Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. Draco's paintings are inspired by the artworks of Takato Yamamoto. The short story, "The Oval Portrait", belongs to Edgar Allan Poe.
Warning: Disturbing imagery and allusion to sexual situation.
A/N: Happy Hallowe'en, everyone!
Trompe l'œil
Part II
The smell of coffee preceded the sound of approaching footsteps, yet Albus was in no mood to cover up his little transgression. Staying stock still before the painting that may or may not be a memorial of a past he knew nothing of, he watched Malfoy carry a wooden tray into the atelier. The painter paused for a heartbeat when he saw Albus standing by the easel, though he did not seem angry, merely thoughtful.
Striding across the room, Malfoy placed the tray on the chair, conjured a glass round table, and disposed various ceramic serveware onto the table. The bell-like chime of ceramic and glass complemented his voice. "I presume you are the kind of person who, when given a box you are not supposed to open, would open it as soon as no one is watching."
The ghostly singing of a certain someone who was not there passed into silence, but stricken with agitation, Albus took little note of it. "If I'm told what's inside the box, I would think twice about opening it," he replied more testily than he would have liked. "It is my belief that ignorance isn't necessarily bliss."
His mouth curved into a sardonic smile, the artist banished the tray and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Perhaps."
Narrowing his eyes, Albus raised the sheet to the easel. In the next second, however, his arms froze in mid-motion and his mind reeled in confusion. What was once a finished painting of blue set upon the easel had regressed into a sketch that depicted an entirely different scene.
A grand spiral staircase wound downward and lured its sole audience into the heart of its unspeakable secret. On the way down the dizzying structure, he encountered a dismembered human hand resting atop the balustrade, slime dripping down a section of the stairs, and a young woman sprawling listlessly on the steps, holding the skull of some unnamed creature to her bosom. At the bottom of the stairs lay a mammoth black butterfly not unlike the gaping mouth of the beast named Abyss. Driven by morbid curiosity, Albus touched one jet black wing, and the butterfly disintegrated into dust at his fingertips, leaving a void in the womb of the spiral.
The disquietude in Albus' heart morphed into a surge of irritation. Assuming he had not somehow lost his sanity, there were several plausible explanations for what had transpired, one as likely as the next. The room, the butterfly, the song, the vision on the canvas - was Malfoy trying to tell him something? Or were they illusions conjured from the depth of his imagination, amplified by a hallucinatory potion Malfoy might have slipped into his tea?
When he felt Malfoy's eyes on him, Albus tore his gaze from the sketch, pulled the shroud over the easel, and went to the table. On the table were a pot of coffee, a cup, a silver spoon, cream and sugar in separate porcelain jars, and a plate of sandwiches. Candid as his mouth rarely was, his stomach whined in hunger at the sight and smell of food. "You said you didn't know why my father agreed to be your model."
"I can hardly read his mind, Mr Potter." Malfoy took up his place at the cupboard, his back to the unmoving butterfly specimens in their glass shrines. "Please help yourself to the food."
Albus hesitated, for the food might be laced with hallucinatory potion or worse. In the next moment, he stifled his trepidation and sat down at the table. "You are too kind, Mr Malfoy," he murmured. "But surely you have asked him the reason?"
"When needed be, he can be as silent as the dead. Perhaps it was curiosity that compelled him to agree, the same curiosity that compelled you to meet me." There was a note of finality to Malfoy's words, and Albus knew he could get no more information on this subject from the man.
After stirring some cream into his coffee, Albus dared himself to a cucumber sandwich. No untoward taste or smell had sprung out and assaulted his senses; instead, the freshness of the ingredients informed him that Malfoy likely prepared these sandwiches himself. Putting the half-eaten sandwich aside, he drank the coffee, its decadent richness caressing the inside of his mouth like velvet. Fleetingly he wondered if he should ask Malfoy to teach him the fine art of coffee-making.
