Forbidden Hobbies (Luc)

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With a nervous glance around the corridor, Chrisy noted with some satisfaction that nobody was around or nearby, and she was safe to enter the art room without being noticed. Slipping in, she locked the door behind her, and then looked around, mentally working out the position she would need to be in for the light to be in her favour. Finally picking out a place, she walked over and briskly set things up, taking objects out from the inconspicuous bag she carried. It had been charmed, naturally, and held far more than it appeared to be.

First, she arranged the chair and easel, using flicks of her wand and softly murmured charms. Next came the paints and the water, and then, finally, from her bag she removed the canvas, covered in light pencil marks. She had done this particular one by the edge of the lake, inspired by the view, but hadn't had the time to paint it yet.

Satisfied with the way things were, she sat down and shifted her chair to the right angle, and then began. How many hours she spent painting, she wasn't sure, but after what felt like mere seconds, she sat back and eyed her work critically. "It could use more foliage," she murmured to herself, reaching for the pallet.

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Lucifer had always been a perfectionist. It came with the condition that no one dared to label him with. Things had to be done at the right time, in the right manner, and had to be done to an inexplicably high level. Falling short of this expectation did nothing short of enraging the young boy to a point that only he could calm himself down from.

Mollycoddling Lucifer was simply not something that was done if the other party felt like leaving unscathed.

Though, for the most part, nobody saw the fits of rage that Lucifer got himself in to, because he was an individual. He sorted himself out. And he needed no help from anyone, thank you very much.

This was why Lucifer was prowling the fourth floor that afternoon, trying to calm himself down from a state he'd gotten in to when the Headmaster had told him he was not allowed to leave the school grounds. Why? His parents barely told him no, so what right did Headmaster Jameson have over him to say he was not allowed to do as he pleased? The outburst at the professor had not been appreciated, and he'd been escorted back to the castle at once. Plotting the man's demise the whole time.

Lucifer came to a stop outside the door for the arts room, and tried the door. Quietly as possible. It didn't open. Frowning to himself - things were locked for reason. Something forbidden lie behind it. Rummaging in his pocket, Lucifer pulled out a paper clip, bent it back to a straight position and knelt before the lock. It took a few minutes, but with the right prodding and poking, the door opened with a very soft click. The Slytherin checked the hall way once more, and slipped through the door. The door was closed - and locked once more - with near silent movements, and then Lucifer looked out across the room.

One person was in the room. Painting.

Painting was something that Lucifer could never do. His hands, though very calm and unshaken, were not quite talented to the skills of painting things in abstract manners. They were perfect replicas, if he were to try. Hours of work, that his parents had deemed... creepy when they had thought he could not hear.

"It could use more foliage,"

The voice of the witch made Lucifer look more closely at the painting, moving closer to her with very soft steps - Lucifer had often been told of for 'appearing as if from thin air' when he moved. But he couldn't quite work out why that was a bad thing. "Your reflection is not quite right." Lucifer told the witch, pointing out that the reflection shape on the end did not correspond with the shape of the real bush. "But a little more foliage would help to make it look prettier to anyone else... though there isn't any more foliage on that shore of the lake so you would be creating a lie."

How did he know? Lucifer could recognise the lake from the picture, and his mind was quite photographic. It was realistic in what was there, and Lucifer would have left it to the realism. His head did not understand artistic licence at all, but Lucifer was, in all meanings of the word, trying to help.

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Paintbrush poised neatly over the right side of the lake, Chrisy frowned a little as she tried to picture it in her mind before gently lowering the brush to touch the canvas. She wanted to get this right, for she was going to be donating this anonymously to one of the hospitals she often gave her work to. There was no point in keeping it for herself; her parents would lose their minds if they ever found out she was spending her free time doing art instead of studying.

"Your reflection is not quite right."

The male voice came out of nowhere, and Chrisy let out a startled scream, dropping her paintbrush. It fell, leaving in its wake a streak of green on the canvas, and she turned, sharply, to look at the person that now stood next to her. Clumsily getting to her feet, she pushed back the chair and it fell with a thud; without caring, she took a few steps back, hand flying to her chest, as though she could calm her beating heart.

A second passed, and as the boy prattled on, her eyes narrowed and she consciously moved her arm down to where she kept her wand. Not removing it just yet, she waited for him to stop speaking, and then, quietly, for she could not make her voice any louder due to fear, asked, "What do you want?"

