This idea just came to me, and I decided to make it into a one-shot for now. If it gets a lot of hype, I might continue it. Might. I adore the idea of unrequited love, painting, and thought. By the way, I am an artist myself – probably why I identify with our artist so well. I wanted to leave you guessing as to who he is for a while. I hope you enjoy it.
Summary: An artist's thoughts of himself and his subject, his unrequited love for Hermione Granger, and the impossibility of his own love life to that of his subject, Severus Snape.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters. I wish I were richer than the queen, but le sigh. It is not to be, least not yet.
Spiritus Compleo
People don't often realize how much work it is to be an artist. The passion, the drive, the infernal inner sufferings that never leave one alone. You realize that every major artist in the last century have been depressive, manic, drunk, or drugged whilst producing their best works? Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, Vincent Van Gogh fucking sliced off his own ear, God damn it!
So where did he, as a magical portrait artist, stand in this long line of depressed, drunk, drugged artists? Where do he lie in it?
Paint smeared delicately over his newest piece's jaw, mixed with the man's blood. His own dark skin was spattered with umber, cadmium red, and gesso. That most brilliant of reds smeared around his wrist with the umber. It looked like he was bleeding.
Carefully, he dabbed at the still-wet acrylic away in quick, sure strokes. The color smeared beautifully, bringing out the jaw with the purple-black shadows of the piece's neck.
The piece was a commission for one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, for one of the most important people in the British Isles. It was for the new Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The image was of the building's most short-lived Headmasters in the history of its running.
Headmaster Severus Snape did not glare out of the portrait, as many other artists who'd known him might have done. No. The artist painted Severus Snape with the reverence he deserved, with the light in his coal-black eyes that had been last seen on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.
Our artist had not seen him. Oh, no. But he could picture it. He, too, had lost a loved one, had lost her to another man without trying. He choked back a sob. How could he have not seen the similarities while this man had been alive? How could he have not seen the pain, the agony of knowing that another man had taken your woman – and for that had lost her life?
How cruel life seems at times. The artist sighed and grasped his smallest brush, a brush that had no more than three or four fine horse tail hairs to make it. Our artist used both magic and Muggle devices for his work – he being Muggleborn, after all. There were rumors he was actually half-blood, but he paid it no mind. His father was his father, regardless of blood association.
The palette had already been smeared with mixtures long already used, but he just joined them together with a touch of titanium white. It became the perfect blend of whites and blues and purples, perfect for highlighting the late Severus Snape's black hair. Gently, like a lover's caress, his dark hand moved with the brush. He sighed softly, leaning over the three-foot canvas.
A soft sound came from behind him just as he completed the deceased hero's lank hair. The artist turned around and smiled at his tiny assistant.
"What do you think, Dennis?"
"He looks perfect," breathed the small man. "Just like I remember him."
"Only without a scowl?" asked the artist playfully.
The tiny man nodded emphatically. "He looks… handsome without it. You know?"
The artist only smiled sadly. "I wish he were alive."
Dennis' small hand touched his shoulder. "I know. We all wish he were. Then we could have thanked him properly, like you have."
The artist shook his head. "I wish I could… I could have asked him about his love for a woman who married another. At least… at least he didn't have to deal with living with her gone like I do." The artist's dark face streaked with tears, a droplet of which landing on the portrait's dry feet. He sniffled and gently wiped away the teardrop with a cloth. "The painting is done. You want to help?"
"Would I ever!" Dennis grinned excitedly. He pulled his wand from his paint-splattered robes, holding it at ready while his master more slowly raised his own.
"Ready?"
"Yeah. On count of three?"
"Count of three."
The two men counted together in perfect unison, as they had done this many times before with many other war heroes. The spell to bring portraits to life was said to capture the essence of the spirit from the beyond. Our artist often wondered at the validity of this, since the deceased You-Know-Who had split his soul, and he'd stayed alive for it.
"Three. Two. One. Reservo Spiritus!"
At once, the portrait sprang to life. However, where Dennis had anticipated that Snape would immediately go back to his old stern scowl, he instead only smirked. The artist and the apprentice tentatively smiled back at their old Potions professor.
"Hi, Professor Snape," Dennis said. "Welcome to the land of paint and plenty."
"Mr. Creevey." The old professor inclined his head. He looked so much younger without his telltale scowl in place. He turned to the artist. "So, it is you who painted me."
The artist murmured. "I was the one that Harry Potter approached for the commission, yes. We're to deliver you to his office now."
"Harry Potter is the Headmaster?" Snape scowled, and Dennis and the artist felt better to see this glimpse of the old man. "Well, can't say he doesn't deserve it." He said this bitterly, with an edge of resentment.