Look at the skeleton's rags, that lover of his had pointed out to him, a knot forming on his brow when he tasted the coffee Albus had made. They look like the clothes the man is wearing, except in tatters. It makes you wonder if there is a double meaning behind this painting, doesn't it?
Be it the inferno where red candles burnt and a scrawny waif sang his broken nursery rhyme, or the aloof queen who was offered replicas of human organs on silver platters as tokens of love, layer upon layer of contradictions and meanings defined the crooked yet alluring worlds of Draco Malfoy.
Silver rain began to fall outside the window; stillness echoed within the confines of the studio. While Albus ate in silence, he watched his host savour the coffee, but Malfoy was not looking at him. Grey eyes gazed at the dark sky and the turbulent sea beyond the window. A thought came to Albus unbidden. Once upon a time, did his father sit on the same chair, drink the coffee Malfoy had made, and observe the artist from the same vantage point?
A vision of his father's younger self standing by the window flickered before Albus' eyes like a half-corroded film reel. Wiping away the grease on his mouth, Albus turned to his father's former rival. "What was my father like when he was at Hogwarts?"
The expression on Malfoy's face became tinted with an emotion Albus could not quite name. "He was everything I was not, therefore I didn't like him much."
A frown wormed its way onto Albus' brow. The remark had left Albus not a single clue into the labyrinth that was the artist's mind. At length, he rested his arms on the table and turned the cup by its porcelain ear. "Has your opinion of him changed since then?"
"Let me put it this way. Were he to remain the way he was, I would not have asked him to pose for me. Indeed, that painting would have existed in a wholly different form than it is now."
However perplexing it might be for Albus to imagine his father serving as Malfoy's muse, the meticulous depiction of his father being loved by the amorous Death had transfigured the notion into tangible reality. Despite the conflicting emotions inside him, he realised with a start that he would not wish for the painting to be altered in any way. No, perhaps his fascination with the artist's creations, and with the artist himself, had clouded his judgement.
A rush of anger, directed not at Malfoy but at himself, flared up from the depth of his subconscious. Masking his thoughts beneath a facade of composure, Albus relaxed against the chair. "I suppose I should be thankful that such is not the case." He drank another mouthful of coffee. "It took quite a long time for that painting to be shown to the public."
According to the catalogue of Dorian Marlowe's latest exhibition, Eternity was completed eleven years ago, and yet it had never been exhibited before. The time gap was a curiosity in itself. In the past eleven years, several exhibitions featuring Marlowe's artworks had been held. Malfoy had ample opportunities to present that painting to the world should he choose to do so.
There was a flicker in Malfoy's eyes. "That was between your father and me." Malfoy shifted his balance and sat down at the edge of the cupboard, holding the alabaster cup in his hands, hands that had brought countless worlds to life. "How is your father?"
Something inside Albus had cracked open, and a feeling neither quite of malice nor quite of bitterness leaked through the fissure. "He's fine, just busy with work as always. On top of training the Aurors, he's also a guest lecturer at Hogwarts." He paused. "He and my mother were divorced."
"I see." Leaving his cup on the cupboard, Malfoy moved to the window. The shadow of a butterfly fluttered around Malfoy's back before vanishing without a trace. The illogicality of the scene baffled Albus, for considering where Malfoy stood in relation to the light, no shadow of any kind could have touched his back.
Reflex compelled Albus to turn his gaze towards the glass cases on the wall; a swallowtail was missing from the collection. Maybe I'm trapped in one of Malfoy's paintings, Albus thought, a bitter smirk forming across his lips. Weary of the charades and the vision that only he could see, he decided to take the direct approach and courtesy be damned. "He told me about you, but he didn't tell me he posed for you once."
"No, he would not have told you that," Malfoy said, his voice resonated with amusement and an intimate knowledge concerning the Potter patriarch. "You would have asked him why, and he probably couldn't answer."
