#pining #sketches #quidditch
Draco calmly set about mixing his paints. He’d perfected a particular shade of green only the day prior, and he wanted to get it exact. He had plenty of time to get it right before he needed to begin sketching. Quidditch practice didn’t start for another twenty minutes or so.
He’d set up his canvas quite a distance from the pitch so that the players wouldn’t see him. Of course, that also meant he couldn’t see them that well either so, as always, he’d brought his binoculars to get the best view of his intended subject - it was a bit of a hassle using them and painting at the same time but it was better than the alternative - being caught.
Not even Pansy knew he was out here. Not for lack of trying of course. She’d even taken to following him in the mornings but Draco was careful. This morning he’d led her on a goose chase around the castle before finally giving her the slip and heading outside.
It was surprisingly warm for so early in the morning, the harsh glares of the sun already in full force. Draco had created a shade for himself - magically stretching out the branches of a nearby tree to shield his pale skin from the sun. But the players wouldn’t be so lucky. He could just imagine the sweat rolling down a particular player’s skin. It would make for a great painting if he could capture it correctly.
The green paint turned out exactly as he wanted it, a perfect replica of its inspiration, Draco thought. He set it aside, eager for the chance to use it later. Since he had time to kill, he figured he may as well get a start on the background, so he began lightly sketching in the lines of the Quidditch pitch and the surrounding stadiums with a thin pencil. He’d just started drawing the hoops at the far side of the pitch when a voice pulled him out of focus.
The second hoop became oblong. He knew that voice.
“Potter,” he greeted automatically, his voice cold - a reflex. He turned around quickly, his pencil falling into the grass.
Potter was squinting at Draco’s sketch, using his broomstick, firmly planted in the ground, to keep balance as he leaned forward. Despite only heading for a practice he was dressed in his full scarlet Gryffindor Quidditch uniform, complete with a protective chest plate handing loosely from his shoulders, waiting to be strapped on properly. Draco resisted the urge to fix it himself.
A snarky What’s it you? on Draco’s lips was swallowed when Potter continued without waiting for an answer.
“Just the pitch? Or the players too?”
Panic filled Draco’s body settling itself as a niggling discomfort in his gut. “Just the pitch,” he said quickly, his eagerness to lie making him forget his desire to be contrary. Instead, his voice just came out rushed and squeaky. Lucky there were no witnesses otherwise his tough reputation would have been well and truly demolished, all by a couple of unextraordinary words from Harry Potter.
“Shame,” Potter said, standing up straight and lifting his broom. “Would you consider it? I’ve always wanted to be painted.”
Draco nodded against his will - what? Potter’s confidence was rather disconcerting. It clearly had the power to turn him into a squirming mess as well as a pathetic follower eager to please all at once.
Potter’s face lit up with a surprised smile - he obviously hadn’t expected Draco to be so agreeable - neither had Draco. “In that case, make sure you capture me from the left. It’s my good side.”
“Every side is your bloody good side,” Draco muttered to himself without thinking. Crap. There’s no way Potter hadn’t heard THAT embarrassing revelation.
But Potter didn’t say anything further. He simply winked at Draco with those devilishly charming eyes (that made Draco’s knees go weak) before mounting his broom and flying off towards the pitch, his shape growing smaller and smaller until he was just a speck in the distance.
As soon as he could wrench his eyes away from Potter, Draco turned his focus to the shade of green paint he had created. He’d have to start again from scratch. It was nowhere close to the real thing.
Now that he had Potter’s blessing, more or less, he had to make everything perfect. After all, Potter would want to see the finished product. And Draco already knew that once he did, Potter would know exactly how Draco felt about him. How could he not when Draco channelled all of his emotions into his paintings? When every stroke of his brush that coloured Potter’s face was a gentle caress? It would be obvious to anyone.
Draco resigned himself to that fact and focused all his energy into the painting. If Potter liked it, Draco might just show him all the other finished canvases locked away in his dormitory too. It was about time someone else saw Draco’s work. And who better than Draco Malfoy’s muse, Harry Potter?
Draco was right of course. Potter returned immediately after practice, flushed and sweaty, expecting results. Draco didn’t have much to show yet - he’d spent most of his time working on mixing the right shades of green. But at the same time, he was almost certainly showing too much. Potter stared at the canvas for far too long.
Draco had started with Potter’s eyes and hadn’t got much further. Sketching over them again and again to get the precise shape, the precise look of concentration as Potter scanned the pitch for the snitch. And then came the colouring. What he had gotten wrong originally was trying to find the one right shade of green for Potter’s eyes, because there wasn’t one. There were a number of shades all swimming amongst each other. Vibrant. Ever changing. Alive.
Draco thought he’d captured those eyes rather well in the end, but when Potter turned and his real eyes fixed themselves on Draco, all liveliness and wonder, Draco realised he’d never be able to do them justice. Potter’s eyes didn’t belong on paper. But Draco was starting to think, from the way Potter was blushing as he stared, that maybe, just maybe, Potter’s eyes belonged on Draco.