Chapter Text
I am not a rulebreaker.
Everyone thinks I am. Here are my supposed crimes; judge for yourself:
- Being the child of a witch who introduced magic to a Muggle family.
Hardly my fault that I was the only one who realised what she truly was. - Being the kid who wrote in library books, in ink.
Firstly, it's not breaking a rule if you weren't aware it was a rule in the first place, Madam Pince. Secondly, I must stress, the books were egregiously incorrect; it would've been remiss of me not to correct them - please take your complaints up with the author(s)/publisher(s) who churn out such rot. - Being the student who fought in corridors.
Self-defence, thank you very much. - Being a teenager who joined a cult to follow a dictator.
…yes, fine, beyond idiotic. I am not so cowardly that I cannot admit to being wrong, but it should be noted, for the record, that I joined a group with the intention of following directions - common scenario for a dictator and his followers (the clue is in the name) - which hardly makes me a renowned rule breaker. - Being the young man who pledged to do whatever the leader of the Order of the Phoenix asked of him.
An interesting paradoxical argument, if you will indulge me - it can hardly be regarded as rule breaking if someone in a position of power orders you to do it. - Being the stern professor/housemaster who held up the rules of the school.
How was I meant to know that my peers were not doing the same? A Nimbus Two Thousand at breakfast; I despair. - Being the puppet headmaster who…
…well, I think we shall leave that thought there. I suspect I have been illustrative enough, despite failing to use colour thus far in this chapter: I am not a rulebreaker - I am, somewhat to my own dismay, a mere follower.
She is the rulebreaker. She's never met a rule she hasn't wanted to break.
And I fear, for the first time, I must channel her spirit and fail to follow instructions as presented. (Yes, yes, I can hear my students now; 10 points from Slytherin.)
In the previous chapters, I have - as I always have - followed the rules diligently and dutifully. I read the instructions and drew a timeline of events. I sketched out key points in my life, no matter how painful, and split those memories into eras. I created a grid. I highlighted pivotal moments and imbued them with meaning, breathing life into my memories, pouring emotion onto the page.
And now I am stuck.
Because, for this era, I cannot follow the rule: assign a colour - one colour.
It sounds simple, easy. It isn't. This has been the hardest chapter so far. In the previous exercises, I found that - eventually - I could do it. Retrospectively, at least. Not, I hasten to add, because those years were painted in just one shade at the time - I am not, as my students often suggest, so old that my memories are in sepia.
Memory has a way of distilling, simplifying. Each colour I have chosen, each tone I have used, each hue on the page is a damning verdict reached with the benefit of hindsight, long after the moment has passed. Those memories, those eras, each have a distinct beginning, middle, and end - a clear life lesson threaded through. I am able to stand and scrutinise from a distance, able to distil years of events into one overarching theme; one solid colour which sums up the atmosphere, the attitudes, my activities.
These colours are thematic, not realistic. A photograph from the time would betray my truth, as written on these pages.
But this era has not yet ended. I do not have distance from it, nor can I sketch out a clear beginning, middle, or - Merlin forbid - end. This moment is the photograph that illustrates my truth; our partnership is still a living, breathing entity, painting its own story, mapping our lives together with a wide range of colours, hues shifting with every moment we share; from the cosy oranges, reds, and browns of warm contemplative evenings to the bright blues, yellows, and greens of fresh new dawns.
I want to bask in the rainbow of her, to celebrate how everything she touches becomes brighter, bolder, more beautiful.
I had made a list - of all the colours I fell in love with; brown curls down her back and gold freckles on her arms, navy blue ink on her fingertips and soft white steam looping upwards from her coffee mug, muted orange satchel bought after Christmas in a frenzied Boxing Day sale (never again), red and gold cushion (I am sure you can imagine the design) smuggled into my study. More comfortable to rest on, she said. There is, I assure you, no difference between her cushions and mine - but her joy at her triumph in besting my upholstery thrilled me more than I would ever share with her.
She's soft mornings in bed, white pillows and tartan topsheet, golden sunshine bright through yellow and white daisies, yellow daffodils with thick green stems - a cloudless blue sky forecasting a dry day ahead. She's dark black coffee and perfectly tan tea, she's a joyful mug for every season, and somehow embodies a calendar filled with brightly and seemingly impossibly designed endangered magical animals that found its way into my living quarters.
She's warm pink hands in the summer, and cold toes against my calves in the winter, like a bolt of blue through orange - but she laughs (rich, warm - burgundy, no… terracotta) and I pull her closer still. She's faded pages and parchment, off-white, not quite yellowed - buff; dog-eared corners and underlining (just write the damn comment in the book, my love, don't leave me guessing).
She's a rush of flames in the fire - red and yellow and orange and gold - then green and then in my arms, always just a Floo call away, no matter where her career takes her. She's inscriptions in books, in specially purchased bronzed ink, with the S in Severus looping just so. She's lime and fern and pine; green plants in her garden which become green plants in my rooms, ivy trailing from the bookcases, monsteras - and of course - snake plants growing tall.
I know her faults, as she knows mine - she's morally grey (she doesn't believe me) with a temper fuschia hot (related) with a unwavering belief in justice (brilliant bright white) - and it's these traits that allow her to be a sunflower at work. Not just in colour - bright yellow, of course - but in nature; approachable yet lofty, standing above all others, podium or not, everyone's eyes upon her. She's knitted salmon coloured hats, royal purple socks, and teal coloured scarves, all handmade with care; the elves won't clear my rooms whilst she's here, but it's a trade-off I'm willing to make.
But all of this, I am afraid, you do not need me for, as you can see it for yourself in a photograph. Any fool can describe the weather, or the colour of someone's clothes, or chronicle what boils down to a collection of presents amassed over the years.
How could anyone ever start to describe their soulmate - the person they have chosen; the person who has chosen them?
Hermione is not merely one colour or one shade or one hue. She's the prism where all colours meet, the glass that refracts the light that pours in, the rainbow that radiates out - and with every moment we share, with every minute that passes, our partnership crumbles another dark brick in my now unneeded walls, and I discover - to my delight - yet another colour I hadn't realised existed.
So no, dear author, I cannot complete your exercise, nor answer your questions - for I do not want distance, I do not want to be able to scrutinise, and I do not want this to end; I never want to see our final colour if it means our light must fade.
She is light through my fractures, the sun through my rain. I fell whilst she shone, but together we became colour. Her brightness turned my splintered soul to light, and from all that was ruined, she made herself a rainbow.