Hi, friends :)

So it's been a rough few weeks in Kyo real life and I've written nothing... Luckily I had this little short story sitting for a rainy day. The next chapter is off to beta so I'll post again in a few days.

As always, eternal thanks to In Dreams, Canadian darling, who reminds me I'm not completely hopeless; Mcal, Southern sweetheart, who backs up that notion with unchecked enthusiasm; and LightofEvolution, my European connection, who spends such care making sure all the tee's have crosses and the eyes have dots. Without these ladies, I'm not sure this story would have made it to proverbial print.


Today, the world is yellow.

Hermione wakes rather quickly, her bleary eyes taking in the not-so-subtle hue of everything around her.

It's a Thursday, and the sunny color marks the third day Hermione has woken with this irritating curse. She blames Ron completely, of course. Hermione had been attempting to assist him with one of his Divination assignments. (Why he still takes the class is beyond her.)

She told him not to flick when he should swish, warned him repeatedly. But did he listen? He never has, pre-war, or post, whether dating or friends, so why start now? She'd known as soon as he'd cast something was wrong.

The first day after her prior lover accidently hexed her, she had woken to her vision bathed in blood. At first she was terrified, running to the hospital wing, tearing into the room, and begging for Pomfrey to help her. "There's something wrong with my eyes," she had entreated through barely held-back tears. The woman's face was pink, her smock scarlet, the walls a pale blush, floor garnet…

The world had been reduced to a monochromatic study in reds, eerie and frightening, and she'd recounted the magical accident promptly.

"Your eyes are perfectly fine," the woman had gruffed at her, finishing her diagnostic spell with a flourish. "It's your mind that's been altered. Magically, of course. I've told that woman to stop with her idiotic class exercises…"

With Hermione watching, she had mumbled to herself, pulling out various vials and tomes from her stores. Once she had gathered all she needed, she had thrust a liquid in Hermione's hand and read a spell from the largest tome.

"There. It will take a few days, but that should put an end to this nonsense."

Hermione had blinked back. "What happened to me?"

Throwing up her hands, the healer had stalked off to put everything away once more. "Trelawney and her ridiculous exercises. You'll see in colors for a few days. Probably matched by your mood each morning. Today, I imagine, you're seeing red because deep down you knew that blunder would have ill effects." And she had lived with it, finishing her day with as much normalcy as possible.

Day two was orange. A world of tangerine to rust, orange is the color of opportunity, enthusiasm, and determination. If her body had known instinctually to be angry, perhaps this ancient color of hope was a sign of the curse coming to an end.

And so, the night before, she'd gone to sleep feeling positive and is now staring at the visual proof of sunny optimism. She is feeling anything but enthusiastic, but the color never changes through the day, regardless of how her heart and mind might evolve through human emotion.

Now, she is cursed for twenty four hours to live in a spectrum of lemon and gold. It's really bloody annoying.

She swings her legs over the side of her bed and settles her feet on the rug covered floor. It is a true pleasure in her eighth year to have her own private room. As legal adults and a population outside the planned-for amount of students, those in Hermione's class were invited back to live in some of the unused faculty suites. She is using the time to prepare for life on her own, decorating in a way she might when she moves into her own space at the end of the year.

Her mother had told her repeatedly she is welcome to move home for a time, but going to the house that sat empty while her parents were in Australia, living in a space that was only where she spent her summers during the past few years… Well, they say you can never go home again, and Hermione isn't even sure she has had one for some time. It's a sad realization for the Granger family that they have a lot of healing to do; trust to rebuild.

So, in answer to her protests, Jean Granger had finally relented and done what she does best: Throw money at a problem that can't be solved. Her room is quite luxurious for its meager size. The rug beneath Hermione's feet in particular is a handcrafted piece of art from Turkey that once inhabited the Grangers' dining room. It sat in storage during the time Jean and Frank lived abroad and Hermione chased horcruxes across Britain.

Once her parents had been retrieved, their memories she had stolen restored by the team at St. Mungo's, her father had started a campaign to revitalize their lives, merging who they had known themselves to be in both of the lives they had lived. The Grangers had travelled often, Hermione both seeing the world as a child, but also being left on her own when they wanted a more 'romantic' experience. The Wilkins, however, had clung to each other and their lives halfway across the globe in Broome, focusing on their dental practice and their marriage.

Blending those two lives together, her father assures her they are even stronger than before, appreciating what they have in a way they didn't know they should. The holidays this year were full of tears and healing. Hermione is grateful for every moment they spent enjoying old traditions and forging new ones for the future.

