-QLFC S7R2
-Team: Wanderers
-BEATER 1 prompt: Write about a character(s) striving to attain their concept of "perfection" OR write about a character(s) who is usually logical, practical, and systematic meeting someone the exact opposite of them: illogical, impractical, and spontaneous.
-Optional prompts: (word) blazing, (colour) crimson

-word count: ~1320

-Summary: It's tradition among the Black family to have their portraits drawn, and Magenta Comstock's portrait of Cygnus Black is the envy of many people. Oh, if only they knew the dark secret behind such perfection!

A/N For this prompt, I wanted to write something about a painter and stumbled upon Magenta Comstock. According to HP Wiki, she "was a witch and experimental artist, whose portraits' eyes not only follow the viewer around the room but also follow them home." I found the idea intriguing.

Many thanks to my wonderful team and Captain Jet for their help and support, and to Aya for beta'ing!

Warning! T-rated for murder, character death, and mild goriness.

"Magenta." Cygnus, punctual as always, pressed a kiss to her lips as soon as she opened her front door, barely leaving her the time to look at him. Which was unusual—he basked in the attention Magenta lavished on him. That was what had made her want to keep him around while she experimented with various styles; he was so good at sitting for a portrait that had been in progress for more than three years now. Head held high, shoulders straight, muscles tense, eyes like burning embers—he never got tired.

Magenta had been struggling with this portrait more than she usually did. She was torn between the desire to enjoy this man's company for longer and the need to exploit him to paint a perfect portrait, one worth being handed down to posterity. But even her finest paintbrushes, made with ostrich eyelashes, and most expensive pigments couldn't do justice to his kindling eyes.

Cygnus breaking away from her brought her back to the current situation. The kiss had been brief, to avoid being carried away, but that didn't mean it had been a cold, detached thing. It puzzled her how Cygnus could be so proud and blazing with passion at the same time. How his chin could be so strong and his nose just that bit impertinent—yet another thing she wished she could capture on her canvas.

"Oh, Magenta," Cygnus said with a sigh.

She looked up at him, tracing her finger along his jawline. "What is it?"

There was veiled sadness in his eyes.

"You have to complete your portrait soon. My wife has been growing suspicious." He sounded both sorry and offended, as if the particular attention he suddenly received from his wife was beyond what was licit.

Magenta, hiding her own discontent, took his hand and led him to her studio. South-facing, it was always bathed in sunlight—light exposure was everything when it came to painting or sculpting.

.x.

Frowning, Magenta peered at Cygnus and then scrutinized the portrait that was floating in front of her—the skin was too pale, the colors too faded. Yet oil paint was still her best chance at giving the subject volume and luminosity.

She dipped her brush in the warm, bright red on her palette, aiming to add some rosiness to his cheeks. In reality, his face was indeed almost white, but she—and perhaps she alone—had seen him blush, so she carefully brought her brush to the portrait, adding a shadow effect to each stroke. Cygnus was holding his head higher than usual to mask his sorrow, thus allowing the sun to highlight his prominent cheekbones, and she wanted to capture that effect.

Next, she reworked on his ears and hair, but her mind was focused on his eyes. She still didn't know what to do with them. She had already used titanium to sharpen the edges of his eyes and bring some glow to them, but those silver irises—there was no established glazing mixture for silver, no spell, so she had just been working with every hue of gray she could think of. Even using silver leaf to no avail.

She was upset and frustrated. The atmosphere seemed to be lacking something. Some missing detail prevented her from being inspired.

She cast a swift, analytical glance at Cygnus. He sat still and upright. A little, haughty smile was on his lips, but his eyes, though hit by blazing sunlight, didn't speak of fire and storms as she knew they could. It was his fault. Those unpleasant feelings she had were due to him, to his soul not being here. He looked at her with adoration, but it wasn't enough.

She added another layer to his lips—alizarin crimson was perfect to deepen the crevices on his lower lip.

It was then, her vision filled with red, that an epiphany on how to refine this portrait dazzled her, a simple plan involving a few tender words. She knew Cygnus was too proud to take such a huge, vulnerable step. He'd need some encouragement to say what Magenta wished to hear.

"Cygnus," she said.

He arched his eyebrow, not losing his pose. "Is something wrong?"

She chuckled lightly. "Not at all, my dear Cygnus! In fact—" Magenta took a deep breath. "—I just wanted to tell you I love you."

As soon as those words were out, his face lit up, making his eyes sparkle. His features seemed to be reflecting hers, his happy feelings echoing hers. For different reasons, of course. She was foretasting perfection, while he basked in her words.

His irises were glowing, dense with love. He braced himself for the briefest moment, then he surrendered. "I love you too, Magenta. My heart and soul are yours."

Magenta's eyes widened. Those words, gifted to her with such ease—she didn't expect it, yet she couldn't hope for a better outcome.

"Do you mean that? Truly mean that?" she asked in awe.

"Always."

At this, a gust of wind penetrated the room, making the dark curtains billow. Cygnus shivered, but Magenta, she didn't feel cold.

Her mind ablaze, she stepped closer to him, cupping his cold face with a hand and leaning down, her lips parted, as if to kiss him. Her free hand slipped in her pocket, brushing her wand, but it was a blade she drew, the same she used to tear her canvas with when trying to convey the need of going beyond in the search for infinity. Plus, when she had started mixing materials in her paintings, not sticking to just one technique, she had discovered that fresh blood was the right hue of crimson for the final layer of glazing on oil portraits that needed to be brought to life.

She stabbed him. Right through the heart.

Not a sound escaped Cygnus, except for his last breath, warm on her lips like a kiss.

She looked at his face. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't struggled, so an air of mystery, allure, and regality was still embodied in his features. The corners of his lips were slightly pulled up into a smile. His eyes, while lacking life, blazed with love.

It was perfection, frozen in time, and it was hers. His soul was hers to do as she wished with it.

Washing her hands, Magenta picked up her paintbrush and resumed her work.

"My dear Cygnus, I gave you a new life. Be happy, because your past life was beneath you, and now, look at you. No one will be able to admire you without feeling breathless," she said as she added the last strokes and embellishments to the portrait. "The attention you craved for so much will be lavished on you by everybody, and you'll be something to wonder at and revere. Be pleased, then, with our secret, and keep it to maintain intact your charisma."

She had always hated that portraits didn't exclusively depend on the artist's skills, but the sentient part of them was up to the witch or wizard painted. Not this one.

She stepped back and admired it. What would be her greatest work was almost finished.

Magenta washed, cleaned, and dried her brushes and palette. Then, she kissed Cygnus' cold lips and banished his body to a far-away location, before vanishing the blood from her studio. These were difficult times, with war threatening to break out. No one would be surprised that such an important leading figure as Mr. Cygnus Black had gone missing—it was well known he had many enemies, after all.

Looking at those silver irises on her canvas, she came to stand an inch away from the portrait once again and exhaled on it.

She watched, fascinated, as those painted eyes grew intense and aware and alive, following her every movement, his lips fixed into a knowing smile, never to be parted.

Yes, she thought, he would keep this secret.

The secret of their love.

The secret of his murder.