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THIRTEEN DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
“You want me to what?” I hiss, still trying to process the fact that Harry Fucking Potter just plopped down in the chair across from mine and disrupted my, until then, quite peaceful lunch break.
“I want to commission you for a portrait,” he repeats with a grin. “Surely that’s not such a strange concept to—”
“Of a Weasley?” I blurt, because, seriously?
I swear, if I’d known I’d be having this conversation today, I never would’ve left the bed this morning.
“Well, yeah.” Potter shrugs. “I’m intending it as a Christmas gift, so if you could—”
“No way. Not happening.” I shake my head and return to my meal. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll take the hint and leave me alo—
“Why not?”
Apparently not. Well, I can be annoying too.
I sigh dramatically and fight a smirk as I offer, “Because working with that shade of orange would scar my retinas for life.”
That earns me an epic eye roll. “Merlin, you’re such a fucking prick.” My skin itches as several eyes turn towards us in search of the raised voice’s owner. Potter ignores them and leans in over the table. “It’s not like you’re exactly swamped with work.”
I glare at him. It’s true. As it turns out, not many people are interested in doing business with a marked man. Not even in this brave new, allegedly unprejudiced, world. Potter’s reminder is the last thing I need.
“Come on, Malfoy,” he urges. “We both know you need this job.”
“As if you cared.”
“I don’t ‘care’.” The invisible air quotes ring clearly in his voice. “I just want my painting…”
“And I’ve already told you I’m not going to—”
“Oh, for the love of— Just do it, Malfoy.” He sighs, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of rejection. “It’s pretty simple. I want a painting; you are a painter. Sounds like the perfect match to me. Plus, we both know having me as a client wouldn’t exactly ruin your reputation.”
Fuck, but I hate it when he’s right.
“Why me?”
Potter hesitates as something catches his eye from across the room. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, of course it does.” I sneer, ignoring my ridiculous curiosity.
“Well, maybe because you’re the only one available on such short notice?”
“Ha.” As if. “I bet any one of them would drop whatever they were doing in a heartbeat if it meant they got a chance to serve their hero.”
Potter scoffs, annoyed. “And make me the reason their other clients don’t get their orders in time? Never.”
“Whatever.” I shrug, turning my attention back to my plate. “I’m not available.”
“Yes, you are.” Potter reaches over and places a hand on my wrist, the unexpected touch as effective as any Stunning Spell. “And we both know you can’t afford to turn down this commission.”
“I—”
I blink, tearing my eyes from his hand on my arm. I can pretend all I want, but the truth is, I’ll never be able to say no to this man. Against my better judgement, I nod.
“Good.” Potter’s grin does funny things to my insides. “Look, I have to run, but I’ll come over to your studio tomorrow morning to go over the details. 10 o’clock okay with you?”
I stare at him, stunned by this force of nature, mesmerised by those impossibly green eyes. “Yeah,” I manage, breathless.
And just like that, the whirlwind that is Harry Potter is on his way, gone from ex-nemesis to client in the span of mere moments, despite my self-preservation’s best efforts.
TWELVE DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
“So, how does this work?” Potter asks the moment his arse touches the seat of the chair I offer him. “I brought some photos…”
He rummages through his satchel and eventually straightens up with a stack of photographs in his hand and a distracting smile on his face.
“Let me see,” I say, forcing my attention to the pictures Potter spreads out over the tabletop. A dozen versions of Fred Weasley meet my gaze, most of them headshots; all of them frontals or semi-profiles. It’s astonishing how most people seem to think the front view is all that matters, and yet they all expect the end result to look realistic from all angles once it comes to life. Fortunately, I’ve met the late Weasel twin enough times in the flesh that I’ll be able to consult the Pensieve for any additional angles. “Looks like an okay start, I guess.”
“A start? What more do you need?”
“Seriously?” I look up to find Potter with a confused frown furrowing his brow. Well, shit, he’s actually that dense, isn’t he? “You want an animated portrait, right? Not a Muggle still.”
“Yeah, of course?”
“And how do you imagine I’d be able to portray his personality based on these?”
“I…” The frown deepens. “I don’t know, I just thought…”
“That’s the problem, Potter. You don’t think. Those photographs will help me capture his appearance at best, but if you want him to talk and act and think the way you remember him, I’ll need more to go on.”
