"And why, pray tell, do we have to do this?" Ron said whilst looking at
Hermione, arms folded across his chest, a fiery eyebrow arched in a way
that said "I'm trying to intimidate you, but it's not going so well." He'd
stopped growing and had hit an impressive 6ft 4, his flame like hair
grazing his cheekbones and his chin had set given him his mature settings.
His mind however was indefinitely doomed to fight a lifelong battle against
maturity.
Hermione sighed and placed down her book. She'd grown to be 5ft 4 and her hair was a little tamer, falling more in waves then in great tangles, and it reached down to mid back. She'd taken to only wearing a gold tinged foundation, forever given her a sun kissed look.
"It was Professor Dumbledore's idea not mine so don't shoot the messenger. He thought doing a muggle hobby would help students understand WHY we can't pull a v.Voldermort and kill muggles I suppose."
"But.. Painting. Isn't that for like.? Arty types or depressed people?"
"OI! I'm not depressed and I paint" Harry cried Indignantly.
"Not depressed!!. Well ok maybe not depressed but definitely angry." Harry opened his mouth to protest but Ron blundered on, " Harry, mate, you TRASHED Dumbledore's room in 5th year!"
Harry blushed and looked down, and realising he wasn't going to win this fight he muttered a quick "Bollocks." How traditionally British of him. Harry had stopped growing at 6ft and his hair had grown so long that by the order of his head of house he always had it tied back in a ponytail. His highcheek bones gave his face a catlike grace and since he had started learning more powerful magick his eyes, although still his brilliant emerald green, had developed a gold band around his iris.
Ever since Voldermort had returned Harry had been training in the fields of Transfiguration, attempting to become an animagi for stealth, Wandless magick lest he be unarmed at any point and was jumped, and other spells that the other students never learnt. ("And never have to") Harry thought to himself.
Hermione placed her book down and stood up. "Well we better go, class starts soon, and YES Ron it is the art class, get other it you heathen."
Ron just looked mildly insulted, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and grumbled something before following his two best friends out of the Gryffindor porthole.
Outside
There were rows upon rows of canvas resting on wooden stands patiently waiting the 7th years to begin their muggle 'tester' for the day. To say the Slytherins looked upset would be the understatement of the century.
Dumbledore looked around with his slight smile and stood before the mellow year.
"Welcome to your art class. I can see a lot of you are not happy about this event but let me a sure you, you can go back and gripe about what a daft fool I am later." Some students chuckled whilst others silently made a promise to do just that.
"We won't be doing it entirely the muggle way today as that would be impossible to buy all the supplies, But what I would like is if all of you could think of the painting you'd like to do, whether it be a person, an emotion or a memory, then your subconscious will provide the supplies to your side. Everyone understand? Good, you may begin."
Harry stood and tried to think but nothing came to him. He looked to the person on his right, who turned out to be Hermione, and saw she too was stumped. Then he turned to his left, who was, strangely, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy seemed to be fitting his mind to think of anything as a protest to doing anything muggle like. This, Harry actually thought, was quite funny. Draco looked in pain. His hair was no longer worn slicked back but instead it grazed under his chin and he's grown to be 5ft 11.
Smirking Harry turned back to his ivory canvas when he was hit with an epiphany, a memory. A beautiful face with startling green eyes and brilliant red hair that surrounded her like flames surrounding the phoenix.
Looking down at his side he saw a palette, many different sizes of paintbrushes, oil paints, and newspapers & magazines materialise. He started his work.
(" This canvas would work so much better if it was darker, maybe black or blue") and the minute that thought left him his canvas had turned a brilliant dark blue grey.
("Cool.")
He then started mixing shades together, reds with whites and oranges, blues with greens and greys and blacks with most colours.
Putting the shade he made to represent the skin tone on his brush, and placing his palette beside him, he began painting his mothers face. Everyone else slipped away as he held on to his mother's face, painting her high cheekbones, ("just like mine"), and her lean neck all the way to her shoulders. The toning made the image appear almost real.
Her started on her fiery hair then, mixing brilliant shades of red together to make an almost blood red colour then began applying the paint to the canvas in furious strokes as the memory began to consume him. He felt tears coming to his eyes as he started remembering EVERYTHING about his mother, her mannerisms, and her laugh. Who would've known a painting would open up lost memories.
The painting was truly coming to life, wisps of hair were painted so that they were tickling her cheeks, reaching down far off of the canvas.