"I guess he wouldn't." Long and hard Albus stared at the artist and his reflection on the glass. He wished he could see what kind of expression this elusive man wore right now. "You know him quite well."
"Know thy enemy, as the saying goes," was the answer.
Getting out of his chair, Albus went to join Malfoy by the window. With every step he took, the ground shrank and the sea expanded beneath his feet; he was approaching the edge of the world. The ghost in the black suit - his ghost - moved ever closer to the white figure in the glass.
"Surely you were not enemies by the time you asked him to pose for you?" Albus stood beside the artist and fixed his gaze upon the razor-sharp profile. "What was he to you? Was he really just a model who happened to be your old classmate and rival?"
Malfoy tilted his head to regard him, the very image of subdued calm. "Is there any reason for you to believe such is not the case?"
Raindrops splattered against the window and begged to be let in. In his agitation, however, Albus barely noticed the insistent drumming. "When I discovered Dorian Marlowe is your alias in the Muggle art world, I couldn't help but think that the skeleton in the painting represents you."
A curve that was not quite a smile appeared on his host's lips. "Draco Malfoy as Harry Potter's Death, I see. If that's how you want to interpret that painting of mine, you are free to do so."
"I want an answer from the creator himself." Letters from his parents while he was at Hogwarts, always penned by his mother; a light pat on the shoulder that replaced the affectionate hug; the placid smile that seemed to say nothing could rouse one's emotion; those civil yet distant conversations between his parents - these were memories the adolescent Albus had of his father. "That painting was completed eleven years ago, and that was when my father began to change."
When Malfoy said nothing, Albus took a deep breath and continued. "Do you know of a legend about an artist who stole the life of his living subject and bestowed it to his painting? What if it was not only life he could steal, but also the soul?" (1)
"Are you suggesting that I stole your father's soul and embedded it to the painting?" Instead of the indignation Albus expected from the artist, Malfoy looked amused. "A legend is just a legend, nothing more. An artist can replicate the life and the spirit of his subject in a painting, but it is still an imitation. Besides, I'm sure the son of an Auror would know what kind of creature can steal a person's soul."
The condescension was not lost on Albus. While the rational part of him knew Malfoy had a point, the impulsive part of him longed to rip that cool composure of Malfoy's into shreds. "There is an artefact within the Dark Arts called the horcrux, which is created by splitting a person's soul and concealing the fragment inside an object."
The artist raised an eyebrow, the curve on his lips crooked with too many meanings. "Come now, Mr Potter. Before you start accusing someone of a crime, at least make sure the information you have is accurate," he said softly, suavely. "Still, I commend you for your imagination. In that regard, you are like your father."
However disarming Malfoy's demeanour might be, Albus felt a chill running down his spine. A sense of unease coiled itself around his consciousness. The rain, escalating into a downpour, beat against the cottage in a fury, its sound akin to the flapping of a hundred pairs of wings. It reminded him none too pleasantly that he was in a house situated atop a cliff, in the company of a man whose reputation could only be described as a darker shade of grey.
"My apology to you, Mr Malfoy. It was tactless of me to say that without thinking." Albus forced himself to meet the artist's gaze. "But you haven't answered my question. What was my father to you? Or perhaps I should ask, what is he to you?"
Malfoy chuckled as if entertained by the antics of a bright-eyed lad, and the tension in the air was gone. "You said ignorance isn't necessarily bliss. Then there is something I would like to show you." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, though not before he looked over his shoulder at Albus. "Shall we?"
Pressing his lips together, Albus followed the artist into the corridor. For some reason, he felt as though he had walked through this very corridor before, perhaps in a dream, perhaps in another lifetime. The wistful song, once sung by his father, rang in his head and refused to depart; not even the sound of rain could muffle the sombre melody.
Malfoy led him to the end of the corridor, where a blank wall blocked their path. When he murmured something Albus could not hear, the outline of a door emerged from the wall. There was neither a doorknob nor a handle; Malfoy simply pushed the door open and urged Albus inside.
