My Medium is Music

Harry needed to get out. The chasm of despair he'd continued to fall through since the death of Cedric Diggory seemed to go on forever. While the Dursleys complete avoidance of him was appreciated, it meant Harry brooded for over a month (with very infrequent showers) entirely wracked with the guilt over causing his death.

This morning he awoke, not good but better than the days past. Harry had decided that enough was enough. Sitting in the dark brooding did nothing for him and even less for Cedric. With this in mind, Harry snuck off to Diagon Alley.

After gathering up some galleons from Gringotts, Harry decided to explore. Each time Harry had been to Diagon Alley, there was a mad rush to get his school supplies. But now, the streets were positively abandoned in comparison. Decision made, Harry took off towards Flourish and Blotts.

Hermione will be ecstatic the first shop I visited was a bookstore.

Just as he reached the doorway to enter, sunlight glanced off another sign at the corner of the next street.

Blinking, Harry read

Musices

est. 1994

The windows to the shop were high upon the walls making it impossible for Harry to know what lay inside.

Something compelled him to check it out. He walked over and with the greatest of hesitation, he pulled open the door to find one of the messiest rooms he'd ever been in. A layer of dust seemed to cover everything. There were crates strewn about in such a chaotic manner that Harry wondered if it had somehow gone so far into chaos it became ordered.

And yet, the light from those high windows provided a soothing ambiance to the room. Harry's shoulders relaxed and some of the guilt and grief taught between his shoulders seemed to loosen. Deciding to actually look at what the store had to offer, Harry walked over to one of the crates. Sliding through he came to the realization that the whole store was selling records.

"I didn't even know wizards used records." He said quietly, but aloud.

"Bonjour" A voice replied.

Harry was startled, immediately backing away from the record he was holding. He twirled around to try to find the source of the voice. He found a woman sat on a table across from him.

She wore a cream colored knit sweater, so long it easily covered her curled legs beneath. The face that peeked out of the sweater was beautifully framed by hair pulled into a messy bun and distorted by the massive glasses she wore.

The adorable curiosity across her face and tilted head were clear to Harry.

"What?"

My Medium is Art

Fleur Delacour has spent her entire 18 years of life of searching. For what exactly is unknown. But there exists a fire within her that can only ever be tamed by her painting.

As a recent graduate of Beauxbaton's School of Magic, Fleur couldn't care less about Gamp's Law. All she's ever wanted, ever needed to was to paint. Her father, Sebastien, a man who's amassed a comfortable wealth promised her a gallery in return for actually graduating.

3 weeks she's been officially open and the gallery has a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and abundance. Walls are decorated with canvases of all sizes and filled every hue imaginable. One area is filled with bold reds and oranges illuminating sunsets which reality could never create. Another holds almost photo like stills of Hogwarts, Beauxbaton's, and the Louvre. Fleur is merely proud of the failures she calls art pieces which have actually sold.

Peeking through a unassuming door in the back lies her studio. Already, paint flecks every surface. Bottles of paint are neatly organized in one corner contrasting to the canvases lay across the floor, hanging on easels, and across tables. This is the greatest external reflection of Fleur's self. A horrible, paint-filled mess lost in a sea of chaos in search of meaning. A constant strive for answers through the words she cannot say, expelled through her brush.

Immersed in another painting, this time of a hyper-realistic Diagon Alley, Fleur does not notice the man who walks into her space.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Fleur looks up to meet the green eyes of the stranger. And that flame, the one that never allows her to rest flares higher than ever before quelling to dull embers.

She must paint him.