“Okay?” I can practically hear his brain struggling to follow along.
“So, just like these photos provide glimpses of his looks, I’m going to need glimpses into his personality. The more, the better, and from as many angles as possible.”
“Angles? What do you mean, ‘many angles’?”
I sigh. “You know how most portraits act like only bleak versions of their physical originals?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that’s what happens when the painter only has access to a limited range of testimonies, like when the subject is long gone and there’s no one left to tell the whole story, forcing the painter to rely on rumours and hearsay. Or when a wife commissions a portrait of her late husband and deems her own impression of him the only one that matters. What she forgets is that what she remembers of the man is only one aspect of him, not the complete picture. Same with most portraits of officials, like the former headmasters of Hogwarts up in McGonagall’s office; they usually only depict their originals’ professional sides, not their entire personalities.”
“Makes sense.” Potter nods and waits for me to go on, frown still firmly in place.
“The more angles you’ll be able to provide, the more multifaceted and lifelike the end result. A portrait will never be able to capture its subject perfectly, because no painter will ever be privy to their innermost thoughts or their subconscious, but with enough aspects added to the mix, chances are high the result will come close enough.”
The next nod is more decisive. “Okay, so tell me what you need. Pensieve memories?”
“No. I’m going to need the thoughts and emotions people remember him by, and that’s not something a Pensieve can provide. He may be gone, but he still lives in you, in all of you who still remember him. If you want me to do him justice, I’ll need the stories, the anecdotes — not just the major things, but the everyday ones as well — everything that made him into the man he was.”
“All right. And how do we accomplish that?”
And this is why I hadn’t wanted to accept this commission in the first place.
“I’ll need to meet with them.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
ELEVEN DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
“So, what did you end up telling them?” I ask as we cross the Ministry’s atrium on our way to meet with Percy Weasley, Secretary to the Department Head of Magical Transportation.
Apparently, Potter had intended the portrait as a surprise for the Weasley clan; something not easily achieved when everyone’s help will be needed to complete the picture. Especially since Potter stubbornly refuses even the idea of using Obliviates on our intended sources.
“Well, I told the siblings that it’s for Molly and Arthur, and then I told the rest that it’s for George. It was easy to get everyone on board after that.”
“So, who is it really for?” I can’t help asking as we step into the lift.
“Well, about that,” Potter hedges, pushing the button for level six. “I was actually thinking two portraits; one for the Burrow and one for George’s flat. You’d be able to connect them so he can move between them, right?”
The expectant plea in his green eyes makes reasoning all but impossible.
“Yes, but—”
“Great!” And there it is again, the brilliant smile that will undoubtedly one day be the death of me.
A diptych? As if one piece wasn’t enough of a challenge to complete on time with Christmas not even two weeks away. Merlin, help me.
— 🎨 —
“So, how does this work? I only have one hour until I have to leave for my meeting with the French ambassador, so if you don’t mind…”
“Of course,” Potter says, glancing over at me, clearly struggling not to roll his eyes. “Malfoy?”
“Yes.” I give myself a mental headshake and turn to Poncy Weasel across the meticulously organised desk. “It’s all pretty basic. I’ll cast the spell to activate the Anima Jar, and then, when you tell us about your brother, the spell’s magic will gather the recollections you provide, both the words and their attached emotions, and preserve them in the Jar. Combined with the others’, they will eventually make up the Anima of your brother — his essence, if you will — that I’ll later use to bring his portrait to life.”
“Fair enough.”
Poncy Weasel motions for me to proceed. I unscrew the lid of the Anima Jar and place it at the centre of the desk between us. I can feel Potter’s eyes on me, but I try my best to ignore him. I need to stay professional and keep my focus on why we’re here. As Potter pointed out the other day, I really need to nail this commission if I’m ever going to make it in this business.
I draw my wand and move it in the required pattern.
“Memoriae Colligo.”
— 🎨 —
According to Percy’s tales, Fred Weasley spent most of his life being an annoying nuisance, always out to mess with his older brother’s orderly life. Like the time they were in Egypt and he convinced the rest of the siblings to help him lock Percy inside the Pyramid of Khafre. From his words, one might think Percy didn’t like his brother much, but the emotions collected by the spell say otherwise. It’s an odd mix of irritation and fondness, admiration and exasperation, and the sight of them as they swirl together in the jar — ethereal like Pensieve memories, but all in various shades of the rainbow — is strangely hypnotic.
