[ACxHP] lp4: This Boy We Never Knew
Title: This Boy We Never Knew
Rating: PG
Characters: Desmond, Subject 16
A/N: Harry Potter AU.
There is a portrait of a boy that used to wander around the walls of Hogwarts. His frame is kept in one of the old, abandoned storage rooms on the basement floor, surrounded by fifteen other canvases of dreary abstract art that show nothing more than blocks and blurry splashes of grey shapes. They are all in a neat little line on the wall, and though Desmond has seen the boy pace around in all fifteen grey landscapes, the figure mostly stays put in his original frame, in front of a rich scarlet fall of drapery. The sixteenth painting.
It becomes the boy’s name, since the boy had laughed when Desmond asked for it the first time, long ago during his second year at Hogwarts. Desmond doesn’t press - their Common Room is guarded by the Fat Lady, after all. Not all portraits have names.
But the strange thing about Sixteen is that he’s resembles Desmond a whole lot. Not in term of looks or personality - but he isn’t an old depiction of eras long past like the majority of Hogwart's paintings. He’s younger than Desmond’s seventeen years, but he wears a Gryffindor’s uniform, blond hair styled in a way that could be any kid today. It always strikes Desmond as unnerving that Sixteen must have been a real person, like one of the headmaster portraits. But there’s a difference; he supposes everyone knows the headmasters are there for advice and guidance, kind of like a otherworldly, untouchable sage, but Sixteen - Sixteen’s just a teenager. It’s too personal, too raw, somehow.
“Do you know what happens when a portrait is painted too soon?” Sixteen asks, lying back against the scarlet drapery. He sinks into it, arms folded behind his head, and watches Desmond fiddle around with a case of bottles and jars.
“I guess something like you happens,” Desmond replies, blowing warm air into his hands before he tries to pry open one of the jars. He glances up, trying not to look too sorry, but it’s still incredibly sad to him.
He can’t hide his pitying expression. Sixteen laughs, sounding less like the boy he’s pictured as.
“There's no time to mourn,” Sixteen says, grounding out the words, throwing his hands up as if to scatter them to deaf ears. “No time! A boy dies, his portrait is done up, perfect likeness, almost perfect everything, so then you get people thinking that the bloody painting is the kid. They don’t grieve. They refuse to. They miss him so much, so they latch on to this shade, and they don’t even realize when they stop visiting the kid’s grave to talk to this stupid pale imitation.” He thumbs his own chest, striking it for emphasis. “I’ve told them so many times I wasn’t the real thing. …I kept telling them.”
This isn’t the first rant Desmond’s been treated to, but Sixteen had never revealed so much of his subject’s past. Desmond stops worrying at the jars, hearing the note of utter frustration from the portrait. He hasn’t always been clear on about the magic done to portraits, what makes them feel or think, and he doesn’t know if a portrait can have friends, but it’s clear that Sixteen is upset, and Desmond’s not going to let the portrait stay that way forever.
“Is that why you keep yourself in here? Away from everyone?” he asks, drawing out his wand. He recites the hovering charm, unhooking the heavy painting from the wall and setting it down so they can talk face to face without Desmond having to crane his neck upwards all the time.
Sixteen loses his footing as his painting props against the wall, disappearing for a moment before popping back up over the frame.
“Yes,” he says, smoothing back his hair, and throws Desmond an impossibly humanlook of annoyance.
It must have been hard either way, Demsond thinks, for both the people who cared about Sixteen, and the boy in the portrait. “What was he like?”
Sixteen glares at him.
“Ugh, you’re giving me that look again,” he says. “Stop that. I’m just a portrait, you don’t have to feel sorry for me.” But he pauses, gnawing his bottom lip as if to hold back from saying something. Looking straight at Desmond, he gives a decisive nod, a silent acknowledgment of trust. “This kid you see here? His favorite subject was Ancient Runes, obviously. He played seeker for your team, and his dream was to be an Auror. Had the grades for it and everything. Would’ve made it easily, if you asked me. And, hah, he desperately wanted to win the Triwizard Cup, definitely more than you do, in any case.”
Desmond frowns, turning the prize ring over his finger, blunt fingernail catching over the mysterious inscribed message. He had to fight a troll to get the clue, and despite everything, the more he got swept into the tournament, the harder it was to back off.
“But,” Sixteen continues, breaking the drawn off silence. “You’ve got to understand - I may have Clay Kaczmarek’s memories, all his mannerisms and looks, but I certainly don’t have his ambitions. And I never will. You can at least understand that, right?”
Clay Kaczmarek. Unexpectedly, Desmond smiles. A tiny laugh escapes from his throat and he nods, letting go of the ring.
