whatifisaidno: The Liaisons of Portraits (Harry/Remus E)
Title: The Liaisons of Portraits
Author: whatifisaidno
Beta: Occasus, thank you.
Rating: E
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: 54. Strain.
Word Count: 1,069
Warning(s): Mentions of main character death. Angst/fluff
"Harry? What am I doing here? Why do you look so strange?"
"You're a painting, Remus."
Remus's portrait looked around him, taking in the surrounding area he'd been painted in. In his case, he found it appeared quite a lot like the study of his house only in sharp relief as though it had been captured in the evening. He squinted out into the real, warped study of the room and into Harry's frowning, melancholy face. "Oh," he said. "Where am I?"
"You're dead, Remus."
Harry glared irritably at the lost little figure in the painting as it walked around with its hands its trousers and examined the borders of its frame. It kept its head down, watching its feet and the carpet; tawny hair flopped across its face. The figure ran a palm across his chin and looked out again at Harry, who looked away and stared at the bookcase instead.
"Can you come in here?" it asked.
"No."
"Who am I?" The portrait cringed away from the sudden light of the released draperies and paced the frame once.
"You're Remus Lupin." Harry frowned and watched the figure examine the couch, the tiny painted bookcases, Harry.
"I loved you, didn't I?" asked Remus. Harry gasped. His face fell into an ugly grimace and he pulled the drapery half shut, leaving the room. The portrait sat sadly onto the plaid couch, unhappy to have made someone angry, especially Harry.
"What have you done with… with Remus?" Hermione gaped at the empty spot on the wall where the painting of Harry's partner had been hung, done just before his death. She remembered the first week Remus was gone. The portrait had been affected and didn't always know who he was, or had to be reminded. But he was so much like Remus.
"I moved him." Harry sat on the couch and motioned for her to do the same. She sat, arranging her robes and leaning against the couch arm where she could look at Harry and the empty space. He frowned deeply down at the glasses on the coffee table as he filled them and she ached to push him upstairs and get him to shave and go to bed, but didn't think he'd appreciate her invasion. It seemed like the funeral was so long ago. As they drank in silence, she wondered how should would be able to find Remus among the clutter of the house and whether the portrait was surviving in the dark.
Five Years Later
"Hermione, I don't think this is a very good idea." Harry shrunk away from the light-haired painter. He grudgingly took the man's hand to shake which the man used to direct him further toward the chair that had been set up.
"Of course it is," she assured him. She turned toward the painter and put a hand on the Scotsman's shoulder. "Will he, I mean the portrait, be able to move anywhere outside the painting?" She asked him. Harry slouched around the chair where he was to be presented.
"Of course," said the painter. "Well, anywhere inside the building where he's at and if he's really determined," he whistled, "further. Though we do often get some, what do you call, nervous ones and, you know, various neurosises, who never move outside their frame, but you know. This one, I don't think we'll have a problem." He put his hands on his hips.
"Great," she smiled.
Remus lied back on the painted couch and watched the speckled ceiling swim in his vision. The artist had rendered the edges sparkly and star-like which Remus liked, though he couldn't get rid of the dust that seemed to creep into his skin and cover every surface of his space. The etch marks he'd been using to count the days shone white on the dark surface of the coffee table that all the books seemed to slide off of when he placed them there away from their usual place in the bookshelf. He wasn't sure how long he'd been counting, but there were 700 marks give or take many missing days, and it took that long to realize the days were passing and not just repeating themselves. Most of the time he was awake and thought about the images from his dreams of a green eyed, dark haired man and a dark eyed, dark haired man he thought he'd known and also about dogs and castles and what he thought was "weather," but wasn't sure. He breathed shallowly and tried not to disturb the ever present dust.
From the direction of what he thought was his western edge someone sneezed. His brow crinkled and he took a moment to remember how to respond. "Hello?" He asked, though it came out as a whisper. He couldn't remember the last person he'd seen since the green eyed man and he wasn't in the habit of talking to himself so it took several coughs before he could get more out. "Who is it?" He asked. He stared suspiciously into the widening gap beyond his boundaries.
"It's Harry," said a man's voice. Remus didn't think it sounded very happy and he wasn't sure he wanted it in his frame.
"Harry who?" But then a second figure moved into his sitting room. He took a breath; it was the man from his dreams. Harry. "Oh Harry," he said. He sat up, his paint creaking and made room for the man to join him on his couch. "Sit here." He gaped at the small smile this produced. Unable to move more than upright, he could only beam at the welcome figure before him.
"I missed you," he said giddily.
"I missed you, too." Harry smiled at him. The painter had made his hair too brown and gray and his robes look contrived, but Remus didn't think he with his cracking paint could look too good either and wanted nothing more than to ravish the man right there. Harry continued speaking, "I, um, I have a room. It's not much. Draperies and, and stuff, and there's scenery, but, it's not so dusty and I'm sure McGonagall will have you."
"You're at Hogwarts?" Remus asked him. He rolled the name around his memory and thought it was right.
"Yes. Will you come with me?" asked the man. Remus almost burst with the joy the shy question gave him.
