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No good Auror enjoys a mystery. It's fine and well to enjoy the fruits of one's work—the satisfaction of a job well done, the peace in knowing the public is that much safer… Those all pass muster. One who seeks a mystery for the thrill of the unknown often finds themselves chasing shadows without probable cause.
Though full of countless other failings, this is precisely why Aesop Sharp, though removed from his rank, finds his situation so infuriating.
They're not supposed to do this within the castle walls—not even on the extended grounds, if one wants to be pedantic about rules and boundaries they themselves set up. Yet the deeper Sharp and Teodoro delve into their relationship, the more difficult waiting becomes. The tasks of a student are laborious and the work of a teacher is endless. Resigning their intimacy to the outskirts of holiday breaks eventually bends them both past the breaking point.
One of them ought to be grading assignments. The other, while in good academic standing, stares down the impending threat of his N.E.W.T.s—one slip could trigger a catastrophic backslide in his progress. But it doesn't curtail a stare left to linger too long, nor does it withhold a glancing touch—a simple glide of fingers down a comfortably worn dark grey sleeve…
When Teodoro’s back hits the shelves of the potion's storeroom, specimen jars clink and rattle, and dust shakes loose from decades-old scrolls. Despite the force, he only grins, the expression lopsided and harmless, if not slightly dazed. Outside of class, he works with beasts most of his days; he’s stronger than he looks because of that labor. A little roughhousing is hardly a threat. It’s just so rare that he sees any of it from Sharp. Anything that doesn’t end with Teodoro treated softly comes as a bit of a thrill.
“You’re tempting me,” Sharp murmurs. There’s a low rumble at the back of his words that leaves Teodoro swearing he can feel the same electrical charge tickling up his spine that he does in a firefight.
Raising his hands in surrender, Teodoro tips his head up as Sharp eases into the space between them.
“Not on purpose.” He’s no interest in baiting his lover’s aggravation. Teodoro is hopelessly wed to gentler teasing play—to short-lived nudges meant to invoke laughter, not stress. “You were looking through things with such purpose. I didn’t think you’d notice... I missed touching you.”
Any irritation vanishes in a flash, leaving muted exhaustion in its wake. “It’s…been a long week.” An apology follows, though before Teodoro can lower his hands, Sharp’s curl around the other’s wrists, carefully pinning each in place against the shelves. The space surrounding the pair lends no sound but that of their own breaths. Any footsteps are too distant to parse. Still, Sharp’s gaze shifts aside, scrutinizing the open corridor next to them, listening. When appeased by the absence he finds, his attention returns to Teodoro. “Had you not those gloves on, I might kiss your palms.” Reflexively, Teodoro’s hands twitch and any residual tension in him goes slack. “I can, however, think of a suitable replacement…”
Though delighted to submit, as Sharp descends, Teodoro is hardly passive, meeting the other halfway. Having not properly touched one another in weeks, they crumble, and quickly that tentative grip of Sharp’s releases. Bodies tangle, hands grasping, as they rut against one another, fully clothed.
Really, the year can’t end quickly enough…
Life goes on. With proper enchanting, tests probably could give themselves, but Sharp doesn’t trust that level of automation with anything more convoluted than a self-washing dishware—and that doesn’t even begin to describe the precautions necessary for the students, given the lengths some will go to cheat. So he does what he must, soldiering on, and all else around him does the same. It’s not until Sharp passes through that same corridor again, days later, that something changes.
It manifests suddenly: a whistle, low and drawn out—the sort often heard from those trying to press their unwanted advances on another. When Sharp turns quick on his heel, a clench in his shoulders, the sound terminates abruptly. Finding nothing, not even the telltale glimmer of a concealing disillusionment charm, Sharp finds himself at a loss.
There’s simply no one present to scold.
The second time it occurs, it startles with so much more than a whistle.
Passing through, Sharp's mind is consumed by the agitation of how his once-peaceful office hours have been upended by distraught fifth-years begging for the space to practice their questionable potion-making skills, his watchful eye to supervise, and his discipline to correct their course. Barely aware of himself, let alone his surroundings (poor form that he'll later chide himself over), Sharp nearly misses his audience.
“Not having a rub today?"
Twisting so quickly on his feet that it sends a hot burst of pain flaring up his leg, bursting along his spine, he stands seething in the aftermath. Yet again, no person awaits him.