“Yeah. I do,” he says quietly, and finally gets the lid off one of the jars. Green paint slops over the edge, staining the tips of his fingers. Grabbing a thick brush from the case, he sticks it in the paint, swirling it around. He looks at the fifteen grey canvases thoughtfully. Desmond’s no Leonardo da Vinci, but he’s still got a fair hand for drawing. “You said you wanted some grass?”
“More than anything,” Sixteen blurts out, standing up in a hurry. He rushes into one of the grey frames, jumping onto a tall block to direct Desmond’s brush with a wide sweep of his hand. “Here. All over. I want grass everywhere.”
“Hold on. Call me crazy, but I think you could use some sky too,” Desmond says, painting over the ugly, dull grey without remorse. “I brought some other colors.”
It’s the first time Sixteen really smiles at him, wide and genuine, without a trace of his usual bitterness. He looks down, watching the blocks beneath him disappear in a crude meadow field. Desmond promises to add details later, but Sixteen only urges him to move on to the next canvas.
“And a tower that I can jump off of. With a pile of hay to land in,” the portrait adds, cautiously trying to hide his eagerness. “Can you do that?”
“I think I can manage,” Desmond says solemnly, and paints on a green blob tower in the meantime so he won’t forget.
Despite Sixteen’s insistence that he cover the whole bottom canvases green, Desmond takes his time, ignoring the coldness of the room and how he really ought to be studying for his Potions exam. Lucy will probably be looking for him as well. He is careful with the paint, the special portrait paint that makes the picture come alive. All the colors had not come cheap, but Desmond's been working all summer for this, so it’s alright.
“Hey,” Sixteen suddenly says, perched on top of a triangular shape block. He can’t sit on the grass until the paint dries. He points to Desmond’s hand, finger bumping against an invisible wall, never close enough to touch it. “That ring from the tournament. I can translate the words. Clay was good with Ancient Runes and, you know-" he trails off, shrugging. "Thank you. For this. It’s the least I could do.”
Desmond glances up, and even though he had tried to be careful, there is bright blue paint streaking across his left cheek, shimmering in the gloom.
“Sure,” he says, like the thought never occurred to him. He looks back to the canvases and grabs another clean brush, almost lost in concentration except for the grin he spares Sixteen.
“But first," he says, dipping the brush into the jar, "let’s get that sky painted.”
Rating: PG
Characters: Desmond, Subject 16
A/N: Harry Potter AU.
There is a portrait of a boy that used to wander around the walls of Hogwarts. His frame is kept in one of the old, abandoned storage rooms on the basement floor, surrounded by fifteen other canvases of dreary abstract art that show nothing more than blocks and blurry splashes of grey shapes. They are all in a neat little line on the wall, and though Desmond has seen the boy pace around in all fifteen grey landscapes, the figure mostly stays put in his original frame, in front of a rich scarlet fall of drapery. The sixteenth painting.
It becomes the boy’s name, since the boy had laughed when Desmond asked for it the first time, long ago during his second year at Hogwarts. Desmond doesn’t press - their Common Room is guarded by the Fat Lady, after all. Not all portraits have names.
But the strange thing about Sixteen is that he’s resembles Desmond a whole lot. Not in term of looks or personality - but he isn’t an old depiction of eras long past like the majority of Hogwart's paintings. He’s younger than Desmond’s seventeen years, but he wears a Gryffindor’s uniform, blond hair styled in a way that could be any kid today. It always strikes Desmond as unnerving that Sixteen must have been a real person, like one of the headmaster portraits. But there’s a difference; he supposes everyone knows the headmasters are there for advice and guidance, kind of like a otherworldly, untouchable sage, but Sixteen - Sixteen’s just a teenager. It’s too personal, too raw, somehow.
“Do you know what happens when a portrait is painted too soon?” Sixteen asks, lying back against the scarlet drapery. He sinks into it, arms folded behind his head, and watches Desmond fiddle around with a case of bottles and jars.
“I guess something like you happens,” Desmond replies, blowing warm air into his hands before he tries to pry open one of the jars. He glances up, trying not to look too sorry, but it’s still incredibly sad to him.
He can’t hide his pitying expression. Sixteen laughs, sounding less like the boy he’s pictured as.
“There's no time to mourn,” Sixteen says, grounding out the words, throwing his hands up as if to scatter them to deaf ears. “No time! A boy dies, his portrait is done up, perfect likeness, almost perfect everything, so then you get people thinking that the bloody painting is the kid. They don’t grieve. They refuse to. They miss him so much, so they latch on to this shade, and they don’t even realize when they stop visiting the kid’s grave to talk to this stupid pale imitation.” He thumbs his own chest, striking it for emphasis. “I’ve told them so many times I wasn’t the real thing. …I kept telling them.”