The rug beneath her feet is a luxury, tamping down the cold of the stone floors Hermione has endured for her formative years. She stands atop the heavily woven silk threads and stretches her back, her arms lifted and taut above her head.

So, yellow it is. For a color that is meant to represent happiness and optimism, she has always found it to be, frankly, quite agitating. It's going to be a long day.

No sense in putting it off. She dresses quickly and makes her way to breakfast, the jaundiced faces of her classmates greeting her in the Great Hall. What a nauseating color.

The worst class this week, in light of her curse, is Potions. Snape still runs his classroom with a general air of judgment and condescension, though tempered to some degree by his rather close brush with death. She was fortunate as to not having the class the day before, but today is a double session with Slytherin, and she is dreading it.

The first day, when her vision was red, she had acquired a note from Pomfrey to miss the class. The guilt, however, skipping a class when she is perfectly healthy, had stuck with her all day. This time, she prepares her satchel and heads toward the dungeons, head high and spine straight.

"How nice of you to join us today, Miss Granger."

Snape oozes his usual smarm and distaste, but Hermione has learned not to be so affected. He's not a dark wizard. Not a villain. Just a rather lonely and tragic man who is good at very little beyond potions brewing and defensive spells. Socially awkward, angry, and broken, where would he go beyond these walls?

So, Hermione has forgiven him his bullying and cruelty. She meets his sneer with a soft smile, answers, "Thank you, Professor. I sincerely regret missing my first class of the year," and takes her seat.

Beside her, the chair typically filled by Blaise Zabini sits empty. As purebloods go, he's been a rather enjoyable partner during the past few months. Civil on his worst days, he is downright flirtatious on this best. His sense of humour is a little sarcastic, but playful, and he's not exactly hard on the eyes.

Truthfully, most of Slytherin has been on its best behavior. A little quiet, a bit humbled, but many of their rank seem as relieved by the end of the war as the other houses. Those with Death Eater connections are the most reserved. Hermione had expected they might be sullen or angry, but they are victims as much as anyone, mourning their parents in some cases.

Tragedy has been the great equalizer, and rivalries such as houses, Quidditch, and blood status have seemed less important in the bonding of loss and sorrow.

Blaise hadn't lost anyone. His mother lives abroad, his father is deceased, and the closest thing to a friend missing from his life is Vincent Crabbe. "Never much liked him, honestly," he'd told her back in November, voice low. "Not to speak ill of the dead, Merlin bless his essence, but he was an angry prick. Stupid too."

Hermione glances about the room now and finds a few more empty seats before looking back toward their instructor.

"As you might have noticed," he begins without preamble, "a few of your number are missing this afternoon. The Headmistress has collected a portion of students from each year for a Transfiguration tutoring session. As such, you will work with temporary partners today.

He glances quickly, then barks out new pairings.

"Potter, with Nott. Longbottom, Parkinson. Granger," he sneers, then pauses. She waits, staring forward, unsure why the hesitation… Then, she remembers who usually partners with the worst Transfiguration student in school, Greg Goyle.

No, no, no… Hermione blinks once, slow and calming, waiting for Snape to finish.

"...Mister Malfoy."

Her forehead hits the desk with a thud.


Well, isn't that just fucking great.

Draco angrily grabs his books, parchments, and quills to move next to Gryffindor's favourite daughter. He had chosen this seat on purpose, thank you very much. Knowing Goyle had been pulled aside for the day, he'd picked the only table in the room that only has one chair, usually reserved for special projects or punishments, and had set up shop for a lovely solitary day. If he had been lucky, he'd thought, Snape would let him work alone. It's not as if he really has a partner. He's been carrying Goyle in just about every way since they were toddlers.

Truthfully, he had been looking forward to it. A class without any of the inane chatter of his housemates? No judgement from the rest of the student body? It was fucking perfect up until this exact moment.

He stalks across the room, not meeting Snape's eyes. Had the man done this on purpose? He's supposed to be his godfather. Nearly family. How could he possibly think this is a good idea, premeditated or not?

When he reaches the desk, he sees the witch in question has her head down as if her life has just ended. It's a bit dramatic, if you ask Draco, but then she has always had a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve. Sicing birds on your boyfriend and punching wizards for a little schoolyard rivalry is a bit beyond civilized behavior in his humble opinion.