The first thing Albus noticed was the chill that prickled his skin and made him shiver. The second thing he noticed was that the room resembled a gallery. Beyond the skylight and the window was not the dark and stormy sky he had expected, but a mass of pallor that lent a soft pale light to the room. Albus paused; he could not hear the rain striking the skylight. A hush permeated everything in the room as if time had stood still. The notion that this room was isolated from the rest of the world did not ease the anxiety in his heart.
The room was as bare as the atelier; an empty easel, a chair and a mahogany cupboard were the only furniture in the room. On the cupboard was a gramophone, its brass horn shining like a morning glory made of gold. When Albus turned his gaze away from the gramophone, he saw the paintings.
Drawn by a force he could not repel, Albus moved further into the room and inhaled sharply. Hung on the bare white walls were paintings by Draco Malfoy, paintings of a certain somebody. Green eyes gazed out of the artworks as if inviting him to become their comrade. Like a man lost in a maze, he followed along the wall and considered each piece in turn: the little red riding hood waiting in a snowy train station, the youth slumbering inside a cracked egg shell, the siren whose lower body seemed to be devoured by a large fish...
Albus stopped short before a particular piece, which took possession of his mind and would not let go. His expression tranquil, the man in the painting had a hole in his chest as if he was dissected, his flesh peeled away to expose his naked ribcage. However, there were neither blood veins nor internal organs inside the man, who could well be an automaton wrapped in human skin. Floating within the hollow cage of bones was a black swallowtail like the human soul that it was. The eerie, disquieting quality of the piece transcended visceral horror and evolved into a thing of beauty.
So it was you, Albus thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the bewitching piece. He began to understand the true form of the black butterfly he had seen in Malfoy's atelier. Somehow, the swallowtail reminded him of his father. Have you been here all along, even though you've returned to us? Did you show me all those things in Malfoy's studio?
A pair of hands clutched his shoulders from behind like claws and firmly steered him away. His heart beating loudly against his chest, he closed his eyes once before opening them to behold what he had suspected all along. Nevertheless, no amount of mental preparation could lessen the impact of being presented the final piece of the puzzle.
It was a portrait.
The subject was sitting on the sofa, one arm draped casually atop the cushioned back. His visage radiated warmth and affection, yet it was also tinted with a hue of wistfulness and melancholy. Half-veiled green irises, never quite meeting the eyes of the audience, seemed to be staring at something in the distance. A hint of a curve was on his lips, as though in the next second those lips would quiver and form a smile. For one unsettling moment, Albus thought the subject would open his mouth and speak to him, yet the figure in the painting remained silent and motionless.
Woven by brushwork tender as caresses, the subject wore the look of someone who loved and was loved by the artist: bashful, hesitant, yearning, anguished, tender. The moment captured on the canvas was too personal, too real. Even as the indiscreet intrusion into the sacred realm made Albus flush with guilt, a pang of envy pierced through his heart.
A criminal caught in the act, he averted his gaze from the painting, but a pair of arms caught him in a steely embrace. A cold hand grasped his chin and forced him to face the portrait; warm breath teased his neck and, to his disbelief, sent a throb of arousal through his body. A voice, icy and low, whispered into his ear, "Do not turn away. Didn't you say you want to know?"
His resistance forgotten, Albus, hypnotised by the commanding voice, raised his eyes ever so slowly to behold his father's face.
Albus did not remember how long he had stayed in Malfoy's house. By the time he returned to his senses, he was wandering the streets in the rain, holding an umbrella over his head. The sky had completely darkened; streetlight illuminated the drowning metropolis. When he looked at his watch, he realised with a start that the hour was much later than he had expected. He had no recollection of bidding the artist farewell or leaving the cottage; it was as though he had been in a trance. Did the artist give him the umbrella and then send him on his way?
