Chapter Text
“Who?” Harry said absentmindedly between bites, munching on a stale pan au chocolat he had saved from earlier that day.
“Merlin— The bloody minister, that’s who! And he specifically requested you!” Leone spat out indignantly, hands in his hair. The man paced back and forth while muttering gibberish to himself.
It was not breakfast time at the Atelier, nor was the shop even open. Harry had just finished working on his portrait of Lady Delacour— some important woman in France apparently— when Leone burst into his workplace looking like a bird that had been chased by a dog.
According to the frantic fellow, the British Minister of Magic wanted Harry to paint his portrait in time for some gala that was to be held on Yule. He did not even know the man’s name.
“You do know I still have to do that evil old man and those two other fellows portraits, right? The eccentric blonde ones?” Harry cut in, muffled, for his mouth was full.
“Oh screw that, you have to put this on top of your list!” Leone scoffed, still pacing around the room.
“Nope.” Harry said, popping the ‘p’
He did not particularly care that this client was the Minister. He had just finished interviewing the old Malfoy man after two grueling weeks of conversations, and he had no intention of going through that again. Seriously, the man was cruel. To paint a portrait was to paint the person’s soul, and the first way to do that was to know one’s soul.
The process of knowing a client ranged from ‘I need a fucking cig’ to ‘Oh, I could read this person with my eyes closed.’
It was important to start the painting process right after the interviewing was done, as to make sure all the details were still fresh in his mind. Leone was still ranting.
Seriously, though. What was the fellow’s name?
‘Thomas? Tom? Timothy?’ He thought to himself as Leone went on about the details of the client. Truth be told, Harry doesn’t see what was so important about this fellow. He debated silently between the three names, wondering which of them was right.
He settled for Timothy.
“ — Mind you, this is the biggest commission we’ve gotten in forever. It’ll be plastered at the Yule Gala, Harry! Not to mention the absolutely insane amount of money he paid for—”
“How much?” Harry cut Leone off, only tuning back into his prattling when he heard money was involved.
There were only two things important to Harry: Chocolate, and money.
“Two hundred thousand galleons.” Leone deadpanned.
Ah.
For that money, he’d go through eternity conversing with Abraxas Malfoy’s wretched soul.
*
“Damnit,” Harry groaned when the guard chastised him for smoking, and put out his cigarette with the flick of a wand. That was his last piece. The Ministry had banned the use of cigarettes in indoor areas a year ago, but it had slipped Harry’s mind. He was too preoccupied painting a dead man and bringing him to life at the time.
The guard gave him an exasperated look before allowing him to pass. He was meant to go to level nine to meet the Minister.
Getting into the rather shoddy elevator with two Ministry employees, Harry sighs as he presses the button for Nine.
“Aye, never seen ye around. What you going to nine for?” The bloke in purple robes spits out in a heavy accent, eyeing him curiously.
“Uhhh…” Harry trailed off, not knowing whether the portrait was supposed to be a surprise for the event or not. It probably wasn’t.
“The Minister summoned me.” He finished lamely. It was the truth, and Harry wasn’t quite good at lying.
A disembodied female voice says “Level Four.” as the elevator opens and the man in the purple robes steps out.
“Good luck,” He snorted. “Ne’er seen anyone escape the Minister unscathed before.”
Ah.
Was he supposed to be worried?
*
“Level Nine.” Harry steps out, immediately noticing the marbled ceilings and sophisticated decor. To his left was a statue of Achilles. And right ahead of him, an arched door.
As it turns out, Level Nine wasn’t actually a level for Ministry employees or departments. It was just a place for Timothy to dump his extravagant art hobbies and call it a day.
It was Harry's turn to snort.
“Aight-o, straight ahead we go.” Harry whistles, taking long strides. He fidgets with his necklace whilst very much wishing he had a cig in his hands instead.
He pushes the door open not-so gently, which opens into a well-lit office. There was a massive window behind the mahogany desk, letting sunlight in.
Which, really. How in Merlin’s pants do you let sunlight in? They were underground.
Swiping his thoughts away, Harry takes a quick looksie around the room.
As it turns out, Mr. Minister Timothy wasn’t around.
Boo-hoo.
Harry does not have much self-preservation, if any at all. He takes a peak at the desk drawers and ruffles through some loose files. They were all about bills to be passed, suggestions from Heads of Departments and yadda yadda. A quick look at the walls and Harry realizes the man has no portraits, not one.