Flopping down beside her, Draco sneers at her curl covered head, thinking she can't hide in the great mass of hair for long.

Finally, she looks up. Her expression is wary, eyes half closed and mouth set in an expression that reads resignation.

Then, her eyes widen like she hadn't expected to see him, and he has no idea why.

"What?" he barks at her, not much liking the look she's giving him, eyes roving his face and torso.

"N-nothing," Granger stutters back at him, then turns to the front of the room, eyes glued to the potion instructions on display.

Draco turns around himself, brow furrowed in irritation. He had thought they could at least be civil to one another. She hasn't shown any lingering grudge during the school year, making good on her very vocal pledge at house unity. She partners with Blaise every bloody week with no issue at all!

Alright so, no, Blaise didn't watch his aunt slice her up with a blade and Crucio her until she nearly passed out, but even Potter had forgiven him at this point.

His mood is completely soured. How dare she? The whole of the wizarding world is letting him make a play at redemption, and this one swotty little Muggleborn is making him a villian. Absolute bollocks is what that is.

He's so lost in his own little tantrum he nearly misses the instructions for the day. Suddenly, Snape is making himself comfortable behind his desk, and Draco is left alone with his new partner.

"I can get the ingredients if you'd like to prep the cauldron?"

He looks over to find her waiting for an answer but unwilling to look at him.

Draco studies her, taking in the set of her shoulders, straight line of her back. She resolutely will not turn his way, no matter that the silence between them is moving past uncomfortable into the territory of downright awkward.

He shakes his head, clearing it, and mutters. "Sure. Fine." She rises, still looking forward, and then turns her body to leave their table down the narrow path by the wall rather than the wider aisle beside him. Is she afraid of him? She can't seem to get away fast enough.

Angrily, Draco slams a fresh cauldron down in the center of their table and begins prep work on the flame, as well as rubbing down the interior with a cotton cloth. That step isn't in the book, but Draco knows it will yield the very best results. He's just wiping across the rim when his partner returns.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up to find her staring. Still unwilling to look in his direction, she is fixed on the cloth in his hand.

"Preparing the cauldron," he drawls back. Just to make a point, he brings the cloth back toward his body, tucking it slowly into his robes. Her eyes follow the movement until her field of vision is certainly focused his way, then snaps her eyes back.

"But...That's not..." Presumably searching for proof of her assertion, Hermione pulls her potions book closer to her, taking her seat as she skims through the instructions. She speaks softly to herself as she does. "Eye of... high flame...best results... soft blue..." Finally, she looks his way, eyebrows cocked in question.

"No, it's not in the book, Granger," he answers, though she hadn't exactly asked. "You'll have to trust me on this one."

She snorts. Another unladylike habit of hers, though it is mildly endearing. Such a casual show of mirth. "Trust you? Yes, that seems likely."

Sarcasm? How droll.

"Right, that would be a terrible choice," he answers back, tit for tat; sarcasm for more. "It's not as if I have the highest marks in the class or anything."

"Because Snape is biased," she denies. "And more probably, you cheat."

Draco narrows his eyes. "I am an excellent potioneer, Granger. And Snape might not be nice to you, but he gives the marks that are earned. If his distaste for you was truly reflected on your scores, I dare say you'd be failing."

Scoffing, she begins preparing their doxie wings, dissecting each along the veins. Her hand is sure and careful, but her slices are missing the finer lines of the interior portion of the wing. "He can't do that," she continues, obviously still on their conversation regarding the professor. "It would be too obvious if he outright failed me-"

"Stop. Granger, stop," he interrupts and, as she pulls back in question, snags the small blade out of her hand.

"Hey!"

"Granger, you're butchering it. I'll apologize if I had you riled up, alright? I'm sure you're very good normally, but don't sabotage my project."

"Sabotage? I am doing no such thing. I'll have you know my slices are pure precision."

"Yes, you precisely cut right through that vein!"

"I did not-" Then, she looks, squints... and her hand covers her mouth. "I didn't see it..."

When she looks back at him, he would swear there are tears in her eyes. Merlin, he knew she was dramatic, but really, it's one wing. They have a tray full to replace it.

"Look," he begins, thinking it uncharacteristic that he throw anyone a proverbial bone, but justifies it that his marks have been perfect all year, even with Goyle nearly mucking shite up each week, and he doesn't intend to let the "Brightest Witch" (what a fucking joke) mess up one of his last brews before N.E.W.T.s. "I'll take over this part, and you can begin crushing the knotgrass."

