A.N: Written for Lunadragon for the HDSBeltane Fest over LJ. Her request was: happy endings, flangst, Slytherins living up to the "better" qualities of the house and not just the "bad" ones, snarky/witty banter is always a plus. Slash that can include porn but doesn't need to. I'd like them to be out of school, a problem brings them together rather than just a chance meeting that immediately begins the relationship, an appreciation for the arts or a unique job/hobby.
My immense gratitude to twistedm mod for the fest. Thanks to Mel who gave this a speedy beta job. As this was edited after getting back from the beta, any mistake is mine.
hdshdshds
There is no sense to this. Complete and utter rubbish is what it is. What good can writing down thoughts actually achieve, particularly when no one is to read them in the first place? Just an indulgence to one's insanity, I gather. Or, as I suspect in my case, a perpetual state of loneliness, a condition that is not viewed as proper for anybody. People around the "lonely" people will do whatever they can to cure them of such regrettable status. That is, if someone cares about you, big emphasis on the if. The other option is people not caring about you and therefore, not wasting a single moment to remind you of just how lonely and sad you are. Whichever the case is, both factions have something in common: they constantly intrude in your life, making the so called deplorable loneliness a constant issue.me wanting to be left alone. I wonder what they would think if they knew that sometimes I wish for it all to end. I'm not talking about the melodramatic I-want-to-die ending. After all, death is only a transformation of the way we exist. No, I mean just, I don't know, fade away. Like the colours of paint fade into each other to create something new, something better, and something completely different from what they were before. Yes, colour.are a rather special hue at that. When even the colour of your hair becomes your description, when it makes people want or dread to be near you. Granted, I wasn't aware of that when I was younger, only of the colour in the art, particularly the paintings. Sure, the portraits are more than mere decorations. They tell a story, the story of a great, old, bigger than life family, a story that would make many proud and others embarrassed, but a story nonetheless. Paint is the medium. Colour is the language. And it was colour that spoke to me. Sometimes I wish I could be like colour. All that potential for transformation, for change. Sometimes I wish I could change.
I wonder, sometimes, do they ever consider that maybe people just want to be left alone? That such a thing is even possible? Perhaps they do. Perhaps what they can't fathom is someone like
I guess it could be said that colour has always been part of my life. You couldn't have really grown up in here and not have an eye for colour, especially when your eyes
April 28th
The thick vapour coming from the cauldron was the unequivocal indication that the potion he had been working on for the last 45 days was indeed completed. Although there was still room for disaster -decanting the potion was sometimes as tricky as producing it- he felt satisfied, at least for the little while it took for the potion to get down from boiling to a slight simmer. Once this process was finished, he started the pouring of the potion. Deeply engrossed in the process he barely heard the door of the room opening. It was almost a disgrace how he had let his guard down those days, he thought. In the past he would've been able to hear the board just outside the door creak before the person attempting to enter his working room even had the chance to place their hand on the doorknob. He would have waited for the transgressor behind the soon-to-be-opened door, wand at the ready and a hex already forming on his lips. The good old days.
"Has someone passed away?" he didn't stop his work; neither he turned to look to see who had walked in the room.
"Excuse me?" his puzzled lover asked.
"You are full aware of the importance of both the safe handling and the precision with which my work needs to be done. Thus the importance of not interrupting me while I am doing such delicate and precise work. Especially when I'm dealing with volatile potions as you must be well aware I'm doing right now since I took the provision of informing you this morning of what exactly I was going to be working on. Since you don't really have a death wish, the logical conclusion is that something very tragic has come to pass. Being that death is such a tragic occasion -some may deem it to be the most tragic of them all- it is safe to assume that you would only dare to interrupt me in such a situation, knowing full well nothing more would need my immediate attention. Although Merlin knows it is debatable if the demise of certain people is tragic after all..."
"Draco Malfoy is here."
What followed that statement was the most ingenious use of expletives Remus Lupin had ever heard in his life. Not wanting to add to the transgression of entering the work room and being the carrier of such news, he turned around to leave the other man to ponder just how he was going to deal with their guest. That and he needed to be able to laugh. He didn't, however, expect to find himself suddenly pinned to the doorway, a long, strong, familiar body pressed against his.
"Do not move, Lupin," Severus ordered before taking the other's mouth in a hungry kiss.
The only possible thing for Remus was to melt against his lover.
"What was that for?" Remus' husky voice trailed down Severus spine and in that moment he damned formalities, guest, manner and especially, ex-students.
"I'm going to need it. You were here and I took it." That was all the explanation given before Severus composed himself and went about meeting his guest.
hdshdshds
"Mr. Malfoy," he greeted the younger man when he met him in the drawing room, knowing the formality was just a way to dissuade the other man and keep the upper hand.
