a moment, then relaxed and presented him a sad smile. He wanted to slap her.
"How dare you come to my home after everything you said to me and expect me to—"
"But I don't expect anything from you," she interjected quickly. Suddenly she didn't seem so crazy to him, didn't seem so serene. Behind her eyes was a wealth of emotion, waging a war with the facade of calm. She was a wreck.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I came to apologize."
The soundtrack of their lives skipped a beat. He faltered and let her go.
"Ok," he said after a long pause.
"Ok?" she echoed, her eyebrows knitting, then softening. She went forward, but he stopped her with a raised hand.
"I said I accept your apology," he explained. "That doesn't mean I forgive you. And it certainly doesn't mean I've forgotten what you did to me."
"I—" She stopped dead. It was useless. For too long she had blamed him for everything that went wrong in her life, when—as she so poignantly painted—it was in fact all her fault. "Very well. I won't bother you again."
He shut the door behind her without saying another word.
Flashback:
Three months had passed since the end of the war. Three hard, cold, sad months. And Hermione Granger had yet to shed a single tear. Not because she wasn't sad—the pain was so deep she was beyond tears. She'd lost so much, and all because some people couldn't deal with blood.
Her shoes scuffed the floor as she entered the cafe, a cool spring wind sweeping in behind her. She took a seat at the nearest table, ignoring the other patrons—she had other things on her mind.
When her order came, so did an unexpected and very unwelcome person from her past.
"You made your flat Unplottable, didn't you?" The voice was angry, coated with hurt and confusion.
She didn't look up and said, "What did you expect?"
"A little more from you, that's for damn sure."
"Sorry to disappoint you." But she wasn't.
An arm lashed out and snatched her chin, forcing her to meet his enraged gaze. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't a small bit frightened. Never had she thought of him as dangerous, as a murderer; except at this very moment.
"Did you expect me to just forget what happened?" he all but yelled. By now the rest of the cafe was craning to hear their conversation. She scowled at them, then begrudgingly returned her attention to the angry man before her.
Nothing happened," she stressed, pulling his arm away. "Nothing I care to remember, anyway."
He yanked her out of her chair, leaving both her purse and her cloak behind, and forced her into the street. Had he been anyone else, they would have surely tried to stop him.
"You're being ridiculous," she sighed, failing to get him to let her go. "How can you expect me to put more weight on that than everything else in my life?"
"So what? It was a ploy? A game? A joke?" he sneered, tightening his grip on her arm.
"An impulse," she came up with, shrugging her shoulders as if it were something one could simply shrug about. He certainly didn't think so, and he wasn't afraid to show it.
"An impulse!" he balked, his face inches from hers.
"Yes," she said through her teeth. "Are you deaf?"
"It meant nothing more then?" His anger, so fierce and violent before, seemed to have crumbled at his question.
"Nothing."
He turned to leave, and she sighed a great sigh of relief, only to gasp a moment later when he rounded on her, crushing his lips to hers. She clawed at his chest, shoving him away with all the strength she possessed. When he would not heed, she unwillingly succumbed to his advance, releasing an unbridled moan into his mouth. He let her go and she nearly stumbled to the ground.
That meant nothing?" he asked, his lips tight and his fists clenched.
She didn't hesitate, for if she had nothing she said could have made him leave.
"Yes."
That night she cried into Harry's chest, confessing what she considered the greatest sin of her life. She cried so hard and for so long that her body gave up and she past out in his arms. Quietly he carried her to her bed, giving her a gentle and loving kiss on the forehead before leaving her to her rest.
What surprised him most of all was his lack of anger at her confession. Wasn't this supposed to be the worst thing a friend could do to another friend? And yet, after everything he'd endured in the war, this only paled in comparison. Hell, he even felt sorry for her, hoped she'd get over it and be happy again.
No longer having a reason to restrain himself, Harry wandered into the living room and turned over the first painting he saw. And as startling as the picture was, he found he wasn't surprise at the subject. It took him nearly two hours to find all of her pieces and by the time he was finished 763 of the 764 paintings were of the same thing, the 764th being a darkly rendered self-portrait of Hermione in a black gown, half her face covered with a sheer black veil. It had sent an unpleasant shock through him, but no matter how hard he tried, he ended up staring at her face for close to ten minutes, both fascinated and repulsed. He wished he'd been able to help her more. But he saw now that painting was the only thing that had helped. No matter how little.
She awoke the following morning to the smell of bacon frying down the hall. Pulling on her bathrobe, she ventured into the kitchen, somehow knowing that Harry would not scold her upon arrival. He turned around the second he heard her and smiled.
"Morning," he said, sliding a mound of bacon onto a plate that he transplanted on the table.
"Morning," she answered, pouring a glass of orange juice. She wasn't hungry, per usual.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been romanced by a dementor," she said honestly. Harry let out a snort of laughter. Even in her lowest of low moods she always looked out for those around her. She cracked a smile and motioned for him to sit. "About last night."
"Say no more," he instructed, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. "I don't need an explanation."
"But I want to tell you."
Harry sat back and allowed her to continue.
"Harry, I think—no, I know that I'm in love with him. And somehow, I don't know how—" She made wild gestures with her hands. "—that painting of me let me know what I wouldn't see on my own. When I told you all those times I was painting 'my pain', I meant it. I truly thought he was the cause. Until I realized the truth."
"And you told him this?"
"He knows," she said, sighing. "I...I don't blame him for shutting the door in my face, Harry. He was right. The day I kissed him during the war had meant something. Only it took me five years to realize it. I can't expect him to have waited this long."
"And you're certain that nothing can change his mind?"
"Harry, please." She dropped her head in her hands. "I've ruined everything. What more is there?"
She smelled the distinctive scent of flames before she realized she and Harry weren't alone anymore. Before she could lift her head to see who was there, Harry got up and slipped out of the room as if he'd been summoned.
The sound of the chair beside her scraping across the floor jolted her senses. She didn't dare look up.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, the most obscure thought coming to her: she still had paint in her hair.
"Apologizing," he answered.
Against her will she looked at him.
"Wh-what?"
"Your righteous friend forced himself into my flat last night," he said, touching her cheek softly. Her eyes fluttered involuntarily. "Demanded I give you a second chance."
"And you listened?" She didn't believe it.
"No," he answered honestly. "I was going to come anyway...Once I found the nerve."
"But how can you forgive me?" she whispered, tears of both frustrated confusion and (self-proclaimed) undeserved happiness lining her face.
"The question is," he said, inching ever closer, "how can I forget you?"
She was so overwhelmed that she actually cried out when he kissed her, collapsing into his arms as if she'd fainted.
Years later Hermione would look back on that time in her life and smile, phenomenally grateful for the way things had turned around. Every once and awhile, when her husband and children were fast asleep, she would creep into the attic of their country home and look at the paintings in hundreds of different styles, all of the same subject: her husband, Draco Malfoy.
I really don't know what possessed me to write the one-shot, but here it is. Let me know what you think.
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P.S. For those of you who read my other stories, don't fret. I am working on them, only it's taking me longer than anticipated to get my ideas down on paper. Please have patience.