{Sketch