"Professor," Draco shook Severus' hand briefly.
"I've told you time and again that I am no longer your professor, boy," he said more forcedly than he should have. Or at least he thought Remus would think so.
"I am not a boy either, Severus, haven't been in a long while," he took a seat in the sofa that was in front of the wingback chair that Snape had claimed for himself.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Severus asked, letting Draco know by his drawl that his visit was anything but a pleasure.
"I know I'm intruding, I apologise to you and Professor Lupin," he couldn't help but smirk when he saw that Severus had taken the bait and was about to correct him once again. Not giving the man the opportunity, he continued, "I believe we both know the purpose of my visit, so I'll cut the chase. Do you… Have you come to something that could help?" he finished, mentally chastising himself for the slight tremor on his voice that he was sure would not pass unnoticed by Snape.
"I'm afraid my answer is no. I've considered all the possible options, even made a few inquiries among my colleagues, but it was all fruitless. There is absolutely no potion that could help the situation, not even one that would stop the process," he informed Draco and tried to convinced himself that he was not affected by the concealed distress in Draco's face. It would be barely noticeable for someone not trained to catch the subtle changes, but he was not such a person, and Draco's face spoke loud and clear to him.
"Take a hold of yourself. There's nothing to be done. I'd imagine that with the kind of funds you have at your disposal you would take this opportunity to do some redecorating. Perhaps a change of décor is precisely what is due. Fresh air," he stopped before he continued, but the unspoken words were obvious. Fresh air to remove the stench of death. When he felt the knot in his stomach he didn't try to deny what it was, he was versed in that dreadful feeling after the years living with Remus. It was regret. Gryffindors were contagious after all.
"I see. I won't take any more of your time. Accept my thanks for your efforts. Please, extend my gratitude to Mr. Lupin as well," Draco said his goodbyes and without waiting for an answer, left the modest home.
"That went well enough," Remus joined Severus in the room.
"Indeed. That takes care of one. Now, if only Potter would decide to suddenly move to another continent," he muttered the last sentence.
"Severus," Remus chastised in that tone that was half Gryffindor self-righteousness and half wolf protecting his cubs. The same tone that had the most unintended consequence in Severus' groin, consequence he was going to take full advantage of, with the most welcomed by-product of rendering his partner speechless.
hdshdshds
May 1st
It could be said it had been a mere coincidence; after all, he didn't make any plans about it. It wasn't like he could've predicted when and where he was going to actually lose it. It just happened. The fact that it happened on Beltane was just a fact, even though he had learned with time that there was no such thing as chance. He'd woke up at his usual rising time, 7:30 am, and had breakfast, just like every single day, and just like every single day he went through his mail, consisting mostly of hate letters, with the occasional threat. That morning, he also received a detailed financial report, as it was due on the first of every month. What his owls that morning lacked was the usual; the words of a friend or a loved one. There was no one to write and he didn't expect anyone to write to him, he had made sure of that in time.
The rest of his day was a succession of usual and regular activities, the same activities that made his days difficult to tell apart, that made time pass by unnoticed. After giving the proper instructions to his house-elf regarding his meals and the household, he went into his study where he spent the greater part of his day. In there, he indulged -for at that time he had accepted it was a lost case- in his research.
It didn't happen quickly, but rather as a slow progression, and it would've stayed undetected for far longer if he weren't so used to just look at the paintings in the manor, but as it was, he noticed early. Some time after the end of the war, after his parents had been sent to Azkaban, after his father had gone crazy and in what he thought was a last act of dignity, killed his wife and then himself, rather than bear life in prison, Draco noticed that things in the manor felt different.
At first he thought it was just his imagination, after all, he hadn't been so keen on the idea of going back to his home after the events that had taken place in the ancestral home, but it was his home after all, and he moved back, feeling that to do otherwise would mean to disrespect the memory of his parents. His mother had sacrificed herself for him, to keep him out of prison. Only the exchange of her freedom managed that feat, even with the testimony of Harry Potter on his behalf.
Having the whole of his inheritance at hand, he managed to restore the manor to its usual self. So when he started to feel the shift in energy, the change in atmosphere as something more palpable than his overactive imagination and his old fears, he started to pay more attention to the manor.
Then one day, he really noticed something. His favourite painting, a six hundred year old portrait of a Florentine landscape, looked off. That was how he could best describe it. The colours looked less vibrant, muted somehow. There were no people in the painting, but the nature in it would move as a soft breeze danced in the grass and caressed the branches of the trees. That day the soft breeze was transformed and an angered storm swept the grass and branches away.
Draco went from room to room observing the paintings and finding changes in all of them, in some subtle, in others more obvious, at least to someone that knew all the paintings by heart, but not one was unaffected by the phenomenon. More than changes, they were distortions.