Harry was so engrossed in his beautiful reminder that he didn't notice Draco give up his fight to think and had began watching him paint with fascination. The way Harry was both painting with furious strokes and yet making the most elegant, softest painting he had every seen.
Emotion poured off of the picture, and it screamed in such volumes that he was surprised when he found it made him want to weep.
Harry, his hair slipping out of his ponytail and into his face, had now started on the greater detail, picking up his smaller brush and painting his mothers emerald green almond shaped eyes, her straight nose and her small lips. He'd painted the slight dimple that was on her face and her elegant eyebrows. His mother had been, in a sense, brought back to life.
Standing back slightly he stared at his mothers loving face and noticed she looked slightly sad. ("Huh, put a bit of myself in there") he thought nonchalantly.
He then began shifting through the magazines, ripping out headings that held words that described Lily, like "Beautiful", "Brave", "Ethereal", there were so many. Using a sticking charm he placed then so they surrounded his mother, never going over her and so that they built up a little from the canvas.
He then painted over them enough so that they blended in with dark steel blue canvas, but so that you could still see the words.
He stared at it, tears in his eyes, and tried to think what else he should add, he knew something was missing. Something that truly described his mother. That's when he heard the whisper from his left.
" The Lily of the Phoenix."
He turned to face the voice to find none other then Draco Malfoy looking at his painting as though he's only just regained his eyesight. Draco then felt someone looking at him and found Harry Potter looking at him, and for once, he noticed, without hatred in those eyes. They looked almost pained, sad.
(" Who wouldn't be sad after losing such an ethereal angel") he thought.
"I'm sorry Draco, what did you say?" Harry asked softly.
("He called me Draco, how odd.but not entirely uncomfortable").
He cleared his throat. "I said 'The Lily of the Phoenix'."
"Can I use that?"
Draco merely nodded his head and watched as Harry, in a romantic style of handwriting with loops, wrote it so it went vertically down beside Lily Evans Potter's angel like face.
They both then turned to the painting and Lily stood out in such beauty that a tear finally fell down Harry's cheek.
And for the first time in his life he heard his mother's voice sing his lullaby.
"You cried I'd wipe away all of your tears, You scream I'd fight away all of your fears, I held your hand through all of these years."
And neither noticed when a painting of a onyx haired, green eyed young man who looked sad and yet happy at his regained memories materialised on Draco's canvas.
Hermione sighed and placed down her book. She'd grown to be 5ft 4 and her hair was a little tamer, falling more in waves then in great tangles, and it reached down to mid back. She'd taken to only wearing a gold tinged foundation, forever given her a sun kissed look.
"It was Professor Dumbledore's idea not mine so don't shoot the messenger. He thought doing a muggle hobby would help students understand WHY we can't pull a v.Voldermort and kill muggles I suppose."
"But.. Painting. Isn't that for like.? Arty types or depressed people?"
"OI! I'm not depressed and I paint" Harry cried Indignantly.
"Not depressed!!. Well ok maybe not depressed but definitely angry." Harry opened his mouth to protest but Ron blundered on, " Harry, mate, you TRASHED Dumbledore's room in 5th year!"
Harry blushed and looked down, and realising he wasn't going to win this fight he muttered a quick "Bollocks." How traditionally British of him. Harry had stopped growing at 6ft and his hair had grown so long that by the order of his head of house he always had it tied back in a ponytail. His highcheek bones gave his face a catlike grace and since he had started learning more powerful magick his eyes, although still his brilliant emerald green, had developed a gold band around his iris.
Ever since Voldermort had returned Harry had been training in the fields of Transfiguration, attempting to become an animagi for stealth, Wandless magick lest he be unarmed at any point and was jumped, and other spells that the other students never learnt. ("And never have to") Harry thought to himself.
Hermione placed her book down and stood up. "Well we better go, class starts soon, and YES Ron it is the art class, get other it you heathen."
Ron just looked mildly insulted, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and grumbled something before following his two best friends out of the Gryffindor porthole.
Outside
There were rows upon rows of canvas resting on wooden stands patiently waiting the 7th years to begin their muggle 'tester' for the day. To say the Slytherins looked upset would be the understatement of the century.
Dumbledore looked around with his slight smile and stood before the mellow year.
"Welcome to your art class. I can see a lot of you are not happy about this event but let me a sure you, you can go back and gripe about what a daft fool I am later." Some students chuckled whilst others silently made a promise to do just that.