There, that should be easy. Crushing doesn't take much finesse.

He thinks she will argue, but instead she takes a breath and nods, pushing the tray of wings his direction and pulling the knotgrass into her center desk space. "Thanks," she mutters, and he thinks it probably cost her a lot.

Why she even agreed, he can't imagine, but he doesn't question it.

For the remainder of the period, they work in near silence. Granger seems resigned to let Draco take the lead, yet she doesn't question any more of his instructions. He tasks her with more complicated steps than he might have given Goyle, but nothing terribly delicate. She seems frustrated for just a moment when he takes the bat spleen to bifurcate, but only huffs in silence when he tells her she was about one millimeter off center where she lay her blade.

In the end, the potion is absolutely perfect. Draco could have accomplished it on his own, but he can't deny her work was impeccable as long as he gave her selective tasks.

"Color looks good," he says, finally. She was still stirring, though he wasn't sure why. While you can't over-stir this particular potion, it's not necessary to keep going once you reach that perfect shade of summer sky that is looking back at them now.

"Oh... oh, right. Yes." Granger ceases her movement and sits back at the desk. She looks a little peaked at this point. Or, maybe that's not the word. He had detected fear and confusion early on. Then frustration. Now she seems a little... melancholy.

She doesn't speak anymore, just stares toward the front of the room again. Rather than ignoring Draco, now it just seems her gaze is aimless and unfocused. Taking it upon himself to finish their assignment, he scoops a large sample of the potion into a vial and takes it to the front to deposit before Snape. When he lays it on the desk, the man looks up, and fucking balls if he doesn't look amused, the utter cock. Draco is more sure than ever he did this on purpose. Why he felt the need to torture Draco is anyone's guess, but then the man has been an enigma for over a decade, so perhaps this is a spy's version of 'fun'.

When he looks back, Granger is grabbing her things quickly. Just as Draco is making it back to the table, the end of class is signaled, and the skittish Gryffindor bolts from the room. He turns to watch her go, noting her curls and hips swinging with the quickness of her step. Brave lion, indeed. Draco shakes his head in annoyance as he cleans up his portion of the mess.


Draco Malfoy is fucking red. Bright, vibrant, angry red.

Hermione tears out of the potions classroom and heads straight to the hospital wing. If the spell is changing, getting worse…

Her feet nearly slip from beneath her when she rounds the last corner and sprints into the room. "Madame Pomfrey!"

The woman is bent over one of the sterile beds, her wand leading a roll of gauze around a young boy's arm. Looking up at Hermione, she shushes her immediately.

"Miss Granger, this is a place of healing, and I'll thank you to lower your voice."

Pomfrey is still yellow… from lemon to marigold, she is radiating the same nauseating color as the rest of the school.

With the glaring exception of Malfoy.

"I apologize, but I need your help please. In regards to my… condition."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Pomfrey chastises as she wipes her hands on the front of her smock. "People will think you're pregnant, going on like that."

Hermione blanches. She isn't sure why she hasn't wanted anyone to know about the spell she's under. Even Ron only knows she had to go to Pomfrey for treatment. He has no idea she is still living with the effects.

"Yes, ma'am. But there's been a development, you see. A change in the symptom."

"Alright then, let's have a look. And don't you move, Mister Harrison." She waggles a finger at the boy on the bed. Hermione thinks he can't be more than eleven. Do students seem younger than they had when she was that age?

Ushering Hermione to another bed and pulling the curtain around it, she prompts, "Well, then? What's happened."

Hermione takes a breath. "So today, my vision is yellow."

"How irritating."

Hermione nods in profound agreement.

"However, one person isn't yellow. He's red. He's the only thing, person or otherwise, that's not been the same as everything else since the accident."

The matron considers, brow scrunched in thought. "We are in uncharted waters, as they say, Miss Granger. This spell was never meant to be cast in this way."

"I'm more than aware," she answers dryly. Ron is in such trouble, irrelevant that he won't know why.

"The fact that it has been reflecting your moods was simple enough. I suppose you were feeling optimistic today? Thought maybe the spell would be at an end, hence the sunny colour?"

"I had guessed," Hermione agrees. "Honestly, it all seems a bit subliminal. I hadn't realized how cross I was over the entire situation until I woke up to all the red."

"Regarding this person who isn't behaving as the curse dictates, did they make you angry? Perhaps your perception of them bled through as a stronger emotion than your overall day. Did you have a row?"