But it wasn't only the paintings the ones that were affected, it was as if every single living thing in the property fell under the spell or whatever was causing the problem. Even the house-elves had gotten sick and some of them died. The plants went even quicker. The fact that the works of art were not really living things made everything even more confusing.
A few months and loads of galleons later the experts gave their verdict and also enlightened Draco as to just how deeply implicated the Malfoys were with Dark Magic. As a child, Draco never found odd that such an old manor would be in as good a condition as his home was, after all, they had all the money in the world and with money anything was possible, but later on he had come to understand that a great deal of spell and charm work was at play. That was until he was corrected, it took a great deal of Dark Magic. None of his ancestors, his father included, had had any trouble using the darkest of spells to secure their place in Wizarding world, which apparently included having the most envied abode.
In the simplest terms, the house just got saturated by dark energy. The time that the Dark Lord had resided in the manor, with the fact the spell had not been renovated by the new master of the house once Lucius had passed away had initiated a chain reaction culminating in a progressive and systematic deterioration. Had he not noticed when he did, it would have probably affected even Draco, but as it was, he was able to stop part of it.
The gardens were easy, just a matter of taking all the plants, which were already in various phases of rotting, and have the soil cleansed and just replant everything. The house had been even easier, since it was all inorganic and was just a matter of replacing the maintenance spells for new ones, a somewhat pricey solution, but fairly easy. As the house and it surroundings were cleansed and restored, the other living beings were saved as well. But the paintings, that was another story altogether.
Nothing seemed to work and quickly one by one the people brought in to look at them came to the same conclusion, there was nothing to be done, they were lost. The spells used to make Wizarding paintings were particular susceptible to the damage done by the dark magic. The spells, similar to the one used to make pictures, were very finicky since their main purpose was to imitate life, to give the viewer the sensation of observing reality, of speaking and interacting with people, rather than to be looking at canvas and oil painting. They were the middle ground, not organic, but not quite inert. They had been part of the Malfoy inheritance for centuries, they had adorned the walls of his home for years and years and they were to be lost.
Draco wouldn't have any of it. It was hard to explain, except to say that he needed the familiarity, he needed to feel that he had been able to at least preserve his family history, that he had been able to finally do something for the right reasons, because he wanted it, not because he was prompted by fear and obligation. Whatever the reason, he dedicated himself to find a solution. Five years later and he had yet to find it.
Book after spell after expert after more books and nothing worked. What once were placid sceneries full of light and flowers, such as of created by Monet deformed day by day into scenes taken from Dante's Inferno. But nothing compared to the damage received by the portraits. It was grotesque the way his Great grandfather's face seemed to be melting, as in a surrealistic Dali style. The least affected had been his parents' portraits, due to the fact that they were the most recent. But still, he had to see how day by day the beauty of his mother was marred by unstoppable infection. He needed to find a solution, he couldn't lose them all like that.
Thus, that morning he continued his frantic search, for he felt time was scarce. Even though he had renovated the house, the atmosphere had started to feel oppressive again, so much he almost found it hard to breathe sometimes. He'd been warned about it, the dark magic affecting the painting was indeed like an infection, and with time it would just pervade everything else that had been "cured" of it. He was becoming desperate, so much that he had reached out to Severus in hope the man could come up with some potion that would at least stop the process, but it had been all for naught.
And in a single moment it was all so clear, the elusive solution had been under his nose all the while. He had already done it with the rest of the house. And it was not a coincidence that it was Beltane after all. It was a sign of what he needed to do to stop living surrounded by putrid reality, of what he needed to stop receiving the disappointed looks his ancestors shot his way, the looks that told how he had failed his name, how he had failed all he was and hold dear.
He needed to clean and purify, to transform, to strip the colours of all the darkness. He needed fire.
hdshdshds
Harry did the final check to the portrait he was working on. The protection and conservation spells casting was the most tedious part of his profession, but it was necessary or all the hard work done would be lost in no time. He slid his finger over the smooth wood of the frame. It fitted the portrait better than the original one ever could.
He'd done a full restoration and resetting work and his most challenging to that day. He thought that perhaps he shouldn't have felt as smug as he did, since he wanted to think he was not an arrogant man, but he couldn't help but feel proud, when even his former Master had turned down the job, declaring it undoable.
It had taken him almost seven months, which was not much for a big restoration project but more than enough for a piece as small as the one he had been working on. Seven months in which he had practically removed himself from his friends, with the exception of Remus. When he felt especially stressed there was nothing like dropping by Remus and Snape's place to unwind, with the added bonus of knowing he was annoying the older Potion Master. He grinned while he remembered the last time he had visited with the couple. He was still trying to understand how that came about, but if they were happy -and even with all his notions about Snape Harry couldn't deny was evident, that they seemed happy- he was no one to criticise them.