There was no reason for the boy to be here, and Chrisy was sure she had locked the door. The only way he could have entered was if he had purposely done so, and that made her even more nervous.

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The scream from the girl had not been predicted by the Slytherin, for if it had he surely would not have jumped like he did, looking at her with very cautious eyes. Almost as cautious as the eyes that reflected back at him when the girl looked to him. Though his eyes had moved from her to the painting which was now ruined because of her unnecessary reaction to his words.

Why would she have reacted like that, really?

"You ruined it..." Luke said softly moving to the picture and lifting his index finger to the line, trying to see if he could remove the paint ever so carefully and rectify the mistake she'd made. It was a shame, really, it only needed a small bit of work on the reflection and it would have been almost a replica of the normal thing. But the line had ruined her efforts, and Luke was disappointed.

He could fix it though, he was sure of it. There had to be a spell that could lift off the last piece of paint. Or some form of spell that that could rewind time so that he could snatch the painting from her errant hand... There must be some way the magical artists did that, to save them from having to start over... like an undo button on a computer.

"What do you want?"

Luke's head turned from the ruined painting, his finger still outstretched to the mistake on the canvass. He'd forgotten, temporarily of the witch's presence in the room, but he refocused. "Nothing." Luke responded to her question. His mind had taken in the literal sense of her question, and he didn't want anything... "Except to know how to put this right." He added to himself, lowering his hand from the painting and looking at it with a frown. Whether the girl heard was not something Luke cared for, his eyes instead focusing on the painting once more.

Silence fell in the room, because Luke was not under the impression of anything (other than the painting) being wrong.

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She stared him down, watching and waiting for him to do something. What she was expecting, though, she wasn't quite sure - but it probably wasn't anything good. So, when his only comment had been about her painting, she frowned in confusion. What was his game? It took a second, and then her eyebrows narrowed as she came to the only conclusion she could: he was mocking her.

Nobody had ever really complimented her work before, and the only comments she ever got from her parents were that she needed to work more on her studies, so why would anyone care if a painting had been ruined by a streak of paint or not? No, it was obvious that he was teasing her, mocking her, and she was not going to do a thing about it except let him.

What else could she have done?

With a free hand, she reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and continued to watch him, not speaking. There was nothing to say. Instead, she kept her hand poised over her wand, mind already going over defensive spells. Could she perhaps use obliviate so he would forget about the painting and meeting her and everything else that had happened? After all, it wasn't as though she was memorable or anything of that sort.

The answer to her question only reinforced her conclusion, and she felt a stab of hurt. No matter how many times her parents put her down, no matter how many times her teachers compared her to her brother, no matter how many times she was criticised, she could never bring herself to not care and it always stung.

"Why do you care?" she scoffed, the words coming out before she could help it. While this was something she was used to - harsh words and mocking - having someone break into a locked room to do so was new. And Chrisy just didn't quite know how to handle that information.

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Luke's eyes were clearly concentrated on the picture, moving this way and that to try to work out how it could be rectified. Perhaps....

The voice of the girl broke through his concentration once more, and Luke's eyes reluctantly moved from the picture to the witch. "The picture was almost a replica of the shore on the lake. It's the shore on the left side of the lake, but on a calm day, when the squid isn't in a playful mood. Or... at least, that was what gave you the muse for this." Luke explained, not for a second finding these words creepy, or too specific for someone who had not seen the witch take the drawing.

"Or... it was, at least. Until you screamed." Luke explained, picking up the paintbrush from the floor and putting it back with the paints the witch was working with. "Are there others?" Luke asked, hoping she knew he meant paintings. His mind was intrigued by the pictures, by the brush strokes of the witch's work. But now... now that he looked at her more closely.

There was something in the witch's eyes that made Luke curious. Something in those eyes that didn't sit quite right, but the Slytherin couldn't place it. His eyes remained on hers, trying to understand... Searching...

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His words made her blink, slight fear creeping up her spine as he spoke. How did he...? The idea that he had watched her or had spied on her never once crossed her mind, although it would have for most others, simply because she never thought herself worth it. No, she was not interesting, pretty, or in any way someone with whom people wanted to be friends with. Or at least, that was the way she saw herself.

