Title: Portrait, you say? (part 2 of ?)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, pre-slash
Word Count: ±1,865
Warnings: Unbetaed, post-DH, possibly AU also
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're definitely Ms. Rowling's, I'm just borrowing them for my twisted means.
Summary: They found a painter, but the painter seemed (and sounded) rather odd.
They were right, of course. Almost all self-respecting portrait painters shied away from painting someone so abhorred by the public. Aligning oneself with such a controversial figure might lead to loss of patronage and other important sources of income, especially in the post-war turbulence they were currently in.
And as Draco predicted correctly, promises of Malfoy support and money were met with a wait-and-see attitude, even by the most starving of painters; even those he knew worshipped only Money and feared only Poverty. The Wizengamot was dragging its collective feet in clearing their names. Political negotiations were usually slower than molasses and twice as deadly, Malfoy Senior told his son.
There weren't many good portrait painters to begin with, and they're fast running out of options.
But, in the end, it was Minerva McGonagall who managed to connect with one.
Aled Lliwbrisio was young but had built quite a reputation as an up-coming artist, though not without controversy. An experimental painter, he was considered wild and uncouth, often straying away from the norm and testing the boundaries of the art world, strained already as they were during the Wars. The younger, more progressive set of art lovers welcomed him, though warily; the more conservative ones all but rejected him. It was possibly this underlying trait that made him accept the 'challenge' of painting Snape.
So, it was one cloudy afternoon -- with dark grey monstrous fluff hanging low on the horizon -- that Harry and Draco made their way to Artie Fitch Alley. They walked past galleries, some barely open, some merely empty shells, all victims of war. A torn poster was still trying its best to hang onto a sidewalk wall, advertising some exhibition that never happened. Once a cultural hub of Wizarding Europe, the Alley was now mostly abandoned.
They stopped in front of a red door, defiantly blood red against all the drab greys and sedate browns of its neighbours. Also unlike the rest of the street that had fallen into gross disrepair, this door seemed freshly painted. Draco rang the bell and soon they were shown in by the artist, led into a small parlour at the back of the studio, facing a postage stamp backyard, a young hazel tree growing in the middle of it.
They sat down, and a house elf appeared with cream tea and plain biscuits. The host apologised for the spartan welcome ("business wasn't what it used to be," the artist said); the guests graciously accepted with an it's-all-right and a never-you-mind.
"Everyone believes I'm doing this for the controversy," Lliwbrisio-call-me-Aled said, leaning back into his seat, cradling his tea cup. "Maybe. But only a little." He sipped his tea and looked outside the window with a certain air of contemplation. "That," he said, waving at the general direction of the tree with his tea cup, "is another reason." Another sip. "The red door outside?" he asked, waiting for his guests to nod, "another reason."
"I was sorted Ravenclaw," Aled said, replacing his cup back onto its saucer. "Graduated a year before your entrance. Like you, and many others, I was terrified of Professor Snape. I'm still rather afraid of him, even now. But things alleviated a bit towards my final year."
It was well after curfew when young Aled sneaked out of his dorm room and made his way down to the potions classroom. Professor Snape was not at dinner in the Great Hall for the past three days, and a substitute teacher had filled for his classes the past week. It wasn't an odd occasion, the Professor had gone on errands for the Headmaster before.
This time as well, it would seem. And Aled felt brave enough to traipse down to Snape's domain.
He pushed the classroom door open -- just a tiny crack -- and peeked in. Nobody. He pushed the door wide open, walked in, then closed the door behind him. He went to his usual workbench, the same workbench he'd used since his first year. He laid his books open and quickly took note of all the ingredients he needed.
Once everything was arranged, neatly, meticulously just as Snape would have wanted it, he set to work. Crushed cochineal nymphs, medium-aged Opuntia finely diced, then ground, Devil's coal, distilled Jujube leaves, three-times-processed Late-Season Safflowers, then extract of hongqumi...
So engrossed was he in his task, he didn't realise that he was no longer alone.
He'd only lifted his head for a second, to straighten his back after bending over his chopping board, mortar and pestle; and to wait for the base compounds to reach the desired temperature. He spotted a dark figure in the corner of the classroom and all but jumped out of his skin. His books fell onto the floor and he almost cut himself with his paring knife.
"P... Pro... P... I..." Aled blinked, stammered, shook, felt faint.
But the Professor merely crossed the room, sat on his desk at the head of the class. With a flick of his wand, the class was suddenly bright. "You shouldn't work in the dark," Professor Snape offered by way of explanation, already reaching for the stack of essay scrolls.
Aled, shocked, did not move. His cauldron bubbled and hissed as the base compound boiled furiously.