His mussing was interrupted by the chiming indicating that a Floo call was coming through. A bit worried, because even Hermione had learned to not contact him when he was doing one of his restorations, he walked to the fireplace to receive the call. Only a few people knew his place of residence, and so he wasn't worried about whom his caller might be. He didn't, however, ever expect to find Severus Snape's face floating in the fire.
"Mr. Potter, your presence is required. Please, come at once," and then the Floo connection was ended. Harry rolled his eyes at his ex-professor's tactics. He knew the older man used formality as a way to keep himself detached from everyone, especially the people he barely tolerated, which was the vast majority. It took a little while for Harry to think that the only way that Snape would contact him was if Remus was unable to do so.
Taking only a few seconds to secure the painting, he Floo travelled to Remus' flat.
"Snape! Where is he? What happened?" Harry called out as soon as he was through, noticing at once that both inhabitants of the house were waiting for him in front of the fireplace.
"Only you would be so conceited to think that had something happened to Remus I would seek your help, Potter." Snape snarled.
"Severus, please. Let's not go down the usual path of interaction. I'm quite all right, Harry, but thank you for worrying. We have a bit of a situation in which we were hoping you could help," Remus explained.
"What is it?" Harry was more than a little curious.
"Perhaps it would be better to show you. Severus? I'll make some tea while you take Harry upstairs."
hdshdshds
Harry had a very vivid imagination and his years in the Wizarding world had taught him was that there wasn't an impossible. Still he would have not expected not believed what he encountered in the flat's guest room had he not seen it himself.
There, in the middle of the wide bed, lay a deeply, seemingly sedated Draco Malfoy practically draped over what seemed to be a canvas. A partially burnt canvas. It was difficult to see, partly for the soot, partly for Malfoy's limbs wrapped around the canvas, but it seemed to be a portrait.
Before he had the chance to talk, Snape was leading him out of the room and back to the drawing room, where Remus awaited with tea and a plate full of Harry's favourite biscuits.
He took the cup that Remus had prepared to his liking, as well as a few of the biscuits before sitting down.
"What, I mean, what happened?" he inquired.
"The idiot set his house on fire, that's what happened," Snape's deep drawl denoted that he was more affected by his words than what he'd have liked to be.
"I don't understand. If he is suicidal, shouldn't he be at St. Mungo's or something like that?"
"Harry, it's not as simple as Severus may have made it seem. I don't believe Draco was attempting to take his life. To make a long story short, he decided to burn all the paintings of Malfoy manor. I just think things got out of hand," Remus offered to refill his cup, which Harry accepted.
"Destroying a whole wing of his house and almost perishing in a fool attempt to save a painting is your example of things getting a little out of hand? How quaint. That's the understatement of a century, Lupin,"
"I still don't…" Harry tried to say before he was interrupted by Snape.
"For Merlin's sake, how daft can you be, Potter? Did you fail to notice the blond man draped all over a painting upstairs? What could we possible need from you but your services as the most skilled painting restorer of this age?" Snape rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation.
Harry stared at Snape, wondering how the man could manage to sound demeaning and mocking even when he was obviously asking for a favour.
"What we were wondering was if you wouldn't mind taking a look at the portrait and see if something can be done. There's this peculiar situation with it, something prior to the fire which make render any effort of restoring it ineffective, but it wouldn't hurt to try, would it?" Remus smiled sadly.
"When? I imagine not too long ago, the room reeks of smoke?" There was something suspicious about the conversation and Harry knew he needed to tread carefully.
"Ten days today, as a matter of fact," Snape drank from his cup and for the first time averted his gaze.
"What is it? No, don't try to deny it. It's obvious there's something you are not telling me," he demanded not in the mood to fish for the answer. He was too tired.
"Very well. Draco refuses to separate himself from the portrait, which means that you would have to receive him as your guest, if you decide to take the task," Remus explained calmly.
Harry snorted, sure that the man was pulling his chain, but then he saw that Snape's lips almost, barely curled up, meaning he was finding the situation amusing. It didn't take long for Harry to conclude that only something that would bring him great distress could make the insufferable man amused.
"You are not kidding. How do you, I mean, god, this is crazy. It's obvious that Malfoy needs help, the kind I can't give to him. And what was all that about, what you were saying about the painting and this is Malfoy you are talking about. He set his house on fire!" The more Harry thought about the proposition, the more absurd he found it.
Snape sighed, in a way that Harry had never seen him, and put down the cup he had been holding, as if to have something to do with his hands.