The continuous drumming of rain against the umbrella irritated Albus. When he saw the telephone box across the street, he ran towards it, exciting curses from a motorist who nearly ran him over. Shutting the door behind him, he propped the umbrella against the wall, inserted the telephone card, and dialled his lover's number on impulse. It took several rings before someone answered the phone.
"I-" Albus' voice died in his throat, for he could not articulate what he truly meant to tell his lover. In the end, he took a deep breath and cradled the phone as if it would slip out of his grasp at any moment. "I want to see you right now. Can I come to your place?"
His lover's deep voice trickled into his ear through the earpiece, a voice that brought him back to the ground. "Sure, I want to see you too. There's something I want to give you."
Within the bright darkness beneath his black blindfold, his father's various incarnations and the apparition of Draco Malfoy flickered before Albus' eyes. In a parallel world where he had left behind his flesh and his primal instinct, his lover took him in his arms and lowered him onto the mattress. As he buried his fingers in his lover's hair, he wondered if his father had ever caressed those blond strands of Malfoy's.
Minutes and hours made no difference in the dark. In the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, he had a vision of returning to Malfoy's atelier. He was alone. The black swallowtail, as if guiding him, flew past him and disappeared beyond his line of sight. Propelled by instinct and curiosity, he wheeled around to find someone standing behind the easel. He was about to call out Malfoy's name when he saw a shock of raven black hair and a black sleeve-
Albus woke to the sound of running water, and the vision sank into the dark. Was that the sound of rain, or was his lover taking a shower? Turning to his side in languor, he felt around the empty space beside him, which still retained a shadow of warmth. The fabric smelled of sandalwood and the muskiness of his lover's skin.
When he pulled off the blindfold and dropped it onto the bed, he became once more Albus Potter, the son of the famous Auror. Nevertheless, in his Muggle lover's mind, he was just a young agent who shared his interest in art. The glare of the lamp in the corner hurt his eyes, and it took several beats for his eyes to adjust to the light. The outline of the bedroom came into focus: grey, cool and masculine.
How many times had he stayed overnight in this room, he asked himself. The casual affair between him and his lover had been going on for two years. He knew he was not the only one his lover took to bed, not the one that mattered most to his lover, yet he could not bring himself to end this affair of theirs. Only his brother and his best friend knew about this wretched side of him, and however hypocritical it might sound, he wished to keep it that way.
Albus dragged himself out of bed and threw on his clothes. The clock on the nightstand indicated that the hour was late enough to be called the witching hour, an irony he found marginally amusing. Leaving the mess for his lover to deal with, he padded to the kitchen, where the refrigerator hummed its lullaby in a corner. He opened the refrigerator and found several cans of beer; after a beat, he took out one of the cans.
The sound of running water was replaced by the rumbling of rain. While he nursed his cold beer, he let out a weary sigh and leant against the counter, his mind cluttered with too many thoughts. Whether intentional or otherwise, his father had left a part of himself behind in Malfoy's atelier. How it happened was a question Albus could not answer, but he had an inkling as to why it happened. It was probably the same reason that drove Malfoy to paint the portrait and lock his heart away in the hidden chamber.
Raking his hair in frustration, Albus wondered why his lover was the first person he thought of after what had transpired in Malfoy's house. Was he looking for comfort after having witnessed a certain something that could not be his? Was he seeking for a way back to reality in his lover's arms? Worse still, was he compelled to call his lover because he was swayed by the portrait - and by the artist himself? Irritated, he took another gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth. The beer tasted as sour as his mood.
I have waited for so long. I have watched you for so long. I have admired your art for so long. Now I can finally meet you. Don't turn me away. Don't run away. I love you.
The overhead lamp was switched on, and his lover, the real Daniel Aubrey, sauntered into the kitchen, startling him. "What do we have here? A burglar who is stealing my beer?" With a grin, he took the beer from Albus and finished the rest of the can. After tossing the can into the garbage bin, he kissed Albus, his mouth tasting of mouthwash and alcohol and all things real. "Hello there. I thought you went home."