"No, not really. We'd not even spoken when I saw his color. Maybe he just always makes me angry," she muses, though she really thought she'd made strides toward forgiveness of the wizarding world at large. She even owled a handmade scarf to Lucius Malfoy.

"To keep you cozy", she had written, since the man is no longer legally able to cast a warming charm.

His response back had been a curt, "Thank you for your consideration," in the most beautiful penmanship she'd ever seen.

"Whatever the reason, I am afraid your course of action does not change. Continue to follow the potion regiment I allotted you. Would you like to be excused from classes for the rest of the day?"

Hermione considers it. Not being able to brew, cutting her doxie wings incorrectly because the golden hue made it hard to follow the veins, had been heartbreaking for her.

But to miss classes? "No, thank you. I'd prefer to attend."

The woman nods, ready to dismiss her, when she offers, "You might consider speaking with Sybill. Perhaps she could shed more light…"

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Trelawney?" She knows she sounds incredulous, probably leaning toward rude, but she can't muster a lot of respect for the charlatan. She had thought the matron shared her opinion.

Then again, Pomfrey seems to judge everyone equally, so perhaps she has no more annoyance for the Divination professor than any other instructor.

If anything, Pomfrey just looks amused. "We are all aware of your distaste for her particular branch of magic. But she might surprise you."

They stare at each other for a moment, the air feeling heavy, when finally the healer side steps Hermione and sweeps the curtain aside. "Food for thought, Miss Granger. Take care to continue your potions, and hopefully, this messy business will be over soon."

Hermione stares after the woman for a moment then snaps herself out of her trance. She wants her to see Trelawney? Fine then.

Turning on her heel, curls whipping,Hermione marches to the daft woman's opium den of a classroom. She better have some answers.


Draco is strolling casually from his Ancient Runes classroom toward the Great Hall, looking forward to a quiet lunch with no Gryffindors. He finds that if he arrives just after second period, he can eat in the company of Hufflepuffs more than any other house. A timely lot, the badgers, and they also tend to be a bit more kind than the lions. Part of the post-war reality is learning how to tread in a world that frowns upon blood purity. It has taken some adjustment on Draco's part.

Not that he isn't relatively satisfied with the outcome of war. Truthfully, he never saw the need for such violence against Muggles. Draco will take a peaceful political environment any day. He is, of course, still proud of his lineage, but it's something entirely different to be proud of something versus a desire to destroy everything else.

He's just rounding a corner when a mass of witch plows into him, nearly knocking him to the stones. The witch in question, a bit less sure on her feet, is not so lucky and ends up on her bum.

"Ow!" He watches her rub at her backside, bemused that she hasn't even bothered to look up. When she does, her expression hardens. "Not very polite, Malfoy. I thought you were meant to be well bred."

He snorts at her. "I'm not the one that rounded the corner like a hornback was on my tail. Where are you even- No, interrupts himself before he can engage further. "You know what, I don't care. Excuse me."

He steps to the left, intent on making his way to lunch as planned.

"Really nice. Not even going to give me a hand?"

He stops and looks back with incredulity. "As if you'd deign to touch my slimy Death Eater hand."

"Well, you wouldn't know because you didn't offer, you oaf." She huffs at him, jaw set.

Oaf? One does not call Draco Malfoy an oaf. Staring briefly toward the heavens for fortification, Draco spins on his dragonhide heel and steps back in front of the witch. With one hand gallantly laid at his back and posture bent at the waist into an elegant bow, he offers his other, palm up. "Miss Granger, if I may?"

He doesn't imagine she will accept it. His mind conjures a quick scenario of her pouting and standing on her own, ignoring his hand and commenting she is capable of rising by herself. She likely didn't expect him to take her bait. But she doesn't know him very well. He smirks.

It seems, however, that he doesn't know her that well either. Rather than scoff at his gesture, she demurely straightens her skirt and lays one palm gently on his own. She moves with a bit of grace, if he's honest, and is suddenly standing before him, their hands still clasped.

"Thank you." Her voice is quiet, but not exactly soft. There's strength in her, even in this moment while a blush stains her cheeks.

Draco stares a moment, noticing for the first time the depth of color of her eyes, the highlights of gold in her hair. "You're welcome, Granger," he answers back, and his thumb plays across her knuckles gently.

That seems to snap her out of whatever trance she's fallen under, and she steps away, her hand leaving his.

