Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: This is a companion piece to Hide and Seek.
'Tis a Detour and Nothing More
Foundation white, cobalt blue, indian red -- what else did he miss? Draco Malfoy went through the shopping list in his head, and then remembered he had used up the last of the charcoal pencil the other day. Strolling to the other side of the cluttered art supply shop, he looked past armies of slender brushes and stacks of drawing papers, before at last locating the slim ebony pencils on the tarnished pine-wood shelf.
The golden bell hung above the door chimed a pleasant sound, and accompanied by the smoke-filled raspy voice of the old shopkeeper, the duet sent Draco on his way. The distant sky looming over the rainy Parisian street was of a heavy ashen grey; the ground was already dyed a dark leaden grey. Adjusting the front of his black overcoat absently, Draco braced for the light drizzle that was showering his face with cool, fleeting kisses, and went on his way with the small brown parcel tucked securely in his arm.
So vastly different was the lifestyle in France as opposed to the bustling vitality of England that he was still in the process of adjusting to his new life. Unlike when he was in England, he did not feel the need to retreat to a solitary place where no one could find him -- like that little wooden cottage of his that was situated at the heart of the deserted woods in Scotland.
It had been his sanctuary, a haven where he sought refuge from the stress of life and pursued his interest in peace; and he had given it away. There was no regret on his part for giving up his castle, however; it had been a secret wish of his that the new owner would find some use in it.
As the image of raven black hair and forest green eyes flashed briefly in his mind, a sliver of wistfulness instantly ensnared him like a wisp of blue smoke. Ah, he could not help but smile wryly at himself, he was getting carried away by his foolish sentiments once more.
Strolling on the cobble-stone sidewalk where sappy trees and old-fashioned lamppost lined the streets in interchanging pattern, Draco passed through several intimate yet cosy cafes. The outdoor patio that was usually occupied by customers was conspicuously empty, granting the transparent raindrops an open gallery to display their watery aesthetics. A soaked newspaper lay forgotten on one of the round tables, a testament to the swift departure of its original owner.
Draco always had a morbid affinity with the exclusive circle of printed news. In his adolescent years, he made use of it to smear the reputation of anyone whom he deemed an eyesore; in his adult years as someone involved in the field of intelligence, he used the media to manipulate the flow of information to and fro the Ministry, with occasional help from a certain young reporter by the name of Ginevra Weasley.
It had been a business deal between the two former enemies: information exchange and information control. When he first approached Ginevra about his proposal, she rightly thought he was insane; and yet, considering their mutual detestation for the Ministry, Draco knew he could find none better an accomplice than she. It was through this sense of understanding that this wary almost-friendship of theirs was forged.
Several dozen paces away was the dingy tobacco stand slouching around the street corner which he frequented. After digging out some money from his pocket, he bought a pack of cigarette from the lady manning the counter like a queen who had lost her former glory. He only bought a pack when he was completely out, for he refused to be completely dependent upon the stimulation of nicotine -- which was rather like an oxymoron, he reflected.
Crouching down on the pretence of reading the newspaper headline, Draco cast an inconspicuous sidelong glance towards the path he came from, and caught a glimpse of a man in a khaki coat lurking suspiciously before the display window of a nearby shop; he had noticed the man ever since he left his flat. As unsavoury as it sounded, it seemed he was being tailed again.
What a bother, Draco thought with an inward sigh as he stood up, somewhat annoyed by the persistence of his pursuer. Regrettably it was not an unusual occurrence for Draco to be followed by individuals sent from various parties who were interested in knowing what he knows; the reason for his assignment to the French ministry had been anything but innocent. Then again, it was not as though he was engaging in any incriminating activity at the moment, aside from the display of a nicotine addiction.
Continuing on his way as though nothing was amiss, he strode leisurely upon the rain-drenched path back to his flat. Gentle raindrops fluttered onto his chilled face, bringing a faint numbness to his skin that was not altogether unpleasant. His acute instinct informed him that his stalker was still doggedly trailing behind him in a tempo similar to his own; distantly he wondered which faction the man belonged to. He could come up with at least three different parties off the top of his head, but it was hardly something he should be proud of.