Dennis and the artist gently packed Snape's portrait up inside of a box. "Just for a bit, sir, so that we don't hurt your frame."
The apprentice Flooed first. The artist sighed and looked back to where the painting had been setting for nearly a year now. It was the very last of the war heroes, though this portrait would also serve as Snape's Headmaster portrait. The artist picked up the sole remaining photograph of the venerable forty-something, the photo he'd drawn the larger portrait to.
It was a picture that Colin Creevey himself had taken, much to Dennis' delight and depression. The artist whispered a copying spell for himself – he planned on painting another portrait of the old Headmaster for the Weasleys. It was the least he could do for his lost love. She had, after all, always said that they should have respected him.
"Professor Snape," she had always corrected them.
The artist sighed and Flooed into what had once been Dumbledore's, Snape's, and McGonagall's office. Now it was Potter's. Severus Snape was already hung beside Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. He was already being accosted by both the tartan-wearing old woman, and the moon-and-star bedecked old man.
Harry Potter clapped the artist on the back, a broad smile on the twenty-nine-year-old's handsome cheeks.
"You did good on him. He really does look like him," said Harry. "I'm so glad we finally found that photo."
"Me, too," said the artist with a smile.
Harry grinned. "Now, I hear you're still single! C'mon, then, I have someone I'd like you to meet."
The artist groaned. "No, Harry, please, just let me be."
Harry scowled – the look didn't suit him whatsoever. "Dean Thomas, if you don't get a girl soon, you'll never get one."
Dean smiled sadly. "I lost my 'one' to marriage ten years ago, Harry. I've got my friends, Dennis is nearly done with his apprenticeship… I'm good. Really."
Dean, our humble artist, left the castle by foot. It was summertime, so no kids were there to hassle the nearly-thirty man. He walked the old familiar path to Hogsmeade, into the old familiar Three Broomsticks. Even Madam Rosmerta was familiar, though she had aged and no longer flashed her bosom, as the poor dogs had sunk long ago.
"Give us a spot of Firewhiskey, love," Dean said, sliding onto the stool.
Madam Rosmerta poured him two fingers of the amber liquid, then returned dusting up the shop. A few moments later, another old familiar face slid into the stool beside him. The faraway look on Luna Lovegood's pearlescent face had faded over the years, leaving a much more reasonable young woman.
"Mr. Thomas, fancy seeing you here," said Luna, her tone mirthful.
"Miss Lovegood, likewise," Dean said, giving her a companionable one-armed hug. "I thought you were up in Romania with Charlie."
"Oh, that old sod?" Luna snorted. "Not bloody likely. We broke up damn near seven years ago."
Dean chuckled blithely. "Apologies, I don't keep up much on the gossip circle."
"Too busy getting covered in paint even to take time to wash it off before coming to a pub?" Luna snickered, gesturing to the cadmium red, gesso, and umber smears still all over his hands. "I understand. I'm buried in my work, too."
"Oh, really? What do you do now?"
"Didn't you hear?" Luna blinked. Dean was caught by how her lashes were the same pale blond color as her hair and brows. "Hagrid retired this past year. I'm taking over for him as Keeper of the Grounds and Keys, and as Care of Magical Creatures."
"No, I didn't," Dean admitted. He raised his paint-spattered hands by way of explanation.
"I did hear something about you, though," Luna said contemplatively.
"Oh?"
"Why didn't you take the chance to become the first Hogwarts Art professor?"
Dean sighed. "I… I don't know."
"Afraid you won't be able to teach something so…?"
"Subjective?" Dean supplied. "Yeah. Plus, what the hell do I know about teaching?"
"Think of it this way," Luna said. "You can teach them about themselves better than I could ever do, teaching them about the animals of our world. That's more important I think than anything else."
Dean sighed. "I know, but…"
"But what?"
Dean grit his teeth. For once, for bloody fucking once, he was going to be honest with someone. "Ever since Seamus left for America, I've been alone. Then Dennis came along, and I taught him the trade, but he'll leave again soon. I don't think I could deal with someone else leaving me again."
"Then don't worry about it," she said. "Cause I won't leave Hogwarts. It's my home again. And Harry's not leaving it; nor is Hermione."
He smiled softly. "Yeah… I guess you're right."
"Tell you what," Luna said, tossing back the rest of his Firewhiskey without a bat of her blond lashes. "You come up and tell Harry that you'll teach it for one term. If you like it, stay. If you don't, leave. Simple."
Dean paid for the Firewhiskey. Luna didn't speak, holding her breath in hopes that he would not say no. She needed him not to say no.
Dean turned to her with a smile. "Okay."
She let out the breath, and grinned. "Good. Let's go tell Harry."
It was the beginning of a beautiful life, indeed.
So, what are your thoughts? Leave it a one-shot?