*Rating: this feels like a Pg:13
*Pairing: yup HARRY/ DRACO all the way baby *sticks out tongue* they're not underage, so there. It *is* slash ppl I cant make that any clearer. Plz if u don't like it – don't read it.
*Summary: it's 7th year and two people are in love, but neither know it. They both have one last chance. Will they take it?
*Feedback: plz plz plz plz plz plz plz if you read it tell me what you think???? I REALLY need the encouragement =P thanx muchly
*Thanks to: Fanny_chan and Aezy who I love beyond all reason coz they review *all* my chapters. Special merry Christmas to you both. One more chap . . tomorrow I promise – its already midnight here.
*In general – I love all my reviewers =D you cant no how much ur reviews brighten my day, really, ppl tend to look at me a little strangely when I dance around the room huggin myself . . but its worth it =D MERRRRRRRY XMAS!!
A/N – tis the night before Christmas!!!! Woop and I have 2 chapters to write *faints* oh dear.
- um these two chapters are probably gonna b pretty long coz I cant work out where to break them up and this seemed the easiest way.
- I hope you all enjoyed this story, I did. I love writing so dw there will b more from me. I have one story to finish then im starting a Hermione/Draco story called Mistaken Identities. Then a few other ideas I have *grins evilly*
- Im not very happy coz fanfiction.net is messing with my formatting gggggrrrrrllllll and *Y* are the spaces between the paragraphs so very big? Hmmmmmm . . . lmao
- OMG don't u love this – I figured out how to get normal spacing on the second last chapter -classic
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~ A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words ~
The hall quieted as Dumbledore rose from his at the high table, standing tall and poised, gracefully waiting for silence to fall before speaking. In respect, all student chatter was finished and every eye turned towards the ancient but still powerful figure of the headmaster. Smiling down at the young faces gathered before him, Dumbledore cleared his throat to begin.
"Girls and boys, today is a very special day indeed." There was a twinkle in his eye as he noted the different reactions to this announcement. "Today, it is exactly one month since I stood here and made an announcement of the Hogwarts Art Competition. As I said that day, the prize is 100 house points for the best piece. All the entries for this competition have been gathered and we will now announce the results. . . . Miss Lorrel, if you would do the honours . . ."
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Draco sat stunned. He had completely forgotten about the painting, about the whole competition. When he had seen Harry embracing Hermione, it had – slipped his mind . . . just like the painting had slipped from his hand. Oh Dear Gods! The painting was lying in some long, lonely stone corridor somewhere . . .if he was lucky . . .and it hadn't been peed on by Mrs. Norris . . .that cat was rather fond of marking its territory. Unnoticed by the crowd around him, Draco brought a hand up to cover his mouth. OH! His masterwork was lost . . . and there was no chance of entering it in the competition *now* they were announcing the results for the gods sake. Sadly, Draco put aside his last – almost forgotten – hope and tried to concentrate on what Miss Lorrel, the competition co-ordinator was saying.
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Harry sat completely still in his chair, remembering. The joy he had felt when he thought of a last chance to win Draco. The hope he had for the future. The rage he felt towards the people who had hurt Draco. The pain he felt when he learned that he was one of those people. The confusion about *everything* and then . . .the painting. It had been special – magical, wonderful, a true representation of his love but he just didn't have the courage to use it. He was a coward and he had failed, passed up the last chance. All was lost. Even though the thoughts were a tad melodramatic, Harry knew it was true. He had left the painting on his bed-side table, neglecting to enter it out of fear and now it was too late. Somehow, he just knew that this competition had meant something special, that it truly *was* his last chance . . . no longer. Quietly mourning his love, Harry shook himself, focusing on the high table, just a little bit curious as to who had actually won the competition.
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" . . .Thankyou Headmaster. Well, we've had a pretty good selection of entries this year . . . probably the prize" here she paused for the appropriate subdued laughter before continuing on "Most of the entries were beautiful, I am so proud of all of you who put in so much the thought and effort, unfortunately there were a few rather tasteless entries submitted, I suspect as a prank . . . Misters Crabbe and Goyle and Mr. Finnegan – could I please see you after breakfast, thankyou" While everyone looked suspiciously to the three boys mentioned, Miss Lorrel searched the pocket of her robes for a piece of parchment "Um let me see . . . Yes! Now the moment you have all been waiting for – the winner or should I say winners of the competition. You see we received two entries at the last minute, both are incomparable pieces, stunning really and we just could not choose between the two. I am actually quite happy with this decision as the two paintings seem to be part of a set, though both are obviously by different artists, and it would be a shame to split them up. Now unfortunately both paintings were submitted without an artists signature so at first we were confused as to who would receive the house points. Finally we decided that because the artists obviously did not wish to make themselves known, we would simply award the points to the subjects of the paintings, as they are both portraits . . ." The crowd went a little wild at this point, expectant and delighted by the mystery, they called out to know who it was, some calling out that it was them, just generally a lot of encouraging noise. . .
