Emotional Conflict
The air inside the castle was thick with the impending chill of winter. Outside, the grounds of Hogwarts were blanketed in frost, and the castle's corridors felt colder than usual. But the chill in the air was nothing compared to the cold weight that had settled in Hermione’s chest.
After Lucian’s confession, everything had shifted.
She had spent days avoiding the portrait. Not intentionally—at least that’s what she told herself—but the truth was more complicated. Each time she passed the hallway where Lucian’s portrait hung, her feet slowed, her mind warred with itself, but she forced herself to walk on. Yet she could still feel the pull, the same magnetic force that had drawn her to him in the first place. It tugged at her whenever she was alone, whenever her thoughts wandered.
What kind of madness had she fallen into?
Hermione sat by the large window in her quarters, a steaming cup of tea resting untouched beside her. The view overlooked the Hogwarts grounds, the frozen lake glittering beneath a pale winter sun. She should have felt peaceful here—this was supposed to be her sanctuary, her escape from everything the war had left behind. And yet, all she could think about was Lucian.
A portrait. He was a portrait. A man long dead, a figment of a past that could never return, and yet… he was also more. His words, his confessions, his eyes—he felt real. And that was the heart of her torment.
How could she feel so much for someone she couldn’t even touch? Someone who no longer had a heartbeat or the warmth of life flowing through him?
The memory of his voice, soft and reverent as he admitted his admiration for her, echoed in her mind.
I admired you… I still do.
His words had left her shaken, vulnerable in ways she hadn’t expected. She had thought she could manage her emotions, keep everything in check, but that night had broken through her carefully constructed defenses.
And now, she was unraveling.
There was a knock at her door, breaking her thoughts. Hermione stood slowly, setting her tea aside, and opened the door to find Professor McGonagall.
“Good evening, Hermione,” McGonagall said, her sharp eyes soft with concern. “Are you alright? I noticed you’ve been somewhat... preoccupied these past few days.”
Hermione forced a smile. “I’m fine, Professor. Just… adjusting, I suppose.”
McGonagall regarded her carefully, as though weighing whether to press further, but finally gave a small nod. “If you ever need to talk, my door is always open.”
“Thank you,” Hermione replied, her voice warm but distant. Once McGonagall had gone, she exhaled a shaky breath. She wasn’t fine. And she didn’t know how to be fine with the way things were unraveling inside her.
She made her way to the hallway where Lucian’s portrait hung, knowing that she could no longer avoid him.
As she approached the familiar frame, Lucian was already there, waiting. His gaze flickered toward her immediately, and the warmth in his eyes, though still behind the barrier of the canvas, was unmistakable. But tonight, there was something different about his expression—a shadow of torment, a weight in his usually sharp and teasing demeanor.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly, breaking the silence that stretched between them.
Hermione stopped in front of the portrait, her chest tightening. She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just… been busy.”
Lucian arched an eyebrow, a hint of his usual sarcasm surfacing despite the tension between them. “Busy avoiding me, perhaps.”
She sighed, her hand instinctively reaching out to brush the edge of the frame, though she pulled it back before her fingers made contact with the cold wood. “It’s not that simple, Lucian.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice quieter now. “It’s not.”
Silence fell between them, thick with unsaid things. Hermione’s mind raced, her heart warring with her head. She had come to him, wanting to talk, wanting to understand what was happening between them. But now, standing before him, the weight of her feelings felt suffocating. It wasn’t just the fact that Lucian was dead, that he was only a portrait. It was that he was real to her in ways that no one else was.
“How can this… how can any of this make sense?” Hermione finally whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with the turmoil she had been trying to suppress for days. “You’re here, but you’re not. You’re real, but you’re not. I feel… I feel so much for you, and it terrifies me because you’re not even alive, Lucian.”
Lucian’s face softened, his usual sharpness melting away into something raw and unguarded. “You think I don’t feel the same way?”
Hermione’s breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest as she saw the emotion in his eyes—an emotion that mirrored her own.
“I can’t offer you anything, Hermione,” he continued, his voice quiet and filled with regret. “I’m a memory trapped in this frame. A shadow of what I once was. And yet... every time you leave, every time you don’t come back, I feel it. The loss. The longing. And it tortures me because I know I can never be anything more than this. Words behind a canvas.”
Hermione’s heart twisted painfully at his words. She had felt the same—every time she walked away, every time she tried to distance herself, it felt like tearing something inside her apart. But hearing it from him, knowing that he felt the same torment, only deepened the ache in her chest.
“Lucian, I—” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how to make sense of this.”
Lucian’s gaze softened even further, the walls he had so carefully kept up between them crumbling. “Neither do I,” he admitted. “But I know that I would give anything to be able to offer you more than just this... this emptiness.”
Hermione’s breath hitched, her eyes filling with tears. The impossibility of their situation pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating her. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, to feel something real between them. But all she could do was stare at the portrait, her heart breaking for both of them.
“I wish things were different,” she whispered, echoing her words from their last conversation.
Lucian’s gaze held hers, filled with an unbearable sadness. “So do I.”
They stood there, trapped in their own emotional purgatory, the space between them vast despite the physical closeness. The intensity of their connection was undeniable, but the reality of their circumstances left them both in a state of longing and despair.
Hermione wiped at her eyes, her heart heavy. She wanted to stay, to continue talking, to feel the comfort of Lucian’s presence, but she knew that lingering would only make things harder.
“I should go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Lucian didn’t stop her. He didn’t say a word, but the pain in his eyes said enough.
As Hermione turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, she felt the weight of their unsaid desires, their impossible love, pressing down on her. The emotional conflict between her heart and her mind raged on, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know which side would win.