Recovered from his shock, Albus flashed his lover a smile. "If you are expecting someone in the morning, I'll go now."
There was a frown on his lover's brow. "I didn't say that." When his lover's large hand enveloped his, Albus lost his resolve and let himself be led into the sitting room. In the dimness of the night, the cerulean blue paint on the walls took on a greyish hue. His lover turned on the floor lamp and handed him the parcel that was left on the coffee table. "I found the book you were looking for."
His heart skipped a beat, Albus tore off the tape on the paper bag and shook out the content. A large hardcover book in plastic wrapping slid out of the bag and into his hand; it was the first art book of works by Dorian Marlowe, published some time after Albus was born. Eager though he was to rip the wrapping open and pore over the book now, he restrained himself and smiled at his lover in gratitude. "Thanks. I almost gave up on finding this book."
A smirk played about his lover's fleshy lips. "Anything for you. All you have to do is ask." The older man flopped onto the sofa, his movement careless yet confident as always. "You really like his works."
"Yeah." Albus sat down beside his lover and examined the art book. The cover featured a mandala comprised of a pair of twins, moths and a single white chrysanthemum against a dark background, elegant if subdued for a debut art book. Printed in Gothic gold lettering was the title of the book: Doppelgänger and Other Imitations by Dorian Marlowe. The self-mocking title sounded like an inside joke from a man whose sense of humour was undeniably dry.
"Once you see his works, you won't be able to forget," Albus elaborated. Unless you erase your memory, he added, but he did not speak those words out loud. His lover did not know Albus was a wizard, much less the existence of a world beyond the bounds of art and science.
His lover squinted at the art book with those dark eyes of his. "There's certainly something about his paintings that speaks to one's imagination. What is the meaning behind the image? What is happening behind the scene? What does the title mean? His paintings make you wonder about these things."
"They do, don't they?" Albus slipped the book into the paper bag and put the book on the table. Even though he sat side by side with his lover, he felt a little cold. "It's chilly tonight," he said in deliberate cheerfulness.
His lover raised his eyebrows and gave Albus a quizzical look. "So? You went to see him, didn't you?" Albus nodded without saying a word. "How did the meeting go?"
"It went well, I suppose." Albus paused. "I think I have my answer now."
The artist who had brought out Harry Potter's different personae, the ghost haunting Draco Malfoy's atelier in the form of memories, the father who had become an aloof shadow of his former self, the secret shrine filled with green eyes - the truth brought Albus neither enlightenment nor relief. He had felt betrayed by a father he admired since childhood, but after what he had seen, he did not know what to think anymore.
A sense of emptiness and envy overcame him. Was he envious of the man who had captured a part of his father's soul, or was he envious of the man who had bound the artist in chains that cut deep into his very flesh and bones? How pathetic he was for desiring something he could not have, he mocked himself.
In an attempt to brighten the mood, Albus crooked his head at his lover and smirked. "If you had done a portrait of me, would you lock it up and let no one else see it?"
"A painting is meant to be seen. That's where its value lies. A painting that no one has seen is nothing more than an artist wanking himself." There was an undercurrent in his lover's playful tone. "But if I had done a painting of you, I wouldn't show it to anyone else." Reaching out, his lover brushed his thumb over Albus' silver ear cuff. "After all, I'm not an exhibitionist."
With a flicker, lamplight sprang to life in Albus' flat, illuminating the dark wood furniture and several prints of paintings on the walls. The umbrella was left to dry in the bathroom; the black suit he wore was returned to the cupboard; the window was open to let in the midnight air. After the excitement of the day and the light doze in his lover's bed, all thought of sleep had been driven out of Albus' mind.
Throwing himself onto the sofa, Albus turned his attention to Dorian Marlowe's art book. The book had gone out of print for some time, therefore the one in his hand was a second-hand copy. Nevertheless, other than a slightly cracked spine and some barely visible scratches on the cover, the book was in near perfect condition. He made a mental note to himself; he would treat his lover to dinner next time.
