Chapter 4: Paint me
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.
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Author's Note: Well guys, I hope you like this! That's all I'm saying! ;-) Oh, and thanks for the reviews again! Please keep on the reviews if you want the next part! (Evil cackle!)
He watches her as she talks to Ginny and Luna. She has her legs sprawled on the loveseat while she rests her head on her hand. He compares her to an Egyptian queen, regal and sacred, and he wishes to draw her at that exact moment. He feels his hands itch, just like when inspiration strikes him. When that happens, he normally rushes to get the spare canvas in his suitcase. But not today-nobody knows about this. He finds it too sacred for anyone to know.
He thinks about the first time. Sitting in a diner in New Mexico while waiting for his order, he finds himself drawing her face, from memory. From there, his soul gives birth to this passion and obsession. In the beaches of Sardinia, he draws her naked, except for the rocks that cover her sacred parts. Atop the Space Needle, he draws her with the moon and the stars. Everywhere he goes, her vision haunts him, so he draws and draws until his scrapbook overflows with pictures of her that he decides to buy a canvas. He pursues this obsession that only a dedicated artist can understand. He pursues this obsession until he has five different paintings of her.
He finds himself longing to paint her again. But he realizes that he cannot do it, because if he does, he will have to tell her the truth. He cannot paint her without giving her the reason why. But watching her talk, watching her giggle, watching her babble about her research for her new book on the significance of pumpkins in love, he has to bite his lip so hard to stop himself from rushing to his room to draw her. When the urge subsides, he finds himself thinking about how peculiar it is that the need strikes him at that moment.
But before he can rationalize on the answer, Hermione calls out to him, and asks,
"Harry, you're coming with me to the rehearsal tonight, right?"
He does not understand.
"Rehearsal?" he asks.
"The wedding rehearsal, Harry!" Ginny answers, sarcastically.
He stares at the three girls and his hands twitch.
"Oh, the rehearsals," he manages to say.
"Yes, the rehearsals. So can you make it?" Hermione asks, brightly.
He wants to tell her that no, he can't make it because it's going to kill him. To see her `practice' going down the aisle with Krum is euthanasia. But he just says,
"No."
Hermione frowns a little, and says a small "oh".
"I'm a little tired Hermione, is that ok? I'll be at the wedding anyway," he adds. Inside he's bleeding, but he has a smile on his face.
"All right then! I guess that's good enough!" she answers, happily.
It is at that moment that he decides he finally has to tell her that he has to move out. It is there that he fully acknowledges the fact that he's lost her and that he can never have her. It is there that he realizes that he must dissociate himself from her. It is there that he realizes that things will never be the same.
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He approaches Ron. He needs all the help he can get to convince the otherwise inconvincible Hermione.
"Ron, I need your help,"
"Can it wait?" Ron asks back. He is in the middle of his "pasta and chocolate" snack. Harry wonders how the hell Ron manages to stay fit despite his borderline gluttony. But then he remembers that he's a Quidditch professional.
"Well yeah, but I've go to do it today,"
"What's this about?" Ron asks in between bites.
"I need to get out of here," he answers, ignoring the sausage bit on Ron's right cheek.
"Oh, sure, no problem. I just have to finish this. You're lucky, I actually checked out the various neighborhoods in the area, and I found one that us boys can enjoy-"
"What are you talking about?" Harry asks, confused.
"Well, you said you want out, right? There's this place by Soho, Dean and I visited the other day, and man, the ladies were-"
"Not that you bloody, over-sexed moron!!!" Harry cuts in. Great, he plans to bring me to a stripper. What a great way to make myself feel better.
Ron rolls his eyes, and retorts,
"Well I presumed that that's what you were talking about!"
"No! That is the complete opposite of what I was talking about. Listen, Ron, I need to get a room. I can't stay here. It's unhealthy."
"What do you mean unhealthy? Hermione feeds you! She has all these food in the re-fuggidabudid."
Harry sighs. Sometimes, he feels sorry for the boy. Most of the time, however, he feels like strangling him. Like a primary school teacher, he explains,
"Ron, I am a boy. Hermione's a girl. Hermione has a fiancé. Hermione is getting married tomorrow. What do you think will Krum say?"
"Oh," comprehension dawns on Ron's face.
"This is why I need your help. I want you to help me tell Hermione that I can't stay here because she won't agree. We have to make her agree-without letting her feel bad."
"Ok, no problem with that. I must say I completely understand where you're coming from. I don't want Krum to beat you up, that man can turn you into a bloody pulp."
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So he tells her. He tells her that he needs to go. She asks him why. He gives her an answer. Not the truth, but an answer, nevertheless. She accepts it, but with disappointment. Still she smiles, and it breaks his heart. He consoles himself that this is for the best.
"I'm still meeting you after the rehearsal, right?" she asks timidly.
