Hermione Granger, Pensieve Memory, 7.3.1997
Name: Hermione Granger
Date: July 7, 1997
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevence: Hermione stopped believing in 'worst' during her second year at Hogwarts. We may deduce, however, that this memory was subjectively pretty dire from it's excellent quality; she seems to have been determined to not only file it but get it out of her head as completely as possible. She offers it to Walburga Black in the hopes that Mrs. Black will find it extremely boring.
Silver fog churns, settles into silver strokes of wet--paint? No, not paint, but clear streaks trailing behind a large brush, shimmering on a pale wall paneled in clear morning sunshine. She has a sure hand, this girl with her tense mouth and frizzy French braid, tied off with a fraying strip of clean cotton, but sometimes time seems to stutter off for her. Drips fall transparent on the floor, then, as her eyes cloud, and the varnish brightens, the grain of the wood shivers. Or her brush drifts into slow arcs, jagged strokes like lightening, over and over again over the blowsy white roses of the wallpaper until her jaw sets again.
She comes to a picture. Takes it down. Paints under it, puts it back. Paints over the frame, paints the protective glass. Moves on.
Despite its brightness, grown robust with noonship, the sun can't reach her anymore, jitters on the sill when her older mirror comes in. It can be only one person, with that peccably contained hair, those steady hands holding a tray with sandwiches and milk just a little too tightly, tapping on the bend of her girl's knee, drawing her out from where she's painting the mechanisms on the underside of the padded metal torture device that calls itself a chair. "Whatever it is you're doing," she says briskly, with disapproval that stirs wallpaper petals and rings in the corners like love, "you can take a breather to eat something."
"I have to finish," the girl argues, but maybe she isn't arguing, because she's sitting up and taking the tray, resting it on her knees and letting the milk sift down her throat.
"You will," she's told. "The whole house smells of this tincture of yours already. And the car, and the garage, and your dad's bicycle, and--"
"There's still the waiting room to do before tomorrow. And the back office and the break-room and the WC and the supply room. And remember, I'm--"
"Earning extra pocket money by covering for the custodian's sick day," her mother recites, and sighs. "I wish you'd tell me what this is all for. You're quite sure it'll be safe to use it on the instruments? It won't do anything strange to people's teeth, or poison them?"
"Not unless they're--no, Mum, it's quite safe." She pauses halfway through a crisp sandwich. Cress and pear, unless it's apple, walnuts peeking out from between. "Only you should be more openhanded with the nitrous oxide if a patient looks really cranky or terrified."
Her mother's eyebrows droop at the edges, draw together at the center, and her hands clench in silence in the pockets of her white coat. After a long, quiet moment that twists their eyes apart, she notes, "You've never studied like this before."
Turning on like a tap, not meeting her mother's gaze, the girl chatters, "Well, of course I'll revise again and go through all my notes, but it's a very important test, I need to know everything cold and this is really very meditative so I can run through all the information in my mind and be really prepared, it's because there's a practical; the practical is most of the--well, it's very important, I won't be able to stop and remember what the pages look like, so I have to really know it all--"
"This is for that exam that's like your A Levels, is it?" her mother interrupts.
Fallen leaves shrivel in on themselves in the girl's eyes, but her smile and voice are bright. "It's very important," she says.
The white pockets squirm again. "Only--it's not dangerous, is it? Only some of those letters we've gotten…."
"I'm not going to be accidentally turned into a cat again or anything silly like that," the girl says with a decisive smile, but the corner of her mouth folds a little in an omitting sort of way. "Well, I mean, it's not very likely at all, is it? There'll be teachers around, after all."
"Only it hasn't all been silly," her mother says, brows drawing tighter yet, drooping more. "When they sent to say you were in a coma, and last summer, that scar you came home w--"
"I have to study, Mum," the girl interrupts, putting down her sandwich and taking her brush up again with unnatural haste.
Whited shoulders slump, eyes whose clear water wasn't passed on, was drunk up without a trace by heartwood brown, fall closed. "All right," she says, and takes the tray as she stands. Groping for a lifeline, she asks, "You know your father and I are very proud of you, don't you?"
"I know, Mum," the girl says, reaching up to pat the hand that drops to her shoulder. "I love you, too."
She's alone again with the snick of the closing door. "I'm not sorry," she mutters fiercely to her brush, scrubbing viciously at a reddening nose with the back of her free hand as she paints over hypodermics, the legs of waiting-room chairs, the spines of magazines and thousands of files, over suction tubes, tiny picks and forceps, coils of fine wire and floss, lead aprons, shiny exam room floors and dull industrial carpets. "I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm not."