"Listen very well, because there won't be another occasion as this one. Ever since his parents died, Draco has withdrawn from the world. He'd spent all his time in his house, working on something that no one knew about until approximately three months ago when he contacted me seeking my advice, my professional advice. It appears that the Dark Lord's presence in his house created more than just bad memories. A few days before the fire incident he'd come by to get my final determination on the matter on which he had consulted me and then, three days later, I was awoken in the middle of the night by his house-elf, who informed me of Draco's drastic measure. He apparently decided to make a Beltane bonfire out of all the paintings of his house, a bonfire from which I had to pulled him out when he realised he had included his mother's portrait and he wished to rescue it from the flames. Now he is in the condition you've seen. We've tried to get him to eat or at least bathe but he is seemingly catatonic unless you try to take the damned portrait away from him. I've given him Sleeping potions because otherwise he won't sleep or let us treat his injuries." He cleared his throat, as if preparing to say something difficult. "In the end, we have two situations, Potter. We have a Dark Arts problem and we are in need of a restoration. It happens that you seemed to be gifted in both areas, thus our petition for help. Please, help him. You've managed to recover from your past enough to have a decent life. Don't you think he deserves the same as well?" Grabbing the refilled tea cup, Snape sat back and waited for his words to sink in.
Harry looked at the older man in disbelief. Severus Snape had asked for him to please help Draco Malfoy. Granted, it had been in a manipulating and scheming way, trying to use his sense of rightness and tapping into that pesky side of him that wouldn't let him stay out of a situation, if there was something he could do about, especially when it came to help other people.
"Tell me what the matter with the painting is," he asked after a while. Rubbing his tired neck, Harry shift in his seat, searching for some comfort, while Remus and Snape told him all about Voldemort's last legacy.
hdshdshds
Draco awoke with a start, knowing immediately he was in a strange place. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was, where he had been for the past two weeks. Potter's. That knowledge allowed him to slightly relax, and he rested back in the comfortable bed. He assumed the same position he had every single day since he had come to Potter's place, looking up to the white ceiling in Potter's flat. It fitted him, the white. He didn't deserve any colour, not after what he'd done. Come to think of it, he didn't even deserve to see his mother, which is why he'd allowed Potter to take the portrait away. It hadn't been without a fight, though. In the end, Potter was still the same stubborn prat he'd been in Hogwarts and he couldn't be arsed to fight anymore, especially not with Potter.
Draco had been more than a little surprised when he was informed of what Potter did for a living. But after observing the man, discreetly, for a few days, it started to make sense. Art restoration required determination and patience. Potter was as determined as they come and he'd apparently learned patience along the way.
He knew he shouldn't be there, he belonged to his family house, but it had been somewhat uplifting to have the time to think about his acts. Potter didn't talk to him, which had suited Draco just fine, but he had to be honest to himself and admit that there was a curiosity about the man growing inside him. And, he decided, it was time to face his mother.
He went about his morning ablutions (the guest room at Potter's had an en suite, thankfully) and after selecting the best of his limited wardrobe -- he had to remember to call the house-elf and ask him for more -- he walked out of his room for the first time in days.
hdshdshds
Harry was deeply engrossed in his task. At first it had been difficult to perceive the distortion that Snape had told him about, with all the soot and grime that covered the painting. He'd spent the last two weeks just separating the canvas from the burnt damaged frame and delicately cleaning the surface of the canvas. It was a slow process, but fundamental to do his job, since haste had no place in it. One forceful swipe of a brush and a centuries old work of art could be irreparably damaged.
His craft was one of endurance, determination and a stay of power. None of his friends had understood why he took it on all those years ago. But Harry couldn't imagine himself doing something else. It was a fact that he had dreamt about being an Auror once, but after leaving the war behind, Harry found himself wanting to do something more constructive with his life. He wanted to create rather than to destroy or maintain.
He first met his future master on the craft of Wizarding art restoration in a Gallery opening of his friend Dean. The man, Ignatius Spalko, was a Russian descendant and a legend in his field. He had never taken on an apprentice, until Harry. The three year apprenticeship was the most intense and life changing experience of his life and after it, Harry was thoroughly convinced that he was doing just what he was meant to be. Or at least what he loved to do.
Back to the task at hand, he grabbed his wand to do a final clarifying spell when it was abruptly taken from him.
"What are you doing?! Were you planning on finishing what I started the other day? That's my mother, Potter!" Draco Malfoy's face was painted the crimson tone of anger, but there was an undertone of fear as well. Harry thought it was the first time he'd seen a hint of life in the other man since they've been sharing the flat.
"I see you haven't lost your dramatic flair. I guess it was too much to expect. If you are quite done, can I have back my wand? I don't particularly need it for what I'm going to do, but I'd rather have it, it gives more control to the spell." He extended his hand and waited for the other man to give his wand back.
Draco looked at Potter and at the canvas, noticing the work the other man had already done. "What are you going to do?" he handed back the wand.