This isn’t the first rant Desmond’s been treated to, but Sixteen had never revealed so much of his subject’s past. Desmond stops worrying at the jars, hearing the note of utter frustration from the portrait. He hasn’t always been clear on about the magic done to portraits, what makes them feel or think, and he doesn’t know if a portrait can have friends, but it’s clear that Sixteen is upset, and Desmond’s not going to let the portrait stay that way forever.
“Is that why you keep yourself in here? Away from everyone?” he asks, drawing out his wand. He recites the hovering charm, unhooking the heavy painting from the wall and setting it down so they can talk face to face without Desmond having to crane his neck upwards all the time.
Sixteen loses his footing as his painting props against the wall, disappearing for a moment before popping back up over the frame.
“Yes,” he says, smoothing back his hair, and throws Desmond an impossibly humanlook of annoyance.
It must have been hard either way, Demsond thinks, for both the people who cared about Sixteen, and the boy in the portrait. “What was he like?”
Sixteen glares at him.
“Ugh, you’re giving me that look again,” he says. “Stop that. I’m just a portrait, you don’t have to feel sorry for me.” But he pauses, gnawing his bottom lip as if to hold back from saying something. Looking straight at Desmond, he gives a decisive nod, a silent acknowledgment of trust. “This kid you see here? His favorite subject was Ancient Runes, obviously. He played seeker for your team, and his dream was to be an Auror. Had the grades for it and everything. Would’ve made it easily, if you asked me. And, hah, he desperately wanted to win the Triwizard Cup, definitely more than you do, in any case.”
Desmond frowns, turning the prize ring over his finger, blunt fingernail catching over the mysterious inscribed message. He had to fight a troll to get the clue, and despite everything, the more he got swept into the tournament, the harder it was to back off.
“But,” Sixteen continues, breaking the drawn off silence. “You’ve got to understand - I may have Clay Kaczmarek’s memories, all his mannerisms and looks, but I certainly don’t have his ambitions. And I never will. You can at least understand that, right?”
Clay Kaczmarek. Unexpectedly, Desmond smiles. A tiny laugh escapes from his throat and he nods, letting go of the ring.
“Yeah. I do,” he says quietly, and finally gets the lid off one of the jars. Green paint slops over the edge, staining the tips of his fingers. Grabbing a thick brush from the case, he sticks it in the paint, swirling it around. He looks at the fifteen grey canvases thoughtfully. Desmond’s no Leonardo da Vinci, but he’s still got a fair hand for drawing. “You said you wanted some grass?”
“More than anything,” Sixteen blurts out, standing up in a hurry. He rushes into one of the grey frames, jumping onto a tall block to direct Desmond’s brush with a wide sweep of his hand. “Here. All over. I want grass everywhere.”
“Hold on. Call me crazy, but I think you could use some sky too,” Desmond says, painting over the ugly, dull grey without remorse. “I brought some other colors.”
It’s the first time Sixteen really smiles at him, wide and genuine, without a trace of his usual bitterness. He looks down, watching the blocks beneath him disappear in a crude meadow field. Desmond promises to add details later, but Sixteen only urges him to move on to the next canvas.
“And a tower that I can jump off of. With a pile of hay to land in,” the portrait adds, cautiously trying to hide his eagerness. “Can you do that?”
“I think I can manage,” Desmond says solemnly, and paints on a green blob tower in the meantime so he won’t forget.
Despite Sixteen’s insistence that he cover the whole bottom canvases green, Desmond takes his time, ignoring the coldness of the room and how he really ought to be studying for his Potions exam. Lucy will probably be looking for him as well. He is careful with the paint, the special portrait paint that makes the picture come alive. All the colors had not come cheap, but Desmond's been working all summer for this, so it’s alright.
“Hey,” Sixteen suddenly says, perched on top of a triangular shape block. He can’t sit on the grass until the paint dries. He points to Desmond’s hand, finger bumping against an invisible wall, never close enough to touch it. “That ring from the tournament. I can translate the words. Clay was good with Ancient Runes and, you know-" he trails off, shrugging. "Thank you. For this. It’s the least I could do.”
Desmond glances up, and even though he had tried to be careful, there is bright blue paint streaking across his left cheek, shimmering in the gloom.
“Sure,” he says, like the thought never occurred to him. He looks back to the canvases and grabs another clean brush, almost lost in concentration except for the grin he spares Sixteen.
“But first," he says, dipping the brush into the jar, "let’s get that sky painted.”