"We won't be doing it entirely the muggle way today as that would be impossible to buy all the supplies, But what I would like is if all of you could think of the painting you'd like to do, whether it be a person, an emotion or a memory, then your subconscious will provide the supplies to your side. Everyone understand? Good, you may begin."
Harry stood and tried to think but nothing came to him. He looked to the person on his right, who turned out to be Hermione, and saw she too was stumped. Then he turned to his left, who was, strangely, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy seemed to be fitting his mind to think of anything as a protest to doing anything muggle like. This, Harry actually thought, was quite funny. Draco looked in pain. His hair was no longer worn slicked back but instead it grazed under his chin and he's grown to be 5ft 11.
Smirking Harry turned back to his ivory canvas when he was hit with an epiphany, a memory. A beautiful face with startling green eyes and brilliant red hair that surrounded her like flames surrounding the phoenix.
Looking down at his side he saw a palette, many different sizes of paintbrushes, oil paints, and newspapers & magazines materialise. He started his work.
(" This canvas would work so much better if it was darker, maybe black or blue") and the minute that thought left him his canvas had turned a brilliant dark blue grey.
("Cool.")
He then started mixing shades together, reds with whites and oranges, blues with greens and greys and blacks with most colours.
Putting the shade he made to represent the skin tone on his brush, and placing his palette beside him, he began painting his mothers face. Everyone else slipped away as he held on to his mother's face, painting her high cheekbones, ("just like mine"), and her lean neck all the way to her shoulders. The toning made the image appear almost real.
Her started on her fiery hair then, mixing brilliant shades of red together to make an almost blood red colour then began applying the paint to the canvas in furious strokes as the memory began to consume him. He felt tears coming to his eyes as he started remembering EVERYTHING about his mother, her mannerisms, and her laugh. Who would've known a painting would open up lost memories.
The painting was truly coming to life, wisps of hair were painted so that they were tickling her cheeks, reaching down far off of the canvas.
Harry was so engrossed in his beautiful reminder that he didn't notice Draco give up his fight to think and had began watching him paint with fascination. The way Harry was both painting with furious strokes and yet making the most elegant, softest painting he had every seen.
Emotion poured off of the picture, and it screamed in such volumes that he was surprised when he found it made him want to weep.
Harry, his hair slipping out of his ponytail and into his face, had now started on the greater detail, picking up his smaller brush and painting his mothers emerald green almond shaped eyes, her straight nose and her small lips. He'd painted the slight dimple that was on her face and her elegant eyebrows. His mother had been, in a sense, brought back to life.
Standing back slightly he stared at his mothers loving face and noticed she looked slightly sad. ("Huh, put a bit of myself in there") he thought nonchalantly.
He then began shifting through the magazines, ripping out headings that held words that described Lily, like "Beautiful", "Brave", "Ethereal", there were so many. Using a sticking charm he placed then so they surrounded his mother, never going over her and so that they built up a little from the canvas.
He then painted over them enough so that they blended in with dark steel blue canvas, but so that you could still see the words.
He stared at it, tears in his eyes, and tried to think what else he should add, he knew something was missing. Something that truly described his mother. That's when he heard the whisper from his left.
" The Lily of the Phoenix."
He turned to face the voice to find none other then Draco Malfoy looking at his painting as though he's only just regained his eyesight. Draco then felt someone looking at him and found Harry Potter looking at him, and for once, he noticed, without hatred in those eyes. They looked almost pained, sad.
(" Who wouldn't be sad after losing such an ethereal angel") he thought.
"I'm sorry Draco, what did you say?" Harry asked softly.
("He called me Draco, how odd.but not entirely uncomfortable").
He cleared his throat. "I said 'The Lily of the Phoenix'."
"Can I use that?"
Draco merely nodded his head and watched as Harry, in a romantic style of handwriting with loops, wrote it so it went vertically down beside Lily Evans Potter's angel like face.
They both then turned to the painting and Lily stood out in such beauty that a tear finally fell down Harry's cheek.
And for the first time in his life he heard his mother's voice sing his lullaby.
"You cried I'd wipe away all of your tears, You scream I'd fight away all of your fears, I held your hand through all of these years."
And neither noticed when a painting of a onyx haired, green eyed young man who looked sad and yet happy at his regained memories materialised on Draco's canvas.