Which is strange for a man in his position. Often times the Heads or Important People have their predecessors on the wall, question about society to be mulled over by the both of them. Hell, Dumbledore had dozens in his office when he was still a student.
Harry grimaced. He only entered the Headmaster’s office once in his life, and the memory was not a good one.
Tucking that away for later, he turns his attention to the massive window and spots a put-out cigar on a crystal ashtray, laying just atop the windowsill.
He contemplates for half a second— mainly because he could hear Leone scolding him from afar— before caving in and taking two steps towards it.
He puts the cigar in his mouth, wordlessly igniting it with a spell.
Ah. He sighs out in pleasure.
Despite not using cigars for aesthetic purposes— Only old men used those, really—- Harry admits that the tobacco was much stronger, just the way he liked it.
He breathed in and watched the smoke leave his lips as he exhaled, eyes admiring the intricate window panes.
His attention taken in by the Baroque details and mind relaxed, Harry didn’t notice that the door behind him had opened three minutes ago.
Or the powerful aura permeating from the man who had opened it.
Bollocks.
*
“Fuck!” Harry spits out, startled as the cigar leaves his mouth.
One second he was inhaling heaven, and the second he was plunged into an ice bath as a cold, icy hand lay itself on his shoulder.
“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” A deep voice drawled.
Ah, shit. The Minister.
Harry slowly turns around, an unapologetic grin on his face. Nevermind that he was the one snooping around the man’s office, he wouldn’t be ashamed.
But… wow.
This man was Hot.
With just inches of space between them, Harry gazes into piercing, deep grey eyes. The Minister had sharp features, his hair tousled and wavy with only hints of grey peeking through.
He was, strictly speaking, most likely sculpted by the Greek gods themselves.
Without warning, he takes the cigar from Harry’s hands and puts it into his own mouth— Even his lips were perfect— while wordless igniting the vice.
Harry’s mind shortcircuits.
“You aren’t allowed to do that. There's a ban, you know.” He says very stupidly to break the ice.
The man stares at him.
“I’m the Minister.” He deadpans.
Eh. Fair enough.
“...And it seems we’re ignoring the fact that you just had my cigar in your mouth. It's very rude not to introduce oneself before that, you know." He adds.
“You really don’t know who you set meetings with?” Harry asks, baffled.
The Minister frowns.
“My secretary settles my meetings. And I do not often find them breaking into my office and setting their grubby hands on my things.”
“Ouch. Not grubby, just calloused.”
The Minister gives him a pointed look.
“I’m Harry. The painter.” He says, to which the Minister replies with “...The painter. And what exactly are you doing here?”
“Oh, well. Since you’re getting your portrait painted, we really have to set meetings for our interviews. It’d be great if we did about 2-hour talks for at least three times the first week, for me to be able to gauge the level where we’re going at.”
“I did not realize having myself painted required such… boring requirements.”
“Yep, nobody really does.” Harry sighs out, remembering that one time he spent three months coaxing an old lady into telling him about her past. Turns out, she was the right-hand of some Dark Lord. He doesn’t know. Vinda Rosier had a rather feisty soul.
“But its really important!” Harry says, stars in his eyes.
“Y see, to paint a person is to embody their soul in the physical world. Which basically means I have to know you from the inside out before I could get started and—” Harry gushes on, and is only cut off after three minutes of constant talking. If there's one thing that has his heart, it's his art.
…Well two. You must add the chocolates.
“So you need me to talk. About my life.” The Minister deadpans once again.
“Yes.”
“I’m busy.”
“Then we’ll never get the painting ready for the event thingy.” Harry says, frustrated.
The two bicker back and forth, though bickering is not a thing Tom Riddle has ever done in his youth, let alone now as the most powerful man in Britain— but he secretly enjoys it nonetheless.
He sighs.
“Fine. I’ll get my secretary to schedule an hour on Monday for the week and we’ll see where we go after that.” The Minister says, fingers pinching his temple. He has never had anyone question him before.
Harry nods, obviously dissatisfied. “Whatever, your call.” He sighs out, returning once again to his teenager-like personality. It's as if Harry the Painter and Harry the person are two entire different people.
“And Potter?”
“Yeah?”
The Minister summons his confiscated cigarette.
“Marlboro blue… really?” He cocks his head to the side as he slips the cigarette into the unassuming man’s mouth, lighting it wordlessly.
"Not everyone enjoys the taste of dirt, Timothy. I prefer mint. See ya around!"