"Just a clarifying spell. I need to be able to see the painting as clearly as I can. The smoke is fatal for magical paintings," he answered while he did the spell wordlessly.
What he unveiled after the spell was the portrait of a beautiful woman whose face sported a grotesque expression. What had been once aesthetic features looked like they were melting. That was the best way Harry could put it to words. A grimace could be seen, as if it was hurtful.
Draco was shocked. The infection seemed to have taken its toll in the weeks since the fire at a faster pace. He felt a shortness of breath and closed his eyes, feeling disorientated.
Harry noticed the effect the portrait was having on his imposed guest and quickly cast a new spell, one that would put the portrait in an artificial stasis.
"Malfoy, breathe, come on, take one deep breath," he urged the other man.
Not sure why, he took Potter's advice and breathed deeply, trying to get as much air in his lungs as possible, willing himself to calm down. It took more than a few minutes, but eventually the episode passed. It was then that he noticed that Potter had moved him to a sofa and was gently rubbing his back. As if being under Potter's roof wasn't surreal enough, he was being comforted by Potter himself! It was too much for Draco to handle. As soon as he was sure his legs would support him, he stood and without uttering a word, he went back to his room and locked the door. Later, he did not dwell on the fact that he could still feel the warmth from Potter's hand on his back.
hdshdshds
The next time Draco ventured out of his room, it was out of boredom. A few days had passed since the episode, as he had called it, and even though food would appear regularly in his room and there were a few books to read, he started feeling restless.
Realising that Potter was none the wiser about his presence he just observed as much about the other man as he could and then went back to his room. The next was a repeat and pretty soon they had fallen into a pattern. Potter eventually acknowledged him and Draco dared to ask about his work, while Potter inquired about the infection (it was really the best way to describe it) and why had he not thought about taking a restorer to see the paintings?
At the moment, it hadn't occurred to Draco; after all he had the best experts in various fields, from Dark Arts to spell breakers, even healers. Potter explained that he would at least put the paintings in stasis, rendering something alike to Muggle art for all intents, and that maybe the damage could've been stopped until a solution was found. It made sense.
Potter's work was really not for the impatient. He could spend days at the time on a single inch of the portrait, a single inch. Potter used, Draco had learned, a combination of Muggle and Wizarding techniques, which made his restoration more effective than the pure method. Potter had explained that he was attempting to fix the damage from the fire and then he would see if something could be done about the magic problem. Draco was not particularly hopeful, but he knew that if someone could manage it, it would be Potter. The thought made him curious as to when had he started to admire Potter.
hdshdshds
There had to be a way to at least stop the damage, he was sure. After running a few diagnostic spells he was sure the problem with the paintings was due solely to Voldemort's residual magic. The problem was finding a way of vanishing the magic once and for all without destroying the painting as well.
After spending a good deal of the night researching, he went back to the canvas and submerged himself in the many possibilities, not noticing dawn and paying no attention to his imprudent stomach.
Draco was well aware that Potter had not been to bed since the day before and pretty sure he had not eaten for at least a day. That morning he'd decided to do something about the deplorable state of Potter's flat, since it seemed the prat had not renewed his cleansing charms in a long while and everything was covered with his work supplies. Armed with his wand, he left his room prepared to do some work. But first, he was going to make sure that Potter ate something. He didn't need the git to fall dead.
"Potter. Potter. POTTER!" He called, but was unanswered. He tried once more and Potter continued ignoring him. "Potter! You uncouth prat! How dare you ignore me?" Draco was incensed and about to hex the other man when he noticed there were strange things coming out of Potter's ears. They looked like buds and had strings attached. The bastard is using some device not to hear me! he thought and without pausing for a second, he yanked on the white strings. "Potter!"
Harry jumped, startled by the force behind Malfoy's scream. "What?" he asked confused. He saw the blond's lips move but all he could hear was Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Winter, since it suited his task. He realised he needed to turn off the music player.
"Are you deaf as well as bad mannered, Potter?!" Draco was livid.
"What was that? You love to scream my name?" Harry joked. "I couldn't hear you. Music. Helps me focus," he explained while showing Malfoy the small electronic device.
Draco stared at the rectangular box. A slight blush tinted his face when he realised his mistake.
"It's still bad manners to isolate yourself from the rest of the world, if you ask me," he muttered. "Have you eaten today?"
"I, well, no, I don't remember. I'll have something later." He intended to get back to his work.
"No, you will certainly not. You will stop at once and eat, now." Draco instructed.
Harry looked intensely at Draco, so much the he could tell the exact moment the other man became self-conscious under the scrutiny of his gaze.