On the cover of the book, the profiles of the twins were like two halves of the same person. As Albus ran his hand over the title, the image of the lonely figure in the white atelier flashed across his mind. Even if Malfoy was the cause behind his parents' divorce, Albus could not bring himself to resent the man. In fact, he was in no position to judge his father or Malfoy, for he was...
Snapping out of his reverie, he let out a breath and dove headlong into the world of Draco Malfoy's alter ego. Looking through the paintings was akin to reading pieces of the artist's memory. What he held in his hand was a record of Malfoy's youth, of those years when Albus Potter as an individual had yet to exist. Perhaps Malfoy's earlier artworks were not as polished, yet they latched onto Albus' mind all the same.
In the next moment, Albus sucked in a deep breath. The sound of rain had faded into a hush; the moist air had sharpened into a chill. As he stared at the painting printed across the page, he could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart.
The painting was titled Samsara, completed before Albus Potter was born. The perspective of the piece was of someone looking through the window and into the room. A young man was prostrate on the bed, his legs crooked like the body of a snake, his eyes gazing steadily at the invisible voyeur. Propping himself up on his elbows, he was leaning over a blindfolded man, whose head was the only visible part of his body in the painting. At the upper corner of the window, an unnaturally large black-and-blue butterfly had plastered itself against the window, while beneath the window sill, poppies bloomed in a riot of crimson. (2)
At a glance, the scene appeared to be that of an intimate game between a pair of lovers. A second look would reveal something more; the bloodstain on the first man's cheek and the greyish hue of the blindfolded man's face spoke of an ominous scenario. It was a technique that Malfoy often utilised in his works, but it was not the reason Albus was plunged into a spiral of disorientation.
Black hair, green eyes, a boyish visage, and a silver ear cuff - Albus was staring at himself, who was in turn staring at him, and the glossy paper the only divide between this world and the other world.
A young man who looks like he's just stepped out of your painting, Malfoy's agent had said to the artist. Perhaps he was not referring to the fact that Albus resembled the man in Eternity; instead, he was talking about the subject in an earlier work of Malfoy's, a piece that was born before one Albus Potter came into existence.
Unconsciously Albus touched his ear cuff, which held an illusion of warmth his cold hand lacked. Malfoy could not have known what Albus Potter would look like as an adult. Even if the artist knew the faces of his parents, it was impossible to guess accurately every little detail. The only logical conclusion would be that Malfoy possessed the Sight.
Nevertheless, he could not stop himself from delving into morbid what-ifs. Did he feel nostalgic about Malfoy's atelier because his other self was born in that place, because in a way, he had seen that room in another lifetime? Absurd though the notion might sound, he could not laugh it off. Trapped in Malfoy's nonsensical maze, he simply did not know what was real anymore.
While he scrutinised the face in the painting, green eyes meeting green eyes, the real gradually melted into the unreal. He was spying on himself, who had discovered his presence. And yet, who was watching whom?
Someone was singing Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight, his voice soft and low as though murmuring into a lover's ear. A moment later, Albus realised the voice belonged to him. His hand hovered above the butterfly in the painting, a black butterfly with blue spots on its hind-wings, caught in the never-ending cycle of rebirths. To his detached puzzlement, his trepidation was no more. A single thought blossomed like a white lotus in the murky darkness of his mind: He wanted to see Draco Malfoy again.
To be continued...
1. The legend is taken from Edgar Allan Poe's short story, "The Oval Portrait".
2. In Hinduism and Buddhism, Samsara refers to the continuing cycle of rebirths.
A/N: This story turns out to be longer than I had originally planned, hence the conclusion will appear in Part 3 instead. It's been a while since I wrote a strange, surreal story, so I'm really having fun writing this story. I have a penchant for messing with a character's head, and Albus has become my latest victim. Thank you very much for reading!