"Could Mister Draco Malfoy and Mister Harry Potter please come up to the high table, 100 house points both to Slytherin and Gryffindor!!!" In the all the excitement, the cheering of the crowd and the loud congratulations on both sides, no one noticed the poleaxed expressions of both the boys nor the question that appeared in two beautiful sets of eyes when they locked together - what the hell was going on?
When both the boys arrived at the high table, they were both told to stand next to a different cloth covered object. They waited patiently as Dumbledore once again stood, this time to utter a charm to remove the coverings simultaneously. Staring out at the crowd, they had a perfect view of the faces of their fellow students as the coverings disappeared. Both boys were too scared to look at the painting, afraid of what they would see, and when they saw the completely shocked looks on the faces of the other students, they both fought the urge to flee, turning to stare at each other before finally looking at the paintings standing oh-so-innocently next to them . . .
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Draco looked to the artwork before him, and it was like looking into a mirror . . . a very flattering mirror. Every stroke of the painting glowed with emotion, love and respect, happiness, hope, trust and so much joy. He stood out against the background of lush grass, towering trees . . . wild flowers . . . whoever had painted this painting had painted him in The Grove. How could the artist know about the grove? He had thought he was the only one. It was a perfect representation of that heaven, his haven - perfect and beautiful - just as he remembered it.
Draco stood speechless, his eyes glued to the canvas, flying from one part to another, drinking it all in. The light was so warm, so realistic, the beautiful background so stunning that it made him want to reach out and touch it, to somehow melt through the canvas and become of the world captured there. The painting was truly magnificent, depicting a heaven, a picture of perfection. And the artist had chosen to put Draco there – standing in the middle of The Grove – surrounded by all that beauty, a part of it forever at least in the painting.
Draco felt tears burning in his eyes as he beheld the painting, someone had painted this for him, he didn't know how, but they *had* and that was enough. The painted Draco stood out from the background, totally opposite to his surroundings, but somehow an important part of the whole piece, completing it. The way the artist had portrayed him was . . . stunning, Draco knew that the way he was painted was not what the world saw but instead exactly what he wanted to be. The artist knew him, understood him and obviously cared for him or at least about him . . . for some reason.
Draco stood in the warm sunlight, pale as the moon, almost glowing. His face was open and friendly, unafraid and trusting, as if the whole word was his friend and no one could ever hate him. Looking at the representation of himself, Draco almost believed that for a second, the image was so powerful. His hair was a thousand different shades of pale blond, shinning in the sun like white-gold, rich and beautiful. It framed a pale face, not sickly but porcelain smooth, exquisite, it made him want to reach out and touch it, unaware of his own action, Draco's hand ghosted across his own pale cheek like a remembered caress.
His image's eyes were wide with wondrous discovery delight in everything he saw, warm and shadowed with love and secret emotions, they were a melting, liquid silver, beautiful. He had a smile on his face, warm and welcoming, sensual and sensuous, curving with secret knowledge, barely hidden laughter. His head was tilted ever so slightly to one side, as if pondering the secrets of the universe, denoting a fierce intelligence and curiosity that was echoed in the warm silver eyes.
He stood arms outstretched as if waiting to embrace a loved one, and everyone who looked upon his felt that they were loved and welcomed. Flowing blue robes billowed out from his slim body, as if blown in a warm breeze. The robe shimmered and moved like water around his form, so many shades of blue and green, aqua, sapphire, cerulean, cobalt, azure all the colours of the oceans, the rivers, the still lakes, the mountain streams, the secret hot springs, beautiful. It was as if all the ice he had surrounded himself in had melted, flowing away from him, clothing his form, baptizing him, absolving his sins.
Over all the painting was simply incomparable, to Draco it meant the world, it meant that *someone* cared enough to know him, to paint him, to do this for him. Shaking Draco thought that even if no one else loved him, this person did, loved him like he loved Harry. Harry. No. It couldn't be . . . that – would be *too* good, too perfect, a miracle and it just wouldn't happen, not in the real world. That kind of magic didn't exist . . . did it? Hoping despite his disbelief, Draco casually tried to turn his head to glance at the boy next to him.
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When Dumbledore removed the coverings, Harry hesitated before turning around to look at the painting behind him, and it was like looking into a mirror . . . a very flattering mirror. Every stroke of the painting glowed with emotion, love and respect, happiness, hope, trust and so much joy. The artist had put so much into this painting and Harry's heart ached with gratitude, it truly was a beautiful thing, a masterpiece, indescribable and it was all for him, or at least it seemed that way. This painting was an expression of someone's emotions, and they harmonized with Harry's own so beautifully that he wondered if he had a twin around here somewhere . . . except this person felt that way about *him* not Draco, and that was all very well because if this person had painted a painting like this of Draco, Harry would be forced to do that person grievous bodily harm. Or at least scare them a little.