He thinks she will say something, maybe apologize for the collision? Thank him again? Instead, she drops her gaze and her chin, and watches her feet as she moves down the hall in the direction she had been headed before their encounter.

Draco stares after her for a moment, finally continuing on his way when she is out of sight.

What the fuck just happened?


Hermione is a bit shaken as she nearly sprints toward Trelawney's tower. She's ruffled, and she doesn't much care for that feeling.

When she ran into Malfoy, her initial reaction was irritation. Bathed in red, despite the yellow surrounding him, it made sense that she would be angry for the collision as well as his attitude. Yet, when he bowed low and offered his hand, when his eyes studied her, no disgust or displeasure noted, her frustration gave way to curiosity. Nearly, dare she admit, intrigue. His touch was gentle and, suddenly, the red didn't feel angry anymore. It just seemed… bold.

She'd removed her hand and run away, very much not in her courageous nature.

Hardly realizing she had neared her destination, Hermione has to pull up short and dart to the door. It's open with no class in session, so she enters without knocking and finds the professor in a rather precarious looking Downward Dog.

"Erm.. Professor?"

The woman looks up from her position and begins to right herself. "Miss Granger," she acknowledges. "Not a student I expected to see in my classroom ever again."

Hermione tilts her chin and looks down her nose. "I would have thought that myself, yet here I am. Didn't predict that, I suppose?"

Perhaps she's being a touch disrespectful, but there is almost no one on earth as abjectly irritating to Hermione Granger. She expects the professor might become cross, but instead she offers her that obnoxious, knowing smile of hers.

"The insight of the earth is a mysterious wonder I do not presume to understand. I only give voice to the gift it grants."

With lips thinned, Hermione takes a breath through her nose and clips out, "Right. Anyway, I'm here because Madame Pomfrey thought you could give me some insight. I've been affected by a spell that originated from your curriculum."

"Good heavens… have you? How in Merlin's name did that happen?"

Hermione can't tell if the woman sounds rehearsed and sarcastic, or her usual brand of dramatics.

"I was assisting one of your students with his homework, and there was an issue with the spellcasting. It seems now I am hexed with color-coded visions to coordinate with my mood."

Trelawny frowns at that. "That shouldn't be. I abandoned that particular study years ago. Rather tired of listening to Poppy complain about it to be honest."

Hermione huffs. "Well, however it happened, I've been very much not enjoying my days colored in red, orange, and now, yellow."

The professor perks up at that. "In that order?"

"Yes… is that important?"

Waving her hand around, the woman begins to tidy pillows and such about her room. "It's an entirely different exercise, and far less unpredictable. Your days will continue as such with the most basic colors within the spectrum. You have yet to enjoy green, blue, indigo, and violet. Once those days are complete, your vision will return to normal."

Well, that seems innocuous enough. It also gives the entire experience an expiration date, which makes Hermione feel much better. Then she remembers the anomaly and frowns. "That's all well and good, but I still think the spell was cast improperly. I've had an odd occurrence today. Everything is yellow except for one person."

That perks her right up. "Oh, indeed? And what color was this person?"

"Red. A rather vibrant red. It's a bit off-putting," she grumbles.

"And was this red person a classmate, Miss Granger? A wizard?"

She nods and doesn't like the cheshire smile that stretches across the woman's face.

"Perhaps the spell worked a little more effectively than I thought. You see," she starts, slipping into her fanciful lecture mode that Hermione absolutely does not miss, "the spell is designed to show us a spectrum of color, but, in some unique and rare circumstances, it might show us something more…"

Hermione breathes through her nose and prays for patience. She knows she's supposed to prompt now… she knows that… but Merlin, this woman. A moment of silence more, she grits her teeth, and then asks as politely as she can, "Oh, yes? And what is it to show us?"

"Why, your destiny of course."

Of course.

Of fucking course.

The most ridiculous answer possible. What else was she to expect.

"Right, well then, thank you for your help." Turning on her heel, Hermione makes for the door.

"Miss Granger, don't you want to know about your future? I could be much more effective if we steeped some leaves-"

"No, thank you. I believe I've heard enough. A few more days, and this nightmare is over."

She makes it all the way to the door, intent on ignoring anything else, when the professor throws out in an oddly haunting voice, "Red is the hue of your fire and sun, passion and fate. Rising above all other elements, eclipsing the colors of your life."

Hermione doesn't stop, tearing herself out of the room, and closes her eyes to block out the sunny world.


Thank you for reading! Reviews are always cherished and appreciated :)