"Yes, of course," he answers as he picks up his suitcase.
"Wait, you never told me where you're staying!" she cracks a crooked smile.
"Oh! The Leaky Cauldron, Ron apparated to get me a room," he answers with embarrassment.
"All right, see you soon, Harry," she finally says. He kisses her cheek and lingers there for a second, inhaling her scent and drinking on it.
Finally, he moves away. And with a pop, he apparates. He realizes how eerily it resembles the day he left, four years ago.
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Staring at the people below him, Harry finds himself thinking about getting out of London after the wedding. Wizards and witches alike are staring at him, waving at him, and calling out his name. He gives them a wave and a small smile, and turns away from the window.
"I'm getting out of here after the wedding," he says to Ron.
"Well, do make it a point to write and visit us when you do," Ron replies. Harry notices a fleeting tone of hurt in his statement.
"I'm sorry, man," he apologizes.
"Why didn't you write back to us?" Ron asks.
Harry thinks of an answer. His mind goes blank.
"I don't know, I really don't know," he finally answers, with a sigh. Ron looks at him, peculiarly.
"Why'd you leave?" Ron asks again. From the way Ron's ears are turning red, Harry realizes that this is as hard for Ron as it is for him.
"I wanted to find myself," he answers, mechanically.
"Don't give me that bull, tell me the real reason," Ron counters, quietly. Harry suddenly finds himself feeling very cold. Ron is still looking at him with the same peculiar look. He closes his eyes.
"What do you mean?" he finally asks.
"That was not the real reason."
Suddenly, out of nowhere, and much to his surprise, Harry finds himself answering,
"Because I love her."
He stares at Ron, as if daring him to retort or to give a sarcastic reply. But he doesn't, instead he says,
"Wow."
"I left because I was scared. I was scared that she might hate me if she finds out. I was scared that our friendship will go into ruin because of me," Harry finds himself saying. For once, he feels a part of the load being taken away from him. This is the first time he admits the truth to anyone.
"Harry, love her or hate her, she'll always love you," Ron replies.
"What do you mean?" Harry asks, in shock.
"She can never hate you."
"She can never love me, either."
"But she does love you, Harry."
Harry gives out a snort. This is wishful thinking, he tells himself. If Hermione loves him, then she won't be walking down that aisle tomorrow. Or if she will, she'll be walking down that aisle to meet him.
But you left her, and she's moved on.
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He's in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cobwebs. He has a pencil on one hand, and a canvas on the other. He wants to draw her again, from memory. But this time, he can't. He feels like an impotent man. He cannot think straight. Thoughts of her walking down the aisle to meet Krum, keep replaying again and again on his mind.
Suddenly, he finds his vision blurry. He finds his cheeks wet. He finds himself crying. Suddenly, he remembers the day he first he realizes he loves her. He remembers holding her in her arms while she cries and shakes. He remembers Hagrid telling Grawp to behave. He remembers her fingernails dig against his nape. He remembers her heart beating rapidly against his. He remembers smelling her hair, thinking of how good it smells, amidst the chaos. He remembers himself at peace in that brief second because he's holding her in his arms. He remembers how the thought of loving her creeps quietly into his consciousness instead of coming with a large bang. He remembers the first time he tells himself he loves her. And this makes him cry. If he isn't a coward, then Hermione might be in his arms now.
But he stops himself. He scolds himself that this is not right. He needs to get over her. He needs to get over this. Inflicting pain, punishment and torture by thinking about what can happen will not help him in any way. He needs to move on. He promises himself that tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow, everything will change-except his love for her.
So he gets out of bed. He decides to get a drink. Hermione is still in the after-practice dinner and will not arrive anytime soon. Besides, his stomach is grumbling. But when he opens the door, all thoughts about drinking and dinner immediately leave his mind. She's standing at his door. Her eyes are red, and she's crying.
"Hermione?" is all he can say. She does not answer. Instead, she gives him a small, sad smile. She wipes a tear away from her eye, and straightens her back. He moves aside as she walks into the room.
"What happened, Hermione?"
She does not answer. He closes the door and moves towards her. But she moves back.
Instead, she does the unthinkable.
She unbuttons her shirt.
"What's going on?" he asks, his voice shaking. He can see the roundness of her breasts and the milky skin down to her navel.
She pulls her trousers down.
"Hermione, stop-" he tries to say, but the words die down when he sees the curve of her hips and the long stretch of her legs.
She unclasps her bra.
All he can feel now is lust. He tries to regain his rationality.
She removes the final piece covering her body, her panty. And then she stands before him, naked. He closes his eyes, and counts to three. He opens it again, but she's still there-the vision of all that is holy and lovely. He cannot speak. All words are lost on him. And she realizes this.
She moves closer to him, and whispers,
"Paint me."
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