Harry was painted against a background so stunning, incredibly beautiful, that it seemed like it could not be real, but the enchanting detail made it seem real enough to touch, almost like he could step through the canvass and enter this world, this beautiful place, this heaven on earth. The verdant grove . . .it seemed familiar somehow, like he had been there before . . .oh gods! It was Draco's grove. Harry felt the tears welling in his eyes. The artist had painted him in Draco's grove, a part of it forever, a part of Draco's secret place and therefore a part of Draco. Forever. It was the greatest gift that Harry had ever received, more than compensating for years of toothpicks and hand-me-down socks. His eyes glued to the painting, Harry tuned out the rest of the world, completely absorbed in this glimpse of heaven that was all for him.
The Grove was wondrous, towering, ancient trees, clinging vines, lush grass and wild flowers all illuminated in the pale glow of moonlight, shimmering and glinting off everything, brilliant colours obvious even in the darkness, it was bright even though the only light was from the moon and millions of glittering stars against the sky, diamonds on black velvet. The moonlight seemed to flow around The Grove, almost liquid, touching everything, the shadows only darker but not unknown, nothing to fear in this grove only safety, peace, and love.
Having taken in the wonder of the background, Harry moved on to the focus of the painting, slightly hesitant to find out how the artist had chosen to represent him, wondering if he would do it as well, as truthfully as he had the rest. And his breath caught in his throat. His image was not what he allowed the world to see, it was what he wanted to be, everything he hoped he could be, the painted Harry seemed to exude love, strength, faith, courage and so many other things that he found so difficult but wanted so badly. The artist was either a mind reader or had the gift of sight, no one knew him like this. No one had ever really wanted to. Wanted to know him, to understand him, to love him. To love him like he loved Draco.
The painted Harry stood out from the background, totally opposite to his surroundings, but somehow an important part of the whole piece, completing it. He was a bright, warm being, surrounded – illuminated - caressed by cool moonlight. He radiated warmth and light, his whole being alive with love, vibrant life and secret knowledge. Harry's Eyes moved from the top of his images head, to its toes drinking it all in, all his nerves on sensory overload. He was beautiful, the artist obviously thought that and . . . for a second Harry almost believed it too.
His hair was not just black, the moonlight struck extraordinary colours from it, every shade of brown, rich and warm, golds and coppers, rich reds and hints of so many unnameable shades, making what eh had always thought of as a mess into the richest silk, alive with colour and texture. This living silk framed a face, golden and slowing like the sun, warm, making all who saw it want to reach out and touch it, to feel that heat, that glowing bronze satin. His cheeks held a light flush, as if surprised, exited, happy and healthy . . . in love.
It would be a blatant, inexcusable understatement to call his eyes "green". They were shimmering pools of every shade imaginable - emerald, jade, olive, lime, the green of the deepest, warmest, secret oceans, the verdant green of the rainforest, the bright green of new grass, shimmering, flowing, twin kaleidoscopes of colour. Thick, dark lashes framed the eyes, managing to seem at the same moment both wide open and coyly lowered, hiding mysteries unknown.
His smile was bright and gleeful, as if everything amused him, nothing could cast a shadow on his happiness. That smile invited people to share his joy, his delight in life and love, to share in all the good things in life and taste heaven, experience the ecstasy of true love, the elation that true happiness could bring. His head was tilted back, as if trying to see as much of the world at one time as he could, trying to see everything, and experience and enjoy, caught in rapture, on the verge of a rich laugh, marvelling at his luck.
He stood arms outstretched as if waiting to embrace a loved one, and everyone who looked upon his felt that they were loved and welcomed. Robes billowed out from his muscular form, like living flame they flowed around him in the moonlight, all the colours of a raging sun, of a candle flame, of the fire at the centre of the earth, red, crimson, scarlet and ruby, orange, carrot, auburn and ginger, gold, saffron, lemon and buttercup. Flames that flowed from his being as if absolving him, burning away the sins, the pain, the lies, leaving his to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, reborn strong and pure, beautiful.
Staggering back a little, Harry fought to take it all in, the painting just gave him an incredible impression of love and trust, faith, and everything that he so desperately needed. Someone had cared enough to paint this for him, to put so much effort, so much feeling so much *soul* into this masterpiece. And that meant the world to Harry. This painting was an embodiment of love, the forever kind of love, the kind of love he felt for Draco. Draco. It couldn't be . . . that – would be *too* good, too perfect, a miracle and it just wouldn't happen, not in the real world. That kind of magic didn't exist . . . did it? Hoping despite his disbelief, Harry casually tried to turn his head to glance at the boy next to him.
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TBC.
Gaaahhhh that was long . .*pout* its 1 o'clock on Christmas eve and im sitting at my computer doin this for you . . .i hope u all appreciate ur gift =D merry xmas!
Im sorry it took a little longer than I thought, I had to do all this last minute stuff (cleam the floor, do the dishes, wrap presents, decorate, put away the food, make the little Christmas pudding things . . .you know . .just last minute stuff.)
For ne one in australia happy xmas as it is now one hour into the 25th! Did u watch carols by candle light? Hehehehe
For everyone else im no good with time differences so merry Christmas for whenever yours is!
;) AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT! Dream happy dreams (day dreams if its actually the middle of the day wherever you are) of Harry and Draco and how they get together in the next chapter!!!!! MWUAHAHAHA *wiggles eyebrows* till tomorrow then.