Well, I'm actually rather hesitant about putting this up, but I thought I might, to see what people think. It didn't turn out the way I thought it would; it sort of wrote itself. Enjoy, and please review! One last thing. Can anyone guess the pairing?

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to it, and since there's so many HP fanfiction out there I feel the need to say that I did not intentionally take anybody's idea.


The brush moved tentatively at first over the canvas, then as the outline of a long feminine profile sprang to life the brush strokes grew surer and firmer with the experience of many years. Bold dark lines wrought the figure, the arms, and the feet with a delicacy and precision that came with long practice. The artist smiled and drew on, his eyes fixed on a quiet scene under a tree outside, bringing the scene to life with pale watercolours as the background. He did not need to look at her to know her features or her countenance; he had known them for many, many years.

His brush lingered over the portrait's face, and he paused. He thought.

Then, with a reverence that could almost be love, he painted the face. A strong, determined chin; a slightly smiling mouth; the faint furrows of worry on her brow, and all the creases and lines of her cheeks. The eyes he fashioned with care: dark, intelligent eyes, still bright, still alert. He sought to capture the intensity he was attracted to, his own black eyes aglow with the familiar joy of creation.

The artist was almost finished. His brush brought out highlights on his subject's dark green robe, and added flair to her jaunty peacock feather sticking out of her hat. He drew once again her eyes, carefully accenting them until they seemed to flash, despite the scholarly spectacles half hiding them; filled her face with warm colour and her limbs with strength and grace. Finally he laid down his brush as he leaned back and stretched, his arm tingling with weariness and his neck aching, gazing down at his work. The painting only needed several spells for it to move and talk, just like the woman in real life.

He was not satisfied.

He would never be satisfied.

This portrait was the best he had ever drawn. He had poured his heart and soul into it, but there was still something lacking. He frowned, and after a moment's thought he realized.

He needed her love as well. And she would never know if he never even try to tell her, and this painting would never be complete.

He looked outside to the tree. She was leaving, striding across the lawn even as the sun sank. Its dim rays encouraged him, telling him to hurry, to hurry and tell her before another day was gone. She might disdain him, but anything, he told himself, anything is worth a try.

He looked once more at the painting. Then, without hesitation, spun on his heel and left his room, slamming the door in his haste.

His long black robes swirled around the corner as he started to run.