An errant thought crossed her mind and Hermione couldn’t shake the image of a particular painting from her thoughts. She wondered if Malfoy, in all his refinement and privilege, knew about Muggle Art. About the beauty of abstract images. Had he ever seen Pablo Picasso or studied František Kupka? Had he any knowledge of Jackson Pollock?
Paintings filled with energetic, swirling lines and splatters of color that created an intricate web of movement. The violent mix of hues ranging from bold primary to more natural muted tones, all intermingling in a chaotic yet harmonious way.
It didn’t matter what perspective one took before looking at the muggle artist’s work - the lines still converged and the different splatters of paint still mingled together in an arduous effort to evoke something.
There was an anarchic, lawlessness to the images…
They didn’t make sense.
Just like him.
It didn’t make sense that so many of her darkest moments also included some version of his involvement - it didn’t matter that Draco Malfoy was precariously woven through her past, like the strokes of a Pollock painting. It didn’t matter that he converged and transmuted around parts of her and likewise she around parts of him.
It didn’t make sense and it didn’t matter.
He was leaving.
He was leaving and all the different ways his existence intertwined with hers would be nothing more than a subtle footnote in the archives of her history.
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HUGE MASSIVE THANK YOU to @ivmaruva for allowing me to use her MESMERIZING Hermione. 🥹🤩 she’s everything!
I hope you all enjoy this little piece of Hermione!
🖤
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
