It's not bad.
That's his first thought upon walking into his living room the next morning and facing the canvas he ravaged and brought home with him.
It's different from his usual style, all bold lines where he is usually delicate strokes and refined details.
But it's not bad.
And that's really all that matters.
(Actually what really matters is the fact that he's even picked up a paintbrush at this point. But Scorpius is pretending like he's not actually at such a low point. So for now, his standards remain at the impossibly high bar of…not bad.)
Turns out Rose Weasley is good for something.
Scorpius is a big believer that sharing good things will only lead to them being snatched away, so he doesn't share his momentous accomplishment (dipping a brush in paint) with anyone. Albus finds out purely by accident the next day.
Even though he has a key and Scorpius's wards are cast to recognize him, Albus always makes sure to knock first.
"Come in!" Scorpius yells, not ready to get up with his hangover from the night before. Nothing but another knock at the door.
Scorpius moans and rolls off of his couch. He answers the door wearing only a fine silk robe, the picture of wasteful elegance, and Albus scans him up and down dubiously.
"Classy," he comments, brushing past Scorpius and heading to the kitchen. But he pauses just a few steps past the door.
"What happened here?" Scorpius winces.
He'd lost control, that's what. The canvas hadn't even been primed when Scorpius had taken his anger out on it.
"Hm?" Scorpius tries to sound unaffected. "Oh, nothing."
"This is not nothing, Scorpius!"
As Scorpius watches him examine the painting in awe, he leans back against the wall and contemplates what a good friend Albus was. It was rare to have such unconditional support from someone outside of family (actually, given most of Scorpius's conniving extended relatives, including family most times).
Scorpius finds himself momentarily grateful for the stylistic change that came over him last night. The silhouette of the face, made up of red and orange hues with several angry lines around it, could be of anyone.
"It's not Rose, is it?" Albus asks suddenly.
"What?" He jumps up, startled. "How-I mean, why would you think that?"
Albus shrugs. "The colors, the hair." He sends Scorpius a deadpan stare. "And maybe the fact that you haven't been painting for months but the night she shows up you do this."
Scorpius feels himself flush. "Right," he mutters. "Good guess."
"So?"
"So what?" He meets Albus's prying gaze head on.
"So what's this about?'
"What can I say," he sighs, trying to sound unaffected. "Something about her just gets my rage going."
Albus surveys the canvas, then the tossed paint tubes and empty firewhisky bottles around the room despite Scorpius's usual fastidiousness. "I'll say."
"She is irrelevant. The only thing this means is that I'm back at it." Scorpius flashes him a confident smile and rolls back his shoulders.
"If you're sure," Albus says doubtfully.
Scorpius sits on the floor of his studio, brush loose in his hand. The canvas is primed and ready, every color in his paint arsenal laid out in front of him, waiting for inspiration to strike.
But he can't do anything. He dips his brush in a color at random, not even bothering to see what it is, and yet he can't bring himself to touch it to canvas.
It's all too reminiscent of a few months ago, when the initial stages of realizing he had no desire to paint hit him. Refusing to get stuck in that feeling again, Scorpius swallows back the lump in his throat and pushes himself off the floor.
The thing that triggered him last time was a burst of emotion. Surely that could be replicated easily enough.
So he spends the next three days surrounded by people. Really, it's more socializing that anyone needs. His friends, providing him with laughter, his parents for irritation and love in equal amounts. In desperation, he posts up in a coffee shop. Scorpius is not one to idle about, but he resigns himself to people watching for a few hours, hoping for something to catch his eye.
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. Watching the masses for inspiration.
His father would probably disown him on the spot rather than let his family fortunes fall into the hands of someone in tune with the plebians. Fortunately for the Malfoy name, by hour four, Scorpius confirms that he is uninspired by the petty arguments surrounding him.
"You're both wrong and should break up," he snaps at the couple seated next to him, tossing some cash on the table.
Nathaniel convinces him to stop by that night to watch a quidditch match on his WizTV. Scorpius, assuming it'll be just them and Albus, obliges. That, and it's his favorite team Puddlemere United playing.
What he does not anticipate is Rose Weasley attending and that her favorite team, the Chudley Cannons, is the one opposing Puddlemere. Scorpius sends a glare at Nathaniel who informs him with raised hands that he didn't invite her and most certainly would not have put the two of them in close quarters.
Two hours of arguing and several broken glasses and a cracked vase later ("That was my great-grandmother's," Nathaniel sighs, not looking too put out. "At least it was ugly."), the game ends and Scorpius apparates to his studio with the loudest crack he can to signify his ire.
After three hours of nonstop work, he drops his brushes and takes a step back to gaze at his latest completed canvas, chest heaving.
"Fuck!"
He hates it when Albus is right.