As the methodical man he is, Percy moves through Fred’s life chronologically, and once he reaches the twins’ post-Hogwarts days, his pride over the younger brother’s excellent business sense soon permeates the room. Fred was indeed a successful entrepreneur, even I can admit that, and Percy’s regret at severing ties with his family during the war, effectively preventing him from experiencing the twins’ success firsthand, is evident in his clear blue eyes.
“At least we got to make up before it was too late,” Percy concludes with a sad smile before he excuses himself and dashes out the door, muttering something about French bureaucrats never giving him the time of day.
When I get home, I retrieve a hazy memory from the back of my mind, a moment from the final battle I’d all but forgotten among everything else happening that fateful night. Plunging into my Pensieve, I witness Fred Weasley’s last minutes on this earth, a gleeful smile on his lips as he jokes with his older brother mere seconds before the life is ripped from his eyes.
TEN DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
Wolf Weasel’s Cornwall cottage is small but cosy, perched on a hill close enough to the sea that the taste of salt lingers in the air, even indoors. It’s strange seeing ex-Triwizard champion Fleur Delacour in this domestic setting, but after the tea is poured and the Jar activated, I relax with the others as Bill Weasley shares his memories of his younger brother.
With eight years between them, and Fred barely being out of nappies by the time Bill went to Hogwarts, the two understandably didn’t have much in common growing up. Therefore, Bill focusing on Fred’s later years makes perfect sense, and I listen with keen interest as he speaks of the undercover work Fred and his brothers did during the war, the secret radio show called Potterwatch that apparently brought hope and fighting spirit to the masses in their time of need.
After I’ve closed the lid on the Jar and we’ve both thanked Bill and his wife for their valuable contribution, Potter takes me outside.
“Come on,” he says, not waiting for me to follow as he heads towards a secluded corner of the garden. “I want to show you something.”
I frown but follow, cursing the sea breeze as it ruffles my hair, apparently attempting to copy my companion’s hopelessly dishevelled look.
I blink down at the smooth white stone, my brain needing a minute to comprehend what it was seeing, my breath catching as it finally does.
Here lies Dobby, a Free Elf.
NINE DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
The Burrow is just as cramped and chaotic as I’ve always imagined it, but also warm and welcoming in a way I never would’ve expected — and already full to bursting with Christmas cheer.
Potter and I obligingly munch on delicious homemade mince pies as the Weasel Parents talk about their late son, their smiles still teary as they share countless anecdotes of his shenanigans. According to Mrs Weasley, Fred was a constant cause of worry and the reason for her every grey hair. But he was also a constant source of joy, the perpetual optimist always ready with a smile to light up even the darkest of times.
“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” Mrs Weasley asks when we get ready to leave.
It takes a moment before I realise her question is aimed at me. “No, not really,” I say without thinking. Admitting to my reclusive, family-lacking life isn’t something I usually do.
“Well, if nothing else comes up, you’re always welcome to celebrate with us.” I open my mouth to protest, but as it turns out, it’s hard to speak when your jaw is dropped to the floor. Seemingly oblivious to my predicament, she adds, “It’s nothing fancy, not like what you’re undoubtedly used to from your childhood. Just a casual gathering of friends and family.”
“I— I’ll think about it,” is all I can manage, a lump of something inconvenient already forming in my throat.
“Please do. I’m sure your aunt and nephew would be thrilled to finally meet you.”
My—? Damn, I didn’t even think of that.
EIGHT DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
Unlike the Burrow, the Twin Weasel’s flat, located above his thriving shop, is light and airy. George Weasley greets us with a jovial smile, and as he disappears into the kitchen in search of drinks, Potter surreptitiously points out the wall on which he imagines the portrait to be hung.
“So, a painter, huh?” George probes as he returns to where Potter and I already sit on a surprisingly comfortable couch. “I always thought you aspired to a Ministry career.”
“Yes, well…” I shrug, feeling Potter’s curious gaze burning my skin. “Turns out those aspirations were more my father’s than my own.”