At last arriving at the three-storeyed building that was his new home, he nonchalantly abandoned the spy to the assault of the cold rain by the doorsteps, and ventured into the blissfully dry shelter. Several flights of creaky stairs later, and he was back in his spacious flat; its location had been the main attraction, though the price was another part of its charm as well.
Immediately he surveyed his sparsely decorated, open-concept flat where there was not even a hint of a concealing space save for the bathroom and the art studio. After noting everything had remained where they ought to be before he left, he gingerly took off his drenched overcoat and let it dry on the back of the dining chair.
With a glass of water in hand, he headed into the studio with his newly bought art supply. The decor of the studio was very much like the one he used to have: a rosewood cupboard stood against the wall for storing his art supply, an elegant small round table by the corner with a wireless of Neo-Victorian aesthetics on top, an easel served as the centre-piece of the room, and a wooden stool to complete the ensemble. The only difference was that the bay window off to the side was overlooking a vibrant European town tinted with washed-out grey instead of an overgrown forest painted with countless shades of green.
Out of habit he turned on the radio, inviting trickles of music to drown out the bleak monotony. The haunting, soulful voice of Edith Piaf streamed out of the radio, lamenting bitterly for her lost love while shedding dry tears. Draco could not remember the last time he cried; granted, he was not even sure if he had shed a tear since his coming of age.
Seated on the stool before his half-finished piece of a distorted vision of the celestial heaven, Draco threw a glance at the paintings -- be they finished or otherwise -- that were resting casually against the walls as though tired of standing. One would find paintings of landscape and still life, even several imitations of famous artwork from grand masters of old; nonetheless, there was not a single human portrait in Draco's collection. There was only ever one portrait he had wanted very badly to paint, a portrait which he had already finished. Deep in his bones he knew he could never -- would never -- paint another one; he could not afford to pour so much of himself into another piece again.
Wearily Draco rubbed his eyelids as he was suddenly stricken by a bout of self-depreciating musing. Was it conceited of him to think as such? The portrait had never meant to be a question; it had been but a simple statement on the part of Draco's capricious self. Draco did not need a reply, be it acceptance or rejection or indifference, for he had already decided what the final answer would be.
An achingly familiar lithe silhouette danced uncertainly within his memory like a ghost from the past that it was. For so long he had been studying the contour and countenance of that waif of a boy, he doubted he could ever forget the boyishly charming demeanour, the unruly dark hair, the troubled frown ever hanging over the brow like a rain cloud, and those unforgettable green eyes that could pry into one's heart without meaning to.
Someone who could be nothing but be true to his emotions and his heart, someone who was free from the silver chains that bind one to the sordid ground -- it was this very nature of his that Draco at once resented and admired. Unlike him, Draco could only dwell in the disorienting labyrinth of lies and half-truth; and unlike Draco, he could soar above the labyrinth and into the azure sky Draco would not dare to touch.
That was why Draco would never drag him into the murky water that was the vicious intelligence game, why he had destroyed every sketch of the youthful visage and agile figure he had done since his adolescent years, why he could offer him nothing more than a still painting and an empty cottage.
Was he a romantic? He begged to differ. Was it an act of kindness on his part? If such was the case, then the extent of his kindness could only go so far. It was never in his nature to be an altruist, let alone a martyr; he would have laughed if someone told him so.
He was merely being selfish, for he knew that certain someone would continue to wonder about the perplexing meaning cloaked behind that painted canvas of cerulean blue and forest green, until the last sparkle departed from those mesmerizing green pupils of his.
Someone had adored you once -- that was all that Draco had wanted to tell Harry Potter, all that he had ever needed to say.
Finis.
A/N: I have a mind to write a companion piece to Hide and Seek, though this isn't what I've originally planned. Anyway, this piece is inspired by Billie Holiday's song, Detour Ahead. The title itself is inspired by a line in Poe's The Raven. As for the song Draco was listening to on the radio, it's Edith Piaf's Les Feuilles Mortes, otherwise known as Autumn Leaves. Thank you very much for reading.