wolvenprinc's blog: "My fave fanfics"

The young mother looked down at the crayons scattered all over the living room floor. The culprit- her three year old daughter- was nowhere in sight. “Evelyn?” she called softly. Her impeccably neat home stayed blanketed in silence, however, as if reluctant to spare her any answers. Hermione frowned. The house seemed to be just another one of little Evelyn’s playmates to her. While her daughter hid, the house would seek and the clock on the wall would count: tick, tick, tick, tick… Hermione glared at the beautiful ornate clock as though she somehow held it at fault for the disappearance of her child. She shook her head, feeling a trifle foolish and realizing that it was rather late. Her husband would be home soon. She slowly looked around again, idly wondering where her daughter could be hiding. Her eyes scanned the length of the room- skimming the fireplace, the armchairs and the desolate shade under the table – before they stopped to linger on a bright patch of red hair, peeping out from the side of her brown leather couch. The child had apparently tired of her games and was now fast asleep. Hermione felt a sudden wave of emotion choke her. This was a feeling that had been alien to her until about three years ago when she first held baby Evelyn in her arms. Sighing, she knelt down and reached for her little one’s unfinished masterpiece. Well, Evelyn certainly did seem to like orange. Surprise, her mother mused wryly. A few minutes into critically examining the colorful doodle, she was seized by a sudden frenzy. Hermione laughed softly to herself at the idea that tickled her mind. Wasn’t it just plain silly? Or maybe not. Lazily fingering the wayward crayons, she took herself up on a whim. Very carefully, she chose the first color… Brown. Rich. Luxuriant. Earthy. She loved the brown smell of freshly brewed coffee every morning, the endless brown rows of her beloved books, the brown feel of his Quidditch-roughened hand clasped tightly within her own and the trust that burnished every stray brown freckle. Yes, brown was her favorite. She could not deny that. She reached for another crayon… Blue. The purest flame that burns, burns blue. Everything under the heavens- from the midnight depths of the sea to the diamond star, studded in the navy sky- embraced an aura of tranquility, espied only by those who truly wished to perceive it. Had she seen it? Oh yes! They say the eyes are the most expressive element of the human soul and through his azure eyes, she had seen her perfect world. She glanced at her daughter whose blue eyes lay closed, peacefully veiled by slumber. Yes, indeed, she had her perfect world. She put down the little blue crayon and chose another… Red. It was a bold color. One that refused to lay buried. Red was the reason she lived. It embossed the brilliance of her Weasley world- the only color that could draw out the best and the worst in her. Red was everything human- be it primal lust, vengeful hatred, undaunted Gryffindor courage or even sacrifice. The very lifeblood of her mortal world was red. The red cast aside, she singled out… Yellow. Many a sun had risen by day and journeyed across her niche of sky. Many a sun had set that way, sparing her tears of laughter to cry. Yellow dotted her giddy summers at the Burrow and the much-awaited Hogsmeade weekends. It crowned her as she stood on stage, a trembling hand fingering the long coveted golden badge over her seventeen year-old heart. Yellow had lighted every candle at her famous Weasley wedding. Glancing momentarily at the sleeping form of her daughter, she fondly recalled her startled cry at Evelyn’s first tremulous step. A few sacred, treasured moments, lived to their fullest. That was what yellow had to offer her. She put away the yellow crayon and reached for yet another… Violet. There was not much of it left in her world for faded passions could so quickly dissolve in time. It was a slightly tiresome hue. Too delicate… feminine… weak. It was a pretty color though- one of her favorites actually. Well, at least it was. She smiled, twirling the small lavender crayon between her fingers and mused idly, back to the times she thought she had detested the shade with every fiber of her being. Violet may have been the luxury of a bubble bath in the solitude of the prefects’ bathroom or even the flattery of a new silk dress, but her life would never have been the same without the softness this color lent it. She picked a brighter hue this time… Pink. Childish? Shallow? Yes, maybe. Not entirely devoid of essence however. Youth had had its own appeal- the lure of dolls and mother’s gowns, bashful blushes, flowers, balls. Pink was the memory of forbidden candy in her closet, the smell of Daddy’s gloves as he tweaked on her tooth. Pink was the secret flutter of her blithe young heart at the sight of a certain Weasley. It washed her silent nights in whispered wishes and little stolen kisses. It was a ghost that was lost in time and she thanked the fates for giving her a chance to taste pink. Orange. Warm. Benign. Like a rain of reminisces at home before a blazing fire in the hearth, orange was an afterglow of her precious achievements, of the frivolous pursuit of her secret obsessions. Orange was the solace at the end of a hard day’s work, the color that painted every new horizon with zest. She could see why such a distasteful color could easily be his favorite. Orange accepted her for what she was, offering her a unique perch that was infinitely satiating. She chose a different shade again. Green. Strength. It took her years to find it, but she did at last- in the wake of a haunting era astride which sin and vice surged untamed. A time when dread and horror flowed unimpeded through the veins of an evil apocalypse. She found her strength in the irrepressible fear of losing her loved ones, in the resonant call of a home in the green Scottish hills. It was in the green eyes of a cherished bosom friend and the vision of a future built on the promise of his ever-green, eternal love … Oh yes, she had been blessed with bountiful greens. She gently placed the green crayon down and gingerly fingered a new one… Grey. It was an almost unremarkable color. However, one cannot overlook that glint of elegance which deems to obscure the charged undercurrents lurking just beneath its austere façade. It was probably that very quality that held her together when her world, at the brink of war, teetered around her. Grey was her wise teacher. At times gentle, often firm. Grey steeled her to choose between what was right and what was easy, gifting her a single wise strand that shone with the dull grey luster of years lived before their time. Her fingers trembled just the slightest bit… Black. Its sheer severity made her cringe. Black ensnared her world in words, in the pages of her myriad tomes. Its inky mystique shrouded her in a tomb of light, beyond which its merciless profundity blinded her completely. Black was the screams in the dead of her night. Black was the granite on her parents’ graves, the funeral shroud on every friend’s coffin. Black was all-encompassing and yet defied everything that stood to reason. Black was her yesterday. Hermione sighed. Then she reached for the last crayon… White. White was her faith, her tomorrow. From her mother’s crisp white bed sheets to her treasured white silk wedding gown; from her father’s immaculate clinic walls to Evelyn’s brilliant smile- it was white that laved and healed and soothed. White was love, hope and light. The small white crayon dropped lightly from her fingers, onto the plush red carpet. Hermione leaned back for a moment and carefully studied the result of her rather impulsive fling with art. She smiled. “Perfect.” “Yes, you are,” said a voice from behind, surprising her. “Ron! You startled me!” He kissed her shoulder tenderly and nodded toward her handiwork. “What is it?” Hermione smiled rather mysteriously. “This, Ron,” she whispered, turning around in his arms slightly to give him a light kiss, “is my life.”