Twin Weasel gives me an approving nod. “Fair enough.”
I take him through the procedures of the Anima Jar, explaining the process just as I’ve done for all the others. George listens intently, no doubt already pondering how to implement the theory of this intricate magic on some of his many innovations.
When the spell is cast, George Weasley speaks warmly of his twin brother, depicting him as the older, more daring of the two, the one who made George braver and more outgoing than he ever would’ve been on his own. Time flies as he and Potter reminisce, sharing story after story while the sun sets and afternoon turns into evening.
I should have excused myself after replacing the lid on the Jar — I do have two unfinished paintings requiring my attention back at the studio — and yet, here I am, two hours, half a pizza, and too many beers later, still here, still smiling, still lounging next to Potter on Twin Weasel’s comfy couch.
SEVEN DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
The chilly air nips at my cheeks as Potter and I sit under a brilliant blue sky, listening to the Weaslette, star Chaser of the Hollyhead Harpies, wax lyrical about her late older brother. The rest of the team left the arena for lunch and a hot soak over an hour ago, all of them looking pretty exhausted after their practice and in dire need of a bit of downtime before tonight’s match against the Tornadoes.
I zone out despite myself, not really wanting to ignore the Weaslette’s talk about the brother who inspired her to stand up for herself and make her believe she could be whatever she wanted to be, but helpless to the allure of the vast, cloudless sky. Besides, it’s not like I have to pay attention; once the spell is cast, the Memoriae Colligo will do its job regardless of whether I’m present or not. I have no idea how much time has passed when Potter bumps shoulders with me, bringing me back to the here and now.
“Come on, Harry,” the Weaslette says, rising to her feet and stretching her arms towards the sky, groaning. “You’re clearly dying to get up there.”
“But I—” He glances over at me, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “Malfoy needs to get back to—”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind joining you,” the Weaslette insists with a mischievous wink that is eerily reminiscent of her late brother. She turns to me. “What do you say? A Seeker’s game, for old time’s sake?”
And that’s how Potter and I end up spending the next few hours on borrowed brooms, grinning like loons as we chase an elusive Golden Snitch high above the Harpies’ home turf.
SIX DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
If anyone had told me ten years ago that I’d one day be invited to dine with the golden trio, I probably would’ve hexed them six ways to Sunday. Or laughed in their face. Either way, I certainly wouldn’t have believed them.
The Granger-Weasley household is an eclectic mix of magic and Muggle; every corner of the cottage is decked with Christmas decorations and books cover every available surface. The scent of the Weasel’s delicious cooking still lingers in the air, wafting from the kitchen to where we all sit in front of the fire, sipping a decent vintage of Merlot while Ronald Weasley seeks sympathy for his misfortune to be born into brotherhood with his older twin brothers.
“I still can’t bear the sight of spiders after that time when he transfigured my teddy bear into one.”
“How old were you?” I ask, because for Fred to be old enough to succeed with something like that, the Weasel might’ve even brought his teddy to Hogwarts, and wouldn’t that be someth—
“Three.” The Weasel pouts, and I feel my brows rise to my hairline.
“Three? But that would make Fred…”
“Five,” Weasley confirms. “He was five at the time, and just as talented then as he always remained.”
Incredible. I don’t even realise I’ve said it aloud until I hear Potter’s warm chuckle from beside me. I can’t help smiling at the sound.
“Quite,” Granger agrees, casting another curious glance between me and Potter. She’s been doing it the entire evening, obviously unaware of her complete lack of stealth. “Believe me, being a Prefect with him around wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”
I snicker. “Oh, I can imagine it, all right.”
“It should be said, though,” Weasley adds, “that while he loved to prank me any chance he got, he always had my back whenever someone else tried to do the same. Like a true brother should.”
I take another sip of wine, wishing for the millionth time I knew what it was like, not being an only child. When my gaze is drawn to Potter, I swear I can see my longing reflected in his eyes.
FIVE DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
The tension seeps out of my body the moment our feet are safely back on the tiled floor of my studio. Being back at Hogwarts, if only for the day — revisiting the familiar sites, talking to our former teachers (”brilliant student; incorrigible rascal”) — turned out to be more draining than I ever would’ve imagined.
I don’t quite manage to stifle my yawn. “Salazar, I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight.”