"You like to scream my name and order me around? Interesting," he smirked before going to do as he was ordered.
hdshdshds
Dropping the parchment down on the table, Harry sighed. Hermione's research had been unsuccessful and he was running out of ideas. He looked at the canvas that he was working on, still in stasis. Fortunately, most of the damaged from the fire had been limited to the borders of it, the frame taking most of the brunt. The damage done by the magic was, however still taking its toll. He observed the woman depicted in front of him. Narcissa Malfoy had been a beautiful woman; that much was clear, even with the condition the portrait was in. The artistry and the use of colour in the artwork were superb.
He was not an artist himself, but part of his job was pure restoration, which sometimes involved actually having to paint in order to get the piece of art back to how it had been originally created, hence all the art supplies he had in his study. It was a Muggle trick of the trade. Not that it couldn't be done with magic, but sometimes the restoration needed the precise, controlled stroke only a hand could give, even for one of the most powerful wizards alive. The added bonus was that it was really therapeutic. If only he were working on a Muggle painting, he was sure he could make the deformed face in the canvas a beautiful one once again. But that was out of the question because it was not a Muggle painting and Draco would never allow it.
Speaking of the blond devil, Harry decided it was time to play host with his guest, although after a couple of months he imagined he should say, his flatmate. Having the man under his roof had been quite the experience. Draco was completely sure that his actions were mostly ignored by Harry, but in all reality, Harry had been observing him since the first day, he'd just decided not to fuss all over him. Sometimes the best way to heal was silence. Remus didn't agree with his method at first, and had voiced as much on the occasion he had Floo called to check on Draco, but surprisingly, Snape had agreed with Harry.
Little by little he'd watched the other man coming back to life. Harry had the suspicion that Draco had not been impervious to the phenomenon that had affected the whole of Malfoy Manor and that spending time out of the old house was just what was needed. He knew, however, that Draco would not believe him. For all he had changed he was still the quintessential proud heir of his family. But the progress could be seen, and he was not talking about Draco cleaning and changing things around his flat.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbing two bottles from the fridge went in search of Draco. He knew well where to find him.
"Move over, don't hog all the space." His flat had a small balcony, barely big enough to allow two grown man to sit on it, but the view from it was fantastic. Draco first discovered it on his birthday, at the beginning of June, when the first heat of summer could be felt inside the flat.
"I do not hog, Potter. That is something you would do. Me, I just take what is rightfully mine, which happens to be everything," he smirked in Harry's direction and accepted the bottle that was handed to him. It had become a new part on their routine in recent days. They never talked about Harry's current project or the past, including Draco's majestic Beltane bonfire, but he was sure it was just a matter of time before Harry asked.
"Of all the arrogant things to say, you are incredible," Harry shook his head.
"Why, thank you for noticing, Potter," he winked playfully.
Oh, I do notice. More than you'll ever know, Harry thought, but didn't reply out loud.
They watched the sunset in silence for a while, each one conscious of the other's proximity.
"Why are you here, Potter?" Draco surprised both of them with his question.
"One day my father and my mother got in the mood and, all right, all right, stop glaring at me. It was funny... I don't know. Why are you here?" he took a sip of his bottle, "If you mean why am I here instead of somewhere else. I don't now. I just am. There's no use in exploring the options we've left behind. It's done. I like where I am, even if the company is insufferable. Ouch! That hurt, you git. Why did you do it?"
"I wasn't trying to kill myself," was the hasty reply.
"I didn't think you were," Harry finished his drink.
"I couldn't stand it anymore. I know it's incomprehensible, me being so attached to mere paintings, but they were all I have left, all that was left of my family. If I'm not a Malfoy, who am I? I don't know how to be anything else, how to change. I don't know what else to be." Draco swallowed around the knot in his throat.
"You are you. The perplexing man that jumped into a bonfire to save a portrait of his mum, the same man that everyday writes in a leather-bound journal, even if it seems he's frowning at his activity. The same man that can spend hours observing a painting and that incredibly knows very good housekeeping spells. I have to admit I wasn't expecting that one. You are just who and what you are, what you want to be," Harry whispered the last sentence.
"There's nothing to be done, is it? You can't play the Boy-Who-Lived card this time and fix it, can you?" It wasn't a question, but an affirmation of something he already knew.
"There's something I can do, but I'm not sure you'd like it."
Draco looked into the horizon and reflected on Harry's words while he took in the breathtaking colours displayed in the sky. He was who and what he wanted to be.
"Tell me about it," he asked.
hdshdshds
Draco observed the last leaves of the tree in front of Harry's building finally falling. They had clung to their branches as mighty Gryffindors in the eve of a battle, but autumn was not an adversary to be taken lightly and finally, they had to surrender to the changes that nature demanded. It had been too cold to sit in the small balcony for over a month now, even with a warming spell. Even so, Draco naturally gravitated to that part of the flat. He could still remember the conversation he held with Potter at the end of spring, and the decision he made on that occasion.
