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It had been one of those days where nothing went the way it should.
Sharp had woken up late and missed breakfast, which had left him under-caffeinated and unequipped to deal with a student smashing a large container full of Horklump Juice five minutes into lesson one.
Then Weasley let off an almighty stink bomb of a concoction in the following class rather than focusing on brewing a simple Wiggenweld Potion as instructed, and the Dungeons had been rendered uninhabitable all afternoon. He’d had to conjure a Bubble Head Charm to be able to breathe long enough to clear the room of noxious fumes which had taken the best part of three hours.
Returning to his rooms dripping in gunk, Sharp sank into a steaming hot bath and sighed through the muscle pain and scrubbed at his skin with soap until he could finally feel the grime fade away.
What an awful day.
The only good news was that his classes were cancelled for the day, affording him far more spare time than usual in his day. As he dried his hair and put on his comfiest fluffy robe and slippers, Sharp mulled over how to spend the precious
“I think it only fair that I take a break…” he murmured to himself in the empty room. Decided, he doused the flames warming the hearth and made his way upstairs to a room few knew existed. And one which housed a hobby even fewer new he harboured.
Sharp had always loved to sketch. As a young, quiet boy it had been his preferred way to spend time. He had spent so many hours drawing creatures and landscapes he could spy from the little cottage in the hills where he was raised. He had always enjoyed the solitude of the activity and seeing the labours of his love spring to life on the page.
But during his time as an Auror he had largely put the hobby behind him. He had been so busy, and it had seemed childish perhaps. But after the accident, when he was struggling to sleep from the violent nightmares, a Healer had suggested he take it up again.
And what a lifeline that had been.
Now, whenever he had a bad day such as this or a restless night he couldn’t find peace in, Sharp would come here.
Sitting down at the drawing table, he pulled out a fresh roll of parchment and rolled his charcoal between his fingers - the tips now stained inky black with possibility and promise.
He didn’t know what he would draw. It didn’t matter. With every line he swiped across the page, his frown lines got that bit lighter. And the shadow cloud of the bad day he had been carrying felt further and further away.