“A baby, huh?” Potter smirks. “The fussy, crying kind or the cute, cuddling one?”
“Oh, shut up!” I walk over to the kettle, eager to divert his attention from my burning cheeks. “Now, did you bring what I asked you to?”
“Um, yeah,” Potter says, his voice oddly rough. I don’t dare look at him, but I hear the distinct clink of several phials as he places them next to my easel. “What did you need them for again?”
“To capture his gestures and mannerisms. No milk, three sugars, right?”
“Yeah, how did y—”
“As if you don’t know how I take my tea?”
“Fair enough.” His chuckle is of the stomach-swooping, skin-tingling kind. “So, gestures and mannerisms? You can’t get that from the photos I provided?”
“No, their sequences are too short to help with much more than his appearance,” I explain, offering him his sickly-sweet concoction on my way to inspect the phials he’s brought. “Thanks for these. I’m too beat now, but I’ll dive into them first thing tomorrow.”
“No, you won’t.”
I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “I won’t?”
“Nope. We have a Portkey to catch, remember?”
FOUR DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
“He was a daredevil, all right.” Dragon Weasley offers a wistful smile and turns to look out over the secluded valley harbouring his beloved sanctuary. “You know, last time he was here, he’d got it into his head that he wanted to fly Norberta. Nearly got himself killed trying to sneak up to her unsupervised in the eastern paddock.”
“Norberta?” I ask at the same time Potter mutters something that might have been “Fucking hell”.
“Quite,” Dragon Weasley smirks in Potter’s direction before turning to me. “She’s a Norwegian Ridgeback Harry helped us come by some years ago.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure Malfoy remembers her,” Potter says, clearly enjoying my bewilderment. “He witnessed her hatching, after all.”
I stare at him. I’ve only ever seen a dragon hatch once, and that was— “But that one was tiny?”
“Not so tiny anymore.” Dragon Weasley chuckles and exchanges an amused glance with Potter. “You should take him to see her before you two leave.”
“I should,” Potter agrees, effectively obliterating my ability to focus on another word from the dragon keeper’s mouth.
I’ve barely screwed the lid on the Jar when Potter steps in close and offers me his hand for a side-along. It takes an embarrassingly long moment before my brain catches up, and when we land next to the fence of the eastern paddock and I stumble into his arms, I wish I could say my racing heart was no more than a side-effect of our Apparition.
THREE DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
Man, this feels strange. Not being in a Pensieve — that’s more or less routine in my line of work — and not being back in the Great Hall either. (I was here just the other day, after all.) But sitting here, at the Gryffindor table, taking in the familiar space from this unfamiliar angle… it’s fucking weird.
Across from me, the twins joke about something, but I don’t really concentrate on their conversation, focusing instead on my task, trying my best to commit Fred’s gestures and mannerisms to memory.
He does that odd, unintentional head toss again, flicking his too-long hair out of his eyes much the same way a horse would try to get rid of an annoying fly. His brother apparently says something funny and Fred bursts into a fit of laughter so infectious even I can’t help smiling with him. His brother grins, all smug and pleased with himself, and it takes a moment before I realise something’s off. Their features have started to blur before my eyes, and when they resume their conversation, their words come out as absolute gibberish.
Confused, I turn to then-Potter who sits beside me, wondering why his older self would lend me a memory that’s so obviously been tampered with. Or has it? Potter, who was contributing to the playful banter just a minute ago, suddenly seems miles away, engrossed in something happening over by the entrance. Curious, I follow his gaze, only to witness my own younger self walking through the doors.
Salazar, I honestly looked ridiculous with that slicked-back hair.
My younger self turns to look at me from across the hall. No, not at me, I realise. At Potter. Their gazes meet, and around us, the rest of the hall — the room, the students, the incessant chatter — everything simply fades away. The surreal moment doesn’t last long, only until someone nudges Potter’s shoulder and the owner of the memory returns to the land of the living.
I ignore the fluttery feeling in my stomach and try to remember my reason for being here, but even as Potter’s attention is now back on his conversation with the twins, the people around the Gryffindor table remain slightly out of focus, their voices still slightly distorted. I frown and chance another glance at my younger self. With Crabbe and Goyle in tow, he walks over to sit down at the Slytherin table, his features as crystal clear as ever.
