"Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him?"
—The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde
Scene 1: A Small Gallery in Nocturn Alley, July 1982
Dark portraits covered the walls of the tiny room, their subjects' eyes flickering in the light from dim candle sconces, flames steady in the musty stillness typical of seldom-visited Nocturn Alley haunts.
Behind a yew counter, carefully distilling kraken ink, sat the artist. Cassiopeia, eldest daughter of Cygnus Black II, had caused a great scandal in her youth by refusing to marry another pureblood heir and was only forgiven in light of the greater scandal when her younger brother Marius was outed as a squib. Almost fifty years after leaving pureblood comfort for artistic solitude, the brewing of paints and the acquisition of the rare materials that made her portraits unique were beginning to take their toll. Dark hair falling limp around her wrinkled face, arms covered in enough burns to rival a veteran dragon tamer's, fingertips stained black by the mishandling of volatile ingredients: these were the marks of her trade.
The door opened with a protesting screech, startling the artist where she sat. The entrance had not been used since 1975, when a lost hag mistook her shop for a morgue. Although Cassiopeia was known in certain circles as a master of magical portraiture, her store, like many at the darkest end of the Alley, was generally considered too dangerous a trip to make in person. Owl orders were common, and on the rare occasion that an in-person visit was necessary, customers used the private floo. She hadn't seen a walk-in in her forty-seven years of business.
Not a single walk-in, that is, until that fateful day, when a young man stepped confidently into the room. Beams of sunlight streamed in behind him, illuminating the dust motes to create a halo around his figure. His face was perfectly symmetrical, with clear blue eyes, gleaming white teeth, and topped off with a neatly coiffed golden wave of hair. For the first time since her initial defection to the fine arts, Cassiopeia found herself inspired to immortalize a human image in paint.
He spoke first. "My name is Gilderoy Lockhart, and I desire a portrait."
"Of whom, my good sir?" Enraptured, she reverted into the formal speech of her pureblood upbringing.
"Of me, of course! You see, just last week I ran into an old professor of mine, Horace Slughorn. Do you know him? Fine old chap, really knows how to live. All that that candied pineapple, and what parties…"
"Yes, we were at Hogwarts together," she prompted as Gilderoy lost himself in thoughts of luxury, as was his wont. Cassiopeia could already see that the young man was the kind of person who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and settled in for a speech.
"Right. So we're on our second bottle of Old Ogden's Finest when he says to me, 'Gilderoy, there are simply too many fine things in this world to waste time worrying about Dark Lords and whatnot. Why, you must be the most handsome graduate Hogwarts has ever seen,'" he paused for effect, savoring his own embellished compliments, "'and it would be nothing short of a tragedy to darken that smile with the world's troubles,'" (It was indeed the brightest, most endearing smile that Cassiopeia, with her dark adolescence and her secluded adulthood, had ever beheld), "'and I'm afraid none of us are getting any younger.' And then he started talking about former students from the 40s and quite lost me. But I do believe he's right. My smile is a gift to this Earth, and I should like a portrait to memorialize it. I can pay you in gold."
Her usual fees were no small change even for her pureblood clientele, and Cassiopeia had no intention of scaring off her new muse. "Pay? I would not hear of it! Your perfect visage reawakens the artist in me, and that is riches enough. Come, sit, and let me paint you so that even vain Narcissus himself would feel envy!"
Cassiopeia swept off a dusty stool for him before disappearing into her storeroom. Only the most precious pigments could do justice to such a handsome, youthful visage! Crushed fairy-ring flowers for his smooth, pale skin; powdered dragon horn dissolved in mermaid tears for his flowing golden hair; shards of a Mirror of Erised for the shine of his teeth; and a half-digested soul, stolen from the lips of a dementor, for his startling blue eyes. Each ingredient had been obtained at great risk to life, limb, and soul, but she would never find a worthier subject for her portraits.
. . . . .
Cassiopeia smiled in awe at the finished work before her, scarcely believing such a masterpiece had been created by her own hand. At a gesture, the young man jumped up to look upon his painted image. The likeness was as flawless as a mirror would portray, each crinkle and curl precisely detailed.
"Well done, good madam! You have outdone yourself! Indeed, I envy this me! For while I must eventually grow old and ugly, he will remain forever young and beautiful. Oh, that our situations would be switched! To be able to embrace the world's luxuries but remain free of its degradation! To be this image of perfection forever! For that, no cost would be too high…"
She privately agreed. Such beauty deserved to remain untouched by the ravaging of time. With that thought, she recalled a book in the Black library, read in secret as a burgeoning young artist, and a certain spell within. Just a slight alteration to the usual wording could… well, she couldn't imagine a better way to grant the young man his wish.
"The final touch is, of course, the animation. Perhaps the young sir would like to do the honors? Simply touch your wand to the eyes, and I'll take care of the incantation."
Both sighed in admiration as the portrait blinked into awareness and shot them Gilderoy's signature smile. Tears filled Cassiopeia's eyes as she looked between her masterpiece, the greatest work she would ever create, into which she had poured her heart and soul, and the young man who would soon carry it away.
"My dear Gilderoy, you will allow me a visit, won't you? My paints and brushes could never tire of depicting your beauty."
But the old witch was already forgotten. Both Gilderoys' eyes twinkled as they took their leave, the candles flickering in the light breeze from the street until the door creaked shut and once again it was silent.
A/N: This was inspired by the Brit Lit Challenge, and is based on the classic work The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. I had hoped to imitate his style, but I think the long philosophical asides are beyond me. Concrit is always welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own Dorian Gray either, but he is public domain now, and can be used by anyone at their leisure. :)