He could be who and what he wanted to be. And in the months since that day, he had spent all of his time and effort in being what he wanted to be. Potter could be heard around the flat, trying not to make noise, but doing so all the same. Draco knew he was nervous, had been for the last three days. The restoration of his mother's portrait was completed and if he was honest with himself, he didn't know how to feel about it. He knew, for once, that it was time to go to his house. The fact that there hadn't really been a reason for him to stay in Potter's flat all those months had never been mentioned by either one of them, but there it was all the same. The fact that he had stopped thinking about the manor as his home was something not to be mentioned. As it was, he had overstayed his welcome.
"Potter," he called, "Potter. Harry!"
Harry was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn't hear the blond call until Draco used his given name. It was the first time and the sensation it brought upon was more than pleasant.
"Yes?" he walked to where Draco stood.
"Stop fidgeting and let me see it. I know you've been done for a couple of days now," he smirked, his words lacking the harshness they would've had once.
Harry recognised that he had been indeed fidgeting. The truth was he was anxious about showing Draco the results of his work, but not for the reason people would've expected. Draco would leave, as it was expected, as it was due and that thought didn't agree with Harry at all. There was nothing he would do to prevent it, though.
"Come with me," he grabbed Draco's hand and led him to his working area.
Once they reached the placed where he could see the covered painting, Harry unveiled it with a flick of his wand.
Draco was overwhelmed and he had to fight the tears that threatened to fall for a while, until he stopped struggling and let them trail down his face. It was astounding. Not even the original depiction had done justice to his mother's beauty the way the portrait did in that moment. It was stilled, lifeless as a Muggle painting and yet for a second he thought he would feel flesh if he were to extend his hand and touch the canvas. He wouldn't be able to hear his mother's voice again, but he would never forget how she looked.
"It's beautiful," was all he could say.
It was beautiful, Harry agreed. The way his silver eyes shone with the crystalline tears, his cerise lips swollen as a result of his biting, but giving the appearance of being just kissed, the subtle blush that travelled down his neck and that Harry suspected continued all the way down his spine. Really beautiful. He gave Draco a moment of privacy, as much as he could, being in the same room, and waited for the other man to break the almost sublime silence.
"I don't know how to thank you, Harry," Draco couldn't turn and face Harry when he spoke.
"Have you thought about who and what you want to be?"
Harry's question was unexpected and Draco took a few seconds to think how to answer it.
"I've done nothing but think all these months, Potter. And make sure you remember to eat and rest. And clean after your mess. And think," he finally answered still looking at his mother's painting.
"So you still don't know," Harry had all the intention to keep his distance, but his treacherous body had another idea and before he knew he had to stop, merely an inch from the other's man body, lest he collided with Draco.
"I don't know who or what, but I do know where I want to be," Draco said in a daring move. He would've panicked immediately after uttering the words but then he felt Harry's hands on his shoulders and all thoughts left his mind.
"Mr. Malfoy, I've been noticing your interest in the arts, but perhaps you have never considered taking upon the ancient craft of art restoration. It seems to me that you have all that is necessary to succeed in the field. As it is, I may be inclined to take on an apprentice," Harry recited on his most professional voice, while his hands moved of their own volition and wrapped around Draco's waist. He rested his head on Draco's back and waited for the blond to give the next step in the dance they had started many months ago and that he suspected was about to reach its climax.
Don't do this to me, Potter, don't shatter away my resistance, Draco mentally implored because he knew it was too late for such a pleading, that Harry had blown apart every single one of his walls.
In the end, he gave in. He relaxed against the strong body, resting his head on Harry's shoulder.
"Something tells me this is not appropriate Master and Apprentice behaviour. If it is, I'm glad I rejected Severus' offer all those years ago," he teased.
Harry laughed. "Will you ever tell me what you write in your journal?"
"Of course not. Tell me about this. You must have used some reference or something, the resemblance is uncanny," he spoke quickly, trying to fight the consequence that Harry's nearness was having on his body.
"Only if you turn around and let me see you," Harry bargained.
"Only if you kiss me," Draco demanded.
And Harry did.
hdshdshds
All right, all right, I was wrong. Not about the nonsense that writing here is, I still think this is just a big waste of time, ink and parchment. I was wrong about colour. Colour does have potential, but that potential is nothing without the right tool. Colour can never become a beautiful painting without the proper paintbrush.
Harry's fingers to bring out the goose bumps on my skin. His tongue to clean my flesh. His teeth to make the burgundy of my blood come closer to the surface. His lips to dye my neck in a myriad of blues. His body, to make me see white, the presence of all colours.
I'm like colour. I can be transformed into anything. I can be who and what I want. I am where I want.
I am colour. I just needed the right instrument.