— 🎨 —
For the next hour, I witness Potter and the twins in various stages of growing up; in their common room, at the Burrow, in their locker room, at the world cup, and in what can only be the old Black estate in London. When I finally return to the studio, I’m exhausted, my spine stiff from bending over for far too long. I groan, stretching out a kink in my spine, and nearly jump out of my skin as someone behind me clears their throat.
“Finally!” Potter says, “I was starting to think you’d never resurface.”
I turn slowly, raising my brow, trying for nonchalant. “Been here long?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Only for half an hour or so.”
“Half an—?” Merlin. “Surely there must be more exciting things for you to do than just sit there waiting for me?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I was rather enjoying the view.” He winks, and heat rushes to my cheeks as I realise what he’s implying, what I must’ve looked like bent over that Pensieve. “Now. Come and drink your tea before it runs cold. Dash of milk, no sugar, right?”
TWO DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
If dinner with the golden trio felt weird, it’s nothing compared to this.
I mean, honestly. As if sharing a corner booth with Potter at The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t enough, sitting across from us, Gryffindor’s legendary Chaser trio — Bell, Johnson, and Spinnet — reminisce about their late teammate, the supportive friend and boyfriend, together with Jordan, the forever biased commentator of all my childhood Quidditch matches.
Never have I felt this out of place, a snake in the midst of their pride, and as they speak, I find my gaze drawn to the Anima Jar on the table between us. It’s almost filled to the brim by now, a hypnotic centrepiece of swirling light, tangled tendrils of emotions and recollections glowing in all the colours of the rainbow.
Wood arrives, and something in my chest flares as Potter stands to greet him with a longer-than-necessary hug. The objection is on the tip of my tongue as he insists Wood take the seat next to him, but then Potter scoots over to make room for the newcomer — and ends up with his entire side pressed to mine.
I swallow and shift in my seat, struggling to maintain my composure when all I want to do is lean into him, to burrow my nose in the curve of his neck and breathe in that intoxicating scent. Potter focuses on the conversation, seemingly unaffected by our nearness.
Wood’s eulogy to Fred’s (arguably) exceptional broom technique and bat precision turns to mumbo jumbo as Potter’s hand, warm and assured, settles in on my thigh.
ONE DAY ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
“So, how does this work?” Potter asks, his curious gaze darting between the Anima Jar and the two finished but still lifeless paintings next to it.
“We paint.”
Potter nods, then jerks around to face me, wide-eyed. “We?”
I shrug. “I thought you might want to help, but if you’re—”
“Can I? Really?”
I smile despite myself. “Yes.”
“Wow, that’s— Okay, then.” Potter rubs his palms together, almost bouncing on his feet in his eagerness. “What can I do to help?”
“Here, take this.” I hand him my spare Anima Brush before unscrewing the lid of the Jar. “This goes as a top layer on both canvases. Once the jar is empty and every inch of both surfaces is covered, I’ll cast the Animation Charm to bring them to life.” Potter nods solemnly. “I figure we could work in tandem, do one painting each?”
“Okay.”
I let him do the one with Fred’s picture on it, figuring he’d find it more exciting than the one with just the background. He does, and his delighted chatter is a stark contrast to my usually peaceful work environment. Not that I mind having him around. Our brush hands keep bumping into each other over the Anima Jar, and every time they do, heat flares deep in my core.
When we’re done, we both step back and I move to the side as I get ready to cast the spell. Waking up as a portrait can be startling enough without an ex-enemy being the first thing you lay eyes on.
“Anima Animate.”
Fred stirs, taking a curious look around. His blue eyes light up as they catch sight of Potter.
“Harry, mate! What’s up? Feels like it’s been ages…”
“I—” Potter blinks and clears his throat. “It has. It’s been… years.”
Fred frowns confused, and with good reason. “Years? I don’t…? What happened?”
“Well…” Potter’s eyes flick to mine and I give him a reassuring smile. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Fred tilts his head to the side and turns his gaze towards the ceiling, lost in thought for what feels like an eternity. “The battle,” he eventually offers. “The Death Eaters rushing towards us, and then Percy was there, and he defied the Minister and then he made a joke and I knew everything was going to be okay, and then…” He goes silent again, then, “Was I injured?”
