Disclaimer: How the bloody hell could I create Harry Potter when I'm still learning English?
Pairings: very mild R/Hr (nothing more than in the books), the rest is friendship (because I support Lone Hero and the Dead Harry Society).
Summary: In his sixth year, Harry finds himself gifted at drawing. However, there is one picture of his godfather that he cannot paint and he determines to perfect it.
Chapter 1
Harry bit his lips and sighed at his creation. Another failure. No matter how many times he painted, it still did not look like him. There was no trace of resembling, or at least that was what he thought. Angrily, he tore out the paper from its spine and crumbled it into a ball, which he forcefully threw in a trash can. He picked up his pencil and began another sketch as his mind wandered.
The summer after his fifth year had been misery. Harry had, at first, denied Sirius' death through delusion, claiming that his godfather had simply been on the run. Ron and Hermione had been frustrated to no end and had begged Dumbledore for Harry to visit the Burrows much earlier, in hope they would be able to help him in person. A miracle had happened, and Harry had been back to normal, or as normal as possible.
Harry formed a small smile at his memory. He would have been lost if not for Luna Lovegood. Her share of losses and her serene had calmed Harry. With her, his burden became less heavy and his loss was less traumatic. Perhaps, Harry thought with another smile, he had been too busy pondering over Heliopath and Blibbering Humdinger (or was it Nargle?) to have time for self-reproach.
After he had accepted Sirius' death, Harry followed Hermione's advice to write his feelings on parchments. Ginny had protested, saying it would not do Harry any good and reminded him of Riddle's diary in her first year. Hermione had won, of course, but soon, Harry grew tired of writing and switched to painting, which he quickly became passionate.
He had bought a set of muggle instruments and books on drawing techniques. He would exhaust his entire morning and afternoon for sketching and painting. Ron had been horrified since his best friend was spending less time with him, yet Hermione had been there. Ron and Hermione had gotten closer during those times, but they would blush prettily and deny if anyone ever said they were a couple.
Time passed, and now it was near the end of Harry's sixth year. His skills had improved tremendously, and although his paintings could not move or rival those of professionals' in beauty, they were living. One could actually feel his artwork pulsing with emotions and could hear the people inside talking.
There was one picture Harry could never perfect. He had started painting it since the summer. Everyday he would add a little more details, and after a while he would tear it off. Then he would start over again. It had been nine months since that day, and he had made very little progress.
Harry shook his head to clear off the memories, put down the pencil, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Some dust had gotten into his eyes and they pricked uncomfortably. He closed his sketchbook, not bother to see what he had created, and went off to bed.
A few weeks went by, and Harry again was found sitting in his usual chair, in the common room, painting. It was almost midnight, and all the Gryffindor had gone to bed. Like every other night, Ron and Hermione insistently stayed with him. Though he never said it, they knew he did not want anyone to look at his unfinished work, and they respected his wish. They simply sit there next to each other on the couch, relaxingly watching his hands' graceful movement. Once they had fell asleep with Hermione's head was on Ron's shoulder while his hand wrapped around her protectively. Harry had not failed to capture this beautiful moment.
After a while, Ron and Hermione went off to bed. Harry diligently worked on his creation with rapt attention. He had not noticed the time, but when he finished and looked at the time, it was five in the morning.
Harry moved a few steps away from the table. He spelled his sketchbook to stand up and at his view. His eyes lingered upon here and there, observing. He smiled in satisfaction at the living shapes - the room, the Christmas tree partly covered with magical snow and fairies, the tarnished chandeliers hung with streamers, his friends and Harry himself placing greeting cards on the tree, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley chatting merrily upon a story, Lupin comfortable on an armchair with a smile on his face, eyes resting on him. Harry followed Lupin's eyes and came upon the figure in the centre of the painting. He stiffened, biting back a cry as he stared at him in helplessness and frustration. It was another failure. Everything had been perfect but him. The man who was singing a merry song was a stranger. He looked pretty much like Sirius, but it was not him. There was always something off, something Harry could not touch his fingers on, but he knew. He knew it was merely a doppelganger.
He just knew it.
Harry could feel his eyes stinging. Dust again. He hated dust, and he hated himself every time he had painted that stranger. A random thought flashed through his mind. Could he No, he couldn't have forgotten Sirius, could he? Was that why he could never paint him? A heavy weight settled upon his heart and he felt as though he would never know happiness again. It was suddenly blurry and difficult to breathe.
Harry was too focused on his grief that he did not feel a presence a few steps behind him. He hurried swallowing his sob and wiping his face as a loud voice started him, "Wow"
Harry turned back and faced to face with Ginny. Harry had thought to release the spell on the painting so that it would be out of sight, but she had stepped forward and looking at the picture in enchantment. He didn't know what to do. He disliked people taking a look at his failure, but it would be rude to take it down since Ginny had not meant to. It was his own fault for standing here, lost within his feelings. It wouldn't be good for your heels to stand motionless, Harry, said Luna once. He felt slightly better.
"It's so beautiful It's perfect, Harry!" said Ginny, admiration in her voice.
"No, it's not."
She looked perplexed. "No?"
"Look at it again, Ginny."
Ginny turned back to the picture and gazed at it for another minute. "I don't see what's wrong with it. We all are so real, and Sirius, woow"
At the name of his Sirius, and especially his name being labeled to the bloody stranger, Harry was irritated. "Don't call him Sirius. It's not Sirius."
Ginny was more perplexed. "Then who is singing? He looks exactly like Sirius. I remember that Christmas, Harry. Sirius was singing 'God Rest You, Merrye Hippogriffs.'" She giggled a bit at the reminiscence.
For every second, Harry was one stride angrier. Sirius' name was always a taboo. He despised talking about him. Ginny was usually more tactful, but perhaps she was still sleepy from waking up so soon. And her giggle didn't help.
"Call him whatever you want, but don't call him that name. This is NOT Sirius," Harry snarled, barely keeping his anger.
"Harry, what's the matter with you? I know you don't like to talk about it, but -"
Harry swallowed down a lump in his throat, trying to keep his temper in check. Months of required calm for drawing helped, but he could be easily ticked off anytime. "Look, I don't want to talk about it. Let's drop it, okay?"
"You have to talk about it sometimes soon, you know," said Ginny insistently. "It's unhealthy to keep those feelings bottled up inside. We thought you have gotten over-"
Harry was being tired and derived of sleep. He was frustrated at his failure and full of grief for his loss, and here someone was making it like it was not a big deal and suggesting that he should forget Sirius. It was worse that it confirmed his sooner notion of having forgotten his godfather. Before he knew it, Harry was screaming. "I SAID I DON'T WANT TO TALK. WHY DON'T YOU SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE?"
He reversed the spell to get his sketchbook. Quickly, he slammed it close and stomped off to his dorm, leaving Ginny stunned. Some of the Gryffindors had been started out of their slumber, sleepily muttering "What?" on the way down to the common room. He brushed past them and went straight to his bed.
End Part 1
A/N: Click on the button below and write what you think, please?