"You have exactly fifteen seconds before that base die a useless death," the Professor commented, not lifting his eyes from the essay in front of him. "Eight, seven, six... Mr. Lliwbrisio? Time doesn't stop for anyone."
Aled shook himself back into coherency, flicked off the flame and poured the some cochineal mixture in it, stirring it just the way Snape would have prescribed (or at least Aled hoped so).
"That experiment was a disaster," Aled reminisced, offering more tea to Harry and Draco, both declining with a polite nod. "At that time I was still searching for that perfect red dye, the one colour that haunted me, my dreams and my waking light. More red, more vivid, more defiant, warmer than any dye available to the public then. The Professor allowed me my experiments, even after hours, though he would not tolerate me failing in my other classes. 'Minerva and Flitwick would have my head, and the Headmaster would laugh himself silly then', he had said."
"Were you... close to the Professor?" Draco asked.
"Close?" Aled asked back, blue-green eyes narrowing. "In what way? We were never close in any sense other than through scientific curiosity. He was rude, brusque, and unapproachable as ever, but as long as you commanded his professional respect, I guess he's rather tolerable. Our first sign of success arrived a week before the NEWTs were about to begin. It was almost as red as I had hoped, closest to the Red that I'd dreamt of. Then it was time to sit for the NEWTs; then it was time to graduate. I went to the family's summer house and continued my experiments."
"One day, out of the blue, maybe by accident, the most resplendent of reds appeared in my cauldron, and by Merlin it was almost a sacred experience all by itself. I think I cried that day, then somehow found enough of my wits to cool the dye, and send a sample to Hogwarts. He wrote a terribly formal note of congratulations, wrote that he hoped to see the red dye on my works in person. Should I stop being a dunderhead enough to produce worthwhile art."
"I went to the Art Institute, invited him to my final year show but he never showed up. I invited him to my first gallery exhibition, but he didn't show up either. I sent him an invitation to my first solo exhibition, but all he sent me was a small Hazel tree, in a preserving charm, with instructions for its care from Madam Sprout."
At this time, Aled had grown quite wistful. "I invited him to all my exhibitions afterwards but he never came. He never showed up. Never even bothered to reply the RSVP. I guess I've outlived my usefulness by then. Or there were more important things for him to worry about. Or maybe I wasn't important enough for him and his time. Just another student, or some such. Useful only when there's a scientific discovery looming at the end of the rainbow, useless thereafter."
Aled's house elf appeared at this moment, replaced the cooling pot of tea with a hot one, poured tea into each of their cups and left with a soft pop.
"I want to paint his portrait because I want him to see the red I've created. I want him to tell me that he's proud of me, for what I've achieved, though I suppose he'll call me a dunderhead instead." Aled laughed self-deprecatingly.
Harry and Draco sat very still, listening to Aled's grand plan. To draw the man, to get Snape – in whatever incarnation -- to see his student's achievement, and to subvert the art world once more. All in one fell swoop.
Outside, rain had begun to fall.
Aled insisted his two guests to stay for dinner, and stayed for dinner they did. It was a modest fare of potatoes and roast chicken, with a side of garden vegetables. They ate in silence, which was rather awkward, too.
Harry had missed his appointment with Ginny, and surely the girl would be cross at him. Draco didn't have any appointment to miss, but he still wanted to get out of this place. He longed for the open gardens of the manor, to be able to drink his now customary seven o'clock wine, and to retire early to bed. Maybe if they could make up some excuses to leave soon, he could invite Harry over for a game of chess or two.
"Would you like your portraits to be painted as well?" Aled asked, as he ushered his guests to the front door. The house elf was already waiting by the door with their travelling cloaks.
"Not just yet," Draco answered hastily. He'd rather have his portrait done by some respectable painter thank you very much, just as each and every one of the Malfoys since time immemorial.
"No thank you," Harry said, shrugging his cloak around his shoulders.
"Then, we shall take our leave," Draco said, stepping back out onto wet cobblestones. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
"I'll contact you when the portrait is ready for viewing, though you're welcome to drop in any time, to check on progress or look at the process and what not," Aled said, shaking Harry and Draco's hands.
"We'll keep that in mind," Draco said, taking another step back.
"And I do hope the both of you would agree to have your portraits painted. The two of you look a picture together," Aled said, almost introspectively.
Thankfully it was rather dark outside, with only a small number of streetlamps still working, and none within their direct vicinity. It wouldn't do for anyone to witness the matching blushes that appeared on both their cheeks.
"Well, good evening then, Mr. Lliwbrisio," Draco said. Then without waiting for any rejoinder, turned around and made a rather hasty but yet somewhat dignified retreat. Harry nodded at the bemused artist and quickly ran after Draco.
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