"I'd like nothing more," he said and smiled.
Author: whatifisaidno
Beta: Occasus, thank you.
Rating: E
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: 54. Strain.
Word Count: 1,069
Warning(s): Mentions of main character death. Angst/fluff
"Harry? What am I doing here? Why do you look so strange?"
"You're a painting, Remus."
Remus's portrait looked around him, taking in the surrounding area he'd been painted in. In his case, he found it appeared quite a lot like the study of his house only in sharp relief as though it had been captured in the evening. He squinted out into the real, warped study of the room and into Harry's frowning, melancholy face. "Oh," he said. "Where am I?"
"You're dead, Remus."
Harry glared irritably at the lost little figure in the painting as it walked around with its hands its trousers and examined the borders of its frame. It kept its head down, watching its feet and the carpet; tawny hair flopped across its face. The figure ran a palm across his chin and looked out again at Harry, who looked away and stared at the bookcase instead.
"Can you come in here?" it asked.
"No."
"Who am I?" The portrait cringed away from the sudden light of the released draperies and paced the frame once.
"You're Remus Lupin." Harry frowned and watched the figure examine the couch, the tiny painted bookcases, Harry.
"I loved you, didn't I?" asked Remus. Harry gasped. His face fell into an ugly grimace and he pulled the drapery half shut, leaving the room. The portrait sat sadly onto the plaid couch, unhappy to have made someone angry, especially Harry.
"What have you done with… with Remus?" Hermione gaped at the empty spot on the wall where the painting of Harry's partner had been hung, done just before his death. She remembered the first week Remus was gone. The portrait had been affected and didn't always know who he was, or had to be reminded. But he was so much like Remus.
"I moved him." Harry sat on the couch and motioned for her to do the same. She sat, arranging her robes and leaning against the couch arm where she could look at Harry and the empty space. He frowned deeply down at the glasses on the coffee table as he filled them and she ached to push him upstairs and get him to shave and go to bed, but didn't think he'd appreciate her invasion. It seemed like the funeral was so long ago. As they drank in silence, she wondered how should would be able to find Remus among the clutter of the house and whether the portrait was surviving in the dark.
Five Years Later
"Hermione, I don't think this is a very good idea." Harry shrunk away from the light-haired painter. He grudgingly took the man's hand to shake which the man used to direct him further toward the chair that had been set up.
"Of course it is," she assured him. She turned toward the painter and put a hand on the Scotsman's shoulder. "Will he, I mean the portrait, be able to move anywhere outside the painting?" She asked him. Harry slouched around the chair where he was to be presented.
"Of course," said the painter. "Well, anywhere inside the building where he's at and if he's really determined," he whistled, "further. Though we do often get some, what do you call, nervous ones and, you know, various neurosises, who never move outside their frame, but you know. This one, I don't think we'll have a problem." He put his hands on his hips.
"Great," she smiled.
Remus lied back on the painted couch and watched the speckled ceiling swim in his vision. The artist had rendered the edges sparkly and star-like which Remus liked, though he couldn't get rid of the dust that seemed to creep into his skin and cover every surface of his space. The etch marks he'd been using to count the days shone white on the dark surface of the coffee table that all the books seemed to slide off of when he placed them there away from their usual place in the bookshelf. He wasn't sure how long he'd been counting, but there were 700 marks give or take many missing days, and it took that long to realize the days were passing and not just repeating themselves. Most of the time he was awake and thought about the images from his dreams of a green eyed, dark haired man and a dark eyed, dark haired man he thought he'd known and also about dogs and castles and what he thought was "weather," but wasn't sure. He breathed shallowly and tried not to disturb the ever present dust.
From the direction of what he thought was his western edge someone sneezed. His brow crinkled and he took a moment to remember how to respond. "Hello?" He asked, though it came out as a whisper. He couldn't remember the last person he'd seen since the green eyed man and he wasn't in the habit of talking to himself so it took several coughs before he could get more out. "Who is it?" He asked. He stared suspiciously into the widening gap beyond his boundaries.
"It's Harry," said a man's voice. Remus didn't think it sounded very happy and he wasn't sure he wanted it in his frame.
"Harry who?" But then a second figure moved into his sitting room. He took a breath; it was the man from his dreams. Harry. "Oh Harry," he said. He sat up, his paint creaking and made room for the man to join him on his couch. "Sit here." He gaped at the small smile this produced. Unable to move more than upright, he could only beam at the welcome figure before him.
"I missed you," he said giddily.
"I missed you, too." Harry smiled at him. The painter had made his hair too brown and gray and his robes look contrived, but Remus didn't think he with his cracking paint could look too good either and wanted nothing more than to ravish the man right there. Harry continued speaking, "I, um, I have a room. It's not much. Draperies and, and stuff, and there's scenery, but, it's not so dusty and I'm sure McGonagall will have you."
"You're at Hogwarts?" Remus asked him. He rolled the name around his memory and thought it was right.
"Yes. Will you come with me?" asked the man. Remus almost burst with the joy the shy question gave him.
"I'd like nothing more," he said and smiled.