Revelio is a spell of last resort—a cheap fix-all when your senses and training fail you. No small amount of bitterness steeps inside him when he folds, casting it in a broad-sweeping gesture. His frown deepens into a scowl. Nothing. With no body present, no creature, no left-behind magicked item left shimmering to explain the voice, Sharp comes to the logical conclusion. Turning instead to stare at the long corridor wall, and meeting a number of pairs of blinking eyes, he believes then that he's being harassed by a portrait.
It's not unheard of—portraits going rogue. It's just rare. But that's still assuming it's even gone nutty at all. With the sheer volume collected (hardly curated in his opinion) by the school, there's a solid chance they've simply added a less than pleasant one to the mix.
Lovely.
The third time it occurs, rather than clip through in a hurry, Sharp intentionally lingers in the storeroom during a lunch break, half-sat upon a step as he leans back into the rolling ladder. Book in hand, he leisurely flips through the pages, as if hunting a specific passage, but without a single care to hurry him through the process. Occasionally, as they do, the portraits hung across from him shift and yawn, doing relatively little. From time to time, Sharp makes note to, as covertly as possible, glance up from his farce as he waits for his cat-caller to make themselves known.
As time drags on, one of the paintings—a braces-wearing bloke in a lightly colored rectangular frame—takes to a stretch of confusion with Sharp's prolonged presence. He breaks from his normal, almost cyclical series of evenly spaced twitches and glances-about, and focuses a firm stare directly on Sharp.
"Where is 'e?"
Sharp turns another page, unaffected, playing up his engrossment in the text.
The painted man's brows pinch together, and his eyes flick down, then up again, as if in disbelief and then uttered the most inglorious string of loosely connected words Sharp has ever heard—which is incredibly impressive, given his stint as both an Auror and a teacher:
"'ey guvnah, where’s your little love muppet?"
Perhaps Sharp is too long out of practice handling these kinds of things. With a lack of unsavory sulkers, criminals, and other various ne'er-do-wells on campus, it does lower one's expectations for vulgarity. But then again, teenagers are uncomfortably creative and clever with the verbal torrents they expel. Perhaps the portrait's sudden interjection is just that awful. Regardless, it leaves Sharp on the backfoot, brows high and eyes wide.
"Excuse me, sir." Quickly reining his features back into a colder, more stern state, Sharp snaps his book shut. The portrait freezes. "Could you run that by me again? My what…?" Straightening up, Sharp sets the old book safely aside on its original shelf. As he approaches the far wall, he slows his gait to mask his limp. There's no shame in playing a predator when you can use it to your advantage. "Who are you, precisely?"
Swallowing, the painted man fidgets, caught. Then, with a shifty look askance, he quips, "Nunya," and hurriedly removes himself out of frame.
Left staring at an empty scene, Sharp presses his lips tight together, grumbling, "None of my business. Of course…" Exhaling briskly, his shoulders sink, and he opts to change tactics. Shifting his attention further up the wall, Sharp addresses the bust of a more formal-looking gentleman in a darker circular frame, "The man below you: short dark hair, braces—do you know him?"
Staring down his aquiline nose, the portrait shakes his head curtly, then resumes its glazed-eyed sentinel.
Alright then. Cornered by a mystery that itches under his skin like the loose wood shavings covering his studio floor, Sharp knows it's time to get to work.
After that, the mouthy portrait starts ducking out of frame every time Sharp makes an appearance; it looks like Sharp will bypass a fourth incident entirely. But armed with a good memory and a steady hand, he tucks himself up in his studio space late one Friday night and sketches the mouthy piece of fancy wallpaper. With a good likeness in hand, he plans to cross-examine school records to properly track and deal with the now flighty voyeur. After all, if he can't remove the painting quickly enough to isolate it, the chance that its occupant will simply jump ship to another is simply too high.
While Sharp's relationship with Teodoro is no secret, it's still not one loudly proclaimed (or universally accepted). He and the younger man have already experienced one very tight near-miss over the previous summer with a well-meaning misunderstanding that could have cost Sharp his job (again). To have this new and unknown element in play, if Sharp can find any information about the punchy portrait, then he's one step closer to convincing it to keep its mouth shut for good and potentially heading off any more disasters.
What minute slivers of free time remain in Sharp's possession are relegated to the hunt:
He contracts the librarian, and with her direction, is given free reign to plow through old records on the complete collection, verifying the data hall-by-hall in person.
