Drabble - Oil on Canvas
Thank you all SO much for all the lovely drabble suggestions. It's actually been nice to write something again, so here is the first one. It's for fierydspsition who requested Post-Hogwarts, H/D, oil painting (as in the verb). I'm not sure if this has proper verbage, but I hope it's okay, if a little angsty.
Oil on Canvas
The starkness of the white walls were in complete contrast to the paintings that now adorned them, each one a splash of vivid colour in the otherwise impersonal hospital room. Harry stared through the little window in the door, his hand slightly sweaty on the doorknob as he watched the artist inside totally engrossed in his work.
“How is he?” He glanced briefly at the person standing beside him then back into the room.
“Much the same.” Hermione leaned a little closer, her shoulder resting against Harry’s as she too watched the patient. “He doesn’t say much, except to ask for more oil paint or canvases. We’ve been trying memory charms and potions but it’s like his mind was wiped clean of everything, except for what he paints. And nobody else understands what they mean.”
“Including me,” Harry finished in a barely audible whisper. “They must mean something.”
“To him, maybe. But we haven’t been able to find any connection in them. They’re just....” She shrugged and gave a heartfelt sigh.
The artist stepped back from his easel and, pushing a hand through his hair, stared at his latest work. The gesture had streaked red paint in the silver-blond strands and Harry was desperate to clean it away.
He rested his hand on the glass as if that was enough to reach the man inside. “There has to be a way. Something to reverse what they did to him.”
“That’s the problem, we don’t know what happened. The only person who does is him and he doesn’t remember his own name.” She reached out and covered Harry’s hand with her own. “Harry, it’s been over six months now and you’ve been here every day. Don’t you think....”
Harry snapped around to look at his friend, knowing deep down that she only ever had his best interests at heart. But she couldn’t understand because he didn’t really know himself why he kept coming back day after day after day. The person who had once been his lover didn’t remember him and each time Harry visited it was like they were meeting for the first time again. It was heartbreaking to be so close to him, yet there was a gulf miles wide between them.
All Draco knew were his paintings ... oil on canvas ... streaks of abstract colour that meant something to him but nothing to anyone else.
“I can’t leave him, Hermione. Imagine what it must be like to have no past?” He looked back through the window. “At least I can try and give him a future.”
With that, he squeezed her hand and reached for the doorknob.
---
9th May 2006
Oil on Canvas
The starkness of the white walls were in complete contrast to the paintings that now adorned them, each one a splash of vivid colour in the otherwise impersonal hospital room. Harry stared through the little window in the door, his hand slightly sweaty on the doorknob as he watched the artist inside totally engrossed in his work.
“How is he?” He glanced briefly at the person standing beside him then back into the room.
“Much the same.” Hermione leaned a little closer, her shoulder resting against Harry’s as she too watched the patient. “He doesn’t say much, except to ask for more oil paint or canvases. We’ve been trying memory charms and potions but it’s like his mind was wiped clean of everything, except for what he paints. And nobody else understands what they mean.”
“Including me,” Harry finished in a barely audible whisper. “They must mean something.”
“To him, maybe. But we haven’t been able to find any connection in them. They’re just....” She shrugged and gave a heartfelt sigh.
The artist stepped back from his easel and, pushing a hand through his hair, stared at his latest work. The gesture had streaked red paint in the silver-blond strands and Harry was desperate to clean it away.
He rested his hand on the glass as if that was enough to reach the man inside. “There has to be a way. Something to reverse what they did to him.”
“That’s the problem, we don’t know what happened. The only person who does is him and he doesn’t remember his own name.” She reached out and covered Harry’s hand with her own. “Harry, it’s been over six months now and you’ve been here every day. Don’t you think....”
Harry snapped around to look at his friend, knowing deep down that she only ever had his best interests at heart. But she couldn’t understand because he didn’t really know himself why he kept coming back day after day after day. The person who had once been his lover didn’t remember him and each time Harry visited it was like they were meeting for the first time again. It was heartbreaking to be so close to him, yet there was a gulf miles wide between them.
All Draco knew were his paintings ... oil on canvas ... streaks of abstract colour that meant something to him but nothing to anyone else.
“I can’t leave him, Hermione. Imagine what it must be like to have no past?” He looked back through the window. “At least I can try and give him a future.”
With that, he squeezed her hand and reached for the doorknob.
---
9th May 2006