“Fred, you…” Potter swallows. He looks ready to burst into tears and I have a sudden urge to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything’s going to be all right. “You’re a portrait.”
This is by far the worst part of my job; the realisation. I brace myself for Fred’s reaction.
“I am?” Fred exclaims, his eyes wide with… wonder? Well, I’ll be damned. “Wow, that’s so cool!” he marvels, looking down to inspect his hands before proceeding to scan the room. “Where are we?”
“In the painter’s studio,” Potter says evasively.
“Nice!” I’m certain Fred’s grin wouldn’t be that wide if he only knew just who his painter was.
Potter studies him warily. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I’m back, I’m looking gorgeous as ever, and… unlike the rest of you, I’m going to be preserved like this, in the prime of life.” He winks at Potter, who shakes his head in fond exasperation. “To whom do I owe the honour?”
Potter gestures for me to join him in front of the painting, and I reluctantly walk over to stand next to him, apprehension making it hard to breathe.
“Malfoy?” Fred’s surprise is not the least bit surprising.
“Yeah, he’s…” Potter trails off. When I chance a glance at him, I’m met by sparkling emeralds and an adorable, rosy blush. Fred’s voice tugs us out of our stupor.
“So, you two finally got your shit together?” Wait, what? “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Potter chuckles self-consciously. “Fred, um… you didn’t actually…”
“Yeah, right.” Fred snickers. “Now, don’t dodge the Bludger, Harry. Please tell me you two are not still circling each other trying to figure things out.”
His words throw me for a loop. I look between them, noticing Potter’s cheeks turn even darker. I open my mouth to speak, to refute his allegations, but… nothing comes out.
Just when I think nothing else will ever be able to surprise me, Potter proves me wrong. Without meeting my gaze, he reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it gently as he says, “I think we’re getting there.”
— 🎨 —
I can feel Potter’s heated gaze on me as I talk Fred through the features of his new, double-framed home. Most painters only bother with the basics for their diptychs, but in my urge to impress the man now standing beside me, I might have gone a bit over the top, despite my limited timeframe. Fred is still able to move between paintings the regular way, by simply walking from one to the other in a standard exit-right-enter-left fashion, but where most portrait subjects aren’t allowed any privacy, I’ve made sure Fred has somewhere to retreat to when the need arises.
I point him to the door in the background, suggesting he go explore, and once he’s off poking around, I tell Potter about the rooms I’ve painted for Fred back there; the generous bedroom with its well-stocked walk-in wardrobe, the comfy lounge, the top-of-the-line kitchen, and the shelves upon shelves of books — magic and Muggle — that I hope will keep him from going stir-crazy with nothing to do, as so many other portraits do after a few decades trapped in the same, boring frame.
Potter just beams at me, something soft and warm in his eyes that I don’t dare try to identify. Swallowing hard, I avert my gaze just in time to see Fred approach the back door on the farther wall of his private rooms.
“Watch this,” I murmur to Potter, nudging him in the side.
In the distance, Fred opens the door and pokes his head out, only to look back at us from the other painting, a slow grin overtaking his face. “Wicked.”
Later that night, when I stand with Potter by the Floo, wishing I had the guts to ask him to stay, he takes my hand again and wraps his calloused fingers around mine. My heart skips a beat as he leans in, close enough for our breaths to mingle hot between our mouths.
“Thank you,” he whispers, “for everything.”
It sounds like a goodbye, but then he closes the gap between us, pressing his lips to mine, and all my worries melt away, together with other insignificant things like coherent thought and the ability to speak.
When my daze clears, he’s already long gone. The taste of him still lingers on my lips when I fall asleep.
ZERO DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS
As it turns out, Christmas at the Burrow is just as crazy and chaotic as I’ve always envisioned it. It’s also warmer and more welcoming than I’ve ever dared imagine — towards me, at least.
I’ve met more gingers these past two weeks than can ever be considered healthy, and yet, here I am, willingly subjecting myself to a houseful of Weasleys, apparently a right glutton for punishment. As expected, I attract quite a few frowns and curious glances at first, but since I arrive with Potter, no one seems inclined to openly question my presence.