Date: July 7, 1997
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevence: Hermione stopped believing in 'worst' during her second year at Hogwarts. We may deduce, however, that this memory was subjectively pretty dire from it's excellent quality; she seems to have been determined to not only file it but get it out of her head as completely as possible. She offers it to Walburga Black in the hopes that Mrs. Black will find it extremely boring.
Silver fog churns, settles into silver strokes of wet--paint? No, not paint, but clear streaks trailing behind a large brush, shimmering on a pale wall paneled in clear morning sunshine. She has a sure hand, this girl with her tense mouth and frizzy French braid, tied off with a fraying strip of clean cotton, but sometimes time seems to stutter off for her. Drips fall transparent on the floor, then, as her eyes cloud, and the varnish brightens, the grain of the wood shivers. Or her brush drifts into slow arcs, jagged strokes like lightening, over and over again over the blowsy white roses of the wallpaper until her jaw sets again.
She comes to a picture. Takes it down. Paints under it, puts it back. Paints over the frame, paints the protective glass. Moves on.
Despite its brightness, grown robust with noonship, the sun can't reach her anymore, jitters on the sill when her older mirror comes in. It can be only one person, with that peccably contained hair, those steady hands holding a tray with sandwiches and milk just a little too tightly, tapping on the bend of her girl's knee, drawing her out from where she's painting the mechanisms on the underside of the padded metal torture device that calls itself a chair. "Whatever it is you're doing," she says briskly, with disapproval that stirs wallpaper petals and rings in the corners like love, "you can take a breather to eat something."
"I have to finish," the girl argues, but maybe she isn't arguing, because she's sitting up and taking the tray, resting it on her knees and letting the milk sift down her throat.
"You will," she's told. "The whole house smells of this tincture of yours already. And the car, and the garage, and your dad's bicycle, and--"
"There's still the waiting room to do before tomorrow. And the back office and the break-room and the WC and the supply room. And remember, I'm--"
"Earning extra pocket money by covering for the custodian's sick day," her mother recites, and sighs. "I wish you'd tell me what this is all for. You're quite sure it'll be safe to use it on the instruments? It won't do anything strange to people's teeth, or poison them?"
"Not unless they're--no, Mum, it's quite safe." She pauses halfway through a crisp sandwich. Cress and pear, unless it's apple, walnuts peeking out from between. "Only you should be more openhanded with the nitrous oxide if a patient looks really cranky or terrified."
Her mother's eyebrows droop at the edges, draw together at the center, and her hands clench in silence in the pockets of her white coat. After a long, quiet moment that twists their eyes apart, she notes, "You've never studied like this before."
Turning on like a tap, not meeting her mother's gaze, the girl chatters, "Well, of course I'll revise again and go through all my notes, but it's a very important test, I need to know everything cold and this is really very meditative so I can run through all the information in my mind and be really prepared, it's because there's a practical; the practical is most of the--well, it's very important, I won't be able to stop and remember what the pages look like, so I have to really know it all--"
"This is for that exam that's like your A Levels, is it?" her mother interrupts.
Fallen leaves shrivel in on themselves in the girl's eyes, but her smile and voice are bright. "It's very important," she says.
The white pockets squirm again. "Only--it's not dangerous, is it? Only some of those letters we've gotten…."
"I'm not going to be accidentally turned into a cat again or anything silly like that," the girl says with a decisive smile, but the corner of her mouth folds a little in an omitting sort of way. "Well, I mean, it's not very likely at all, is it? There'll be teachers around, after all."
"Only it hasn't all been silly," her mother says, brows drawing tighter yet, drooping more. "When they sent to say you were in a coma, and last summer, that scar you came home w--"
"I have to study, Mum," the girl interrupts, putting down her sandwich and taking her brush up again with unnatural haste.
Whited shoulders slump, eyes whose clear water wasn't passed on, was drunk up without a trace by heartwood brown, fall closed. "All right," she says, and takes the tray as she stands. Groping for a lifeline, she asks, "You know your father and I are very proud of you, don't you?"
"I know, Mum," the girl says, reaching up to pat the hand that drops to her shoulder. "I love you, too."
She's alone again with the snick of the closing door. "I'm not sorry," she mutters fiercely to her brush, scrubbing viciously at a reddening nose with the back of her free hand as she paints over hypodermics, the legs of waiting-room chairs, the spines of magazines and thousands of files, over suction tubes, tiny picks and forceps, coils of fine wire and floss, lead aprons, shiny exam room floors and dull industrial carpets. "I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm not."