Instead, his words only made her curious. How had he known? He was right; the painting had been inspired by her daily walk around the lake, with the walk turning into a sketching exercise, but she hadn't wanted to keep it the same. No, that would be obvious to anyone that had ever been to Hogwarts, and she wanted to remain as anonymous as possible with all her paintings.

Her eyes moved to the canvas, surveying the damage she herself had done and was quite pleased to find that it wasn't as bad as the stranger had made it out to be. No, all she needed to do was add a tree right where the line was, and it would be covered. That would also take care of the foliage problem, and she could - would - add a tiny cottage in the foreground, to further disguise things.

But she said none of this aloud, and her thoughts hadn't taken more than a couple seconds. He spoke again, asking her if she had other... Other what? It took a moment or two before it hit her that he was talking about paintings and drawings. She did - of course she did - but she didn't share them with anyone, let alone a stranger.

"You haven't answered my question," she said, in reply. "Why do you care?" Now, it wasn't so much as an accusation as before, although part of her still felt that he had been mocking in his words. Rather, she was genuinely confused, and wanted to know why this stranger would bother with a nobody like her.

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The repeated question made Luke frown a little as he looked at the painting once more and then back at the girl who had asked him. He paused, clearly thinking this question through for a moment before he spoke again.

"I wanted to help. With the reflection. But then you made that line." Luke explained a moment later, motioning to the mistake. "You need to fix it so that it looks like it should look. Like the shore of the lake." Luke explained, picking up the paintbrush from the floor and cleaning it off for her. "Can you fix it?" He asked, not in any way doubting the witch, but because he knew he couldn't fix it himself.

Well, maybe he could...

Turning his attention to the painting Luke moved the paintbrush towards the paints trying to decide. Before realising it wouldn't be authentic if he did that. "Come." Luke insisted, motioning for her to take the brush and get on with it. This was important, and as the paint dried, they were running out of options how to fix it.

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"I wanted to help."

She had never before heard those words spoken to her in the context of her art. No, the only time people said that was when they wanted her to be better at something she was already trying her best at. Offers by tutors her parents sent. Offers from her older brother, who sent her books on studying and tried to encourage her to do things she hated. Offers by her parents of rewards for As.

These things never helped and they never made her feel like anything but a loser, and this was what she had come to believe she was. So, when this strange boy tried to tell her that he wanted to help her painting, Chrisy was more than a little confused.

"It's not supposed to," she said, softly, more self-conscious than ever. "It's based on the lake, but I'm changing it. Adding details." It was more than she had ever said about a painting or work of art to anyone, ever, but the boy didn't seem like he meant harm, and while she was still hesitant, Chrisy was starting to relax a little more.

At his insistence that she fix the painting, she stepped forward, uncertainty in her posture. He seemed so serious about it, as though if she didn't fix it, he would try; she had seen him considering the paints. Her heart dropped momentarily in anxiety. If he tried, he could ruin the entire thing, for she wasn't sure if he had any sort of artistic ability. So, going against her better judgement, Chrisy moved forward and took the brush, finally moving her hand away from her wand.

Dipping the tip of the brush into the brown paint, she considered the canvas for but a moment before carefully dabbing the paint over the green, drawing lines of different sizes, before rinsing the brush off, picking up a thicker one, and then working on the leaves of the tree. In a few minutes, it was done, and she took a step back to examine it, forgetting about the boy in that moment.

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When the witch told him it wasn't supposed to look like what he was sure she was painting, Luke grew confused. If it was the lake - he could see the lake - why would she change it? The scenery on that side of the lake wasn't overly lavish, he would agree, but painting was for realism... wasn't it?

Yes there were the Picasso's of the world, but this work did not show the abstract nature of the mad man's paintings.

But the witch took the paintbrush from his hand, and Luke stepped back, watching (with mild horror in the beginning) as she started to add in a tree, rather than blending it to fit the feature she was drawing. He watched in silence, as she worked effortlessly on the picture, took care in the picture that was before her.

It was in that second that something clicked in Luke's head.

The care that the witch before him showed. The dedication. He waited patiently, as still as a statue for her to finish, and when she stepped back, almost right in to him, but leaving only a centimetre between them.

"A tree." He murmured, though he was close, so it would have seemed louder. "I must leave." He announced a second later, not waiting for any response to come from the witch, instead sliding the lock undone, slipping through the door, and disappearing in to the corridors as if he'd never, ever been there at all.