It takes a while before I notice the woman watching me guardedly from across the room. I turn to look at her and nearly flinch as I take in her features, momentarily mistaking her for a woman I thought to be long gone. Physically, she’s the spitting image of her lunatic sister, but her tentative smile is warm and kind. The pink-haired toddler beside her seems mesmerised by the Christmas Tree, and I can’t help chuckling as I watch him, recognising my younger self in the boy as he attempts to breach the invisible wards protecting the tree and the tempting mountain of presents waiting under it.
Potter takes me over to the two and introduces them as my aunt, Andromeda, and her grandson Teddy, my cousin. It feels weird, having my ex-nemesis introduce me to my own relatives, but the stilted conversation only lasts for a few minutes before Teddy manages to break the ice with his goofy antics.
Potter never ventures far, sticking close to me throughout the day, if of his own free will or by concern for my safety — or sanity — I’ll probably never know. Not that I mind his nearness. On the contrary, he’s a quiet source of comfort in this unfamiliar frenzy of family festivities. I mind my manners and make an effort to be polite to everyone, even Ron. (Yes, I make sure to stick to first names for all — although telling all these gingers apart certainly is a hassle and a half — figuring “Weasley” wouldn’t be the best designator in a house full of them.)
Mrs Weasley’s food is just as tasty as her taste in music is awful. I’ve never been able to stomach the travesty that is Celestina Warbeck, but I endure it, just like I always did whenever Father insisted on playing one of her bazillion records. The mulled wine is heady and the pastries divine, and when everyone gathers in the living room for the gift exchange, I find myself in the corner of one of the couches, Potter pressed against my side after once again scooting over to make room for someone else.
Countless presents change hands, accompanied by cheerful chatter and appreciative oohs and ahhs, and since I haven’t been expecting any, the big lumpy one landing on my lap catches me by surprise. I glance at Potter, who looks just as surprised as I feel. He gives me an encouraging smile and motions for me to open it just as a similar present comes sailing through the air towards him. Frowning, I take my time unwrapping my gift, finding a soft, knitted jumper inside.
“Let me see,” Potter says, leaning in to peek into the nest of torn wrapping paper. He’s entirely too close, sending my heartrate through the roof, and I jump at the chance to divert his attention before I give myself away.
I lift the garment from its wrapping, holding it up for inspection. It’s the perfect shade of green, adorned with a majestic silver dragon on the front. My heart swells at the sight and I fight to temper my emotions as I say, “So, what do you reckon?”
“I reckon you're stuck with us now.” Potter grins. I raise a questioning eyebrow at him, urging him to elaborate. “That jumper means you’re officially accepted by the Weasley family.”
I don’t say anything to that, the lump in my throat makes it impossible to speak, so I busy myself folding the jumper to perfection. A quick look around the room tells me everyone else seems to have received a similar garment in their own assigned colour. I glance at Potter again, catching him mouthing a smiling, “Thank you”, to Mrs Weasley. As I follow his gaze, the woman winks back at him.
When Potter produces the first of his two wrapped portraits, the room goes eerily quiet. Everyone knows what’s to come, even if the intended recipients think it’s for someone else. Smug glances are sent in both George’s and his parents’ directions, but smugness quickly turns to bewilderment when Potter, instead of handing the present over, summons its twin from Merlin knows where.
Eyes wide and glistening, George, Molly, and Arthur accepts the neatly wrapped paintings, all three beaming with joy as they lay eyes on the lost Weasley son for the first time in years. Suddenly everyone’s on their feet, wanting to greet their missed brother and friend.
In the commotion, no one notices as Potter’s hand wraps around mine. No one sees our eyes meet, nor do they hear Potter whisper another, “Thank you”, against my lips. Our second kiss is just as intoxicating as the first, causing me to lose track of time and space where we sit in the middle of the crowded living room.
Gasps and whispers bring me back to the present, but even as we pull back from the kiss, we don’t move apart. Instead of meeting the others astonished gazes, we opt to stay in our bubble of bliss, leaning our foreheads together as identical blushes creep up our cheeks.
“Oh, shut up.” Fred’s amused voice chimes over the murmurs. “You all knew they’d eventually end up together.”
My cheeks are burning hot, but when Potter nudges my nose with his and wishes me a merry Christmas, I find I couldn’t care less if I tried.
“Merry Christmas, Harry.”