He avoids Phinneas—the man's still sneering at the mere notion of the damage Sharp's doing to the collective social clout of the school by "chasing" someone so young—and turns to Scrope instead, plying the house-elf for contact information of the last portrait painters employed by Hogwarts, as well as those well-off families that donated any.
He drags himself all the way out to Gladwin's rat cellar of a room down along the ramparts, and asks if any of the other portraits have been acting strangely, especially in regards to the Library Annex
So too does he question the paintings of the Annex—though that very strictly is reserved as a post-curfew activity, to avoid the scrutinizing eyes and ears of gossiping students.
And while trustworthy with Sharp's affairs, Abraham is barred from the list before he's even considered for it. He doesn't want to be teased any more than he already receives from the man on a regular basis…
In the coming weeks, Sharp fires off correspondence almost as quickly as he receives it. With disregard to student homework, he reads more than he has in years. Even through Floor flame, he speaks to countless individuals: public dealers, private owners, the list goes on. But time ticks on without a shred of evidence to point him in any direction at all.
More and more, the option of springing himself upon the catty canvas and immolating it before its occupant can flee are becoming more and more attractive. Exams are in less than two months. Sharp relates more and more to the imagery of a wolf with its paw caught and gored in a bear trap, slobbering in a blind panic as it gnaws at the limb to free itself. No one knows anything about this mysterious painting.
What's he supposed to do…?
One day, it's simply gone without a trace. Now, with less than nothing to show for his work, Sharp feels like a crazy person.
By the time he gets to Dinah, too embroiled in her own end-of-year crunch, she's no sympathy left to offer.
"It's gone, Aesop. Count your blessings while you can," she tells him. Essays swallow the surface of her desk, with nary a self-grading quill in sight. As the fifth and seventh-years begin to panic, their handwriting warps and mangles into fresher hells of unreadability. She can't trust the things to act impartially if they can't decipher the text at all. "Now unless you plan on marking these with me, I'd suggest you leave to deal with your own." She glances up, her gaze chillier than the stone floor of the dungeons. "I do trust you haven't finished yet, given your current fixation with this pernicious painting."
No, no he hasn't. But it's nothing an all-nighter over the weekend won't fix. Even with the painting missing, however, its unexplained and unplanned absence brings more fresh anxieties than answered questions—the those former will linger in the back of his already overworked mind until the end of term.
Clutching a flat wrapped parcel under an arm, Teodoro winds his way through the streets of Hogsmeade, pausing occasionally as he surveys ahead, on the lookout for an underclassman. When he spots her, he sighs in relief and strokes the bound fabric.
"I see her now. Don't you worry at all," he murmurs kindly to it.
Shifting it for a better grip, he throws up a hand, and calling her name, waves. Down a ways on the busy cobblestone, she perks, her head snapping his way. With a gasp, she jogs over, brimming with relief as she crowds him.
"Oh, thank you so much! When we got news that our grandmother was going to be staying with us for so long, I was so worried we'd have to throw him out! He never minded his mouth when he was alive, and he certainly didn't learn to start after that." She regards the portrait with a wistful sigh. "My dad will be overjoyed to hear that he's okay. But wherever did you hide him that no one heard?"
Trading the parcel to her, she tugs at the twine keeping it bound, and peels the cloth aside. The parcel isn't a parcel at all, it seems, but a portrait wrapped in linens for safe transport. The dark haired man, expertly fashioned in oil paints, peers out the gap provided, and cheers as he greets the girl.
Teodoro chuckles warmly, gladdened to be of help. "I found a spot down in the storeroom below the potion's classroom. Truth be told, not long after I stowed him down there, I forgot about him entirely. He wasn't the only portrait at least, so it's not like he lacked any company."
"Professor Sharp keeps that place locked tighter than a Firecrab's arsehole," she balks in disbelief. "How'd you get him in there?"
The painted man makes an excited sound of recognition, but anything else is swiftly muffled as the girl recovers both canvas and frame.
Teodoro shrugs, ready to leave the issue entirely. He's got last minute exam cramming to get done. "I've got my ways."
"Well I'll thank my lucky stars you do. You've saved what's last of my uncle, even if he's hardly the best guest." Readjusting the load in her arms, she thanks him again and parting, go their separate ways.