Draco Malfoy always was an attentive child, and so, troubled, when he went to the top of the highest tower in Hogwarts, to try and see past the Forbidden Forest, past Hogsmeade, to some semblance of normalcy that he'd never known... the Muggle world. It hadn't had any allure to him, in of itself. He hadn't gone there full of curiosity and brimming with questions. No, he'd gone there to escape... and he'd found something more.
Draco Malfoy tried to pull her memory to the front of his mind. He shook as he did, feeling the memory itself unraveling, slowly, the way memories often did, as time and tide wash away the particulars, leaving... leaving just the smoothness of a smile, just the remembered echo of softness.
Draco Malfoy was not about to let that happen. Not here, not now. Not to this memory.
So, up on top of Hogwarts, he conjured a parchment and a quill, and began to draw. It wouldn't be perfect, his drawing wasn't even very good, but he could at least have this, for a memory.
Ink would not fade like his memory would.
And he'd need some way to find her again, were that even possible.
He clung to that small, frail hope like a drunk, adrift sailor clings to a bit of driftwood.
Forlornly.
Hermione was in her bed when she realized she couldn't quite remember the way his bangs had fallen. It was startling, to feel something, someone, so significant slipping away, like water falling through cupped hands, no matter how tightly you tried to hold it.
She knew she wasn't an artist, and briefly considered talking with Dean, before deciding that it was a little too personal, and that she could easily write down descriptions beside any sketch that she might do.
She drew, with pencil, a quick sketch, and then started with ink, using color to bring to striking life something that would only live on the page.
Unless she saw him again.
It didn't really matter, in the end, how poor her drawing was - and it was abysmal. This would help anchor her.
[a/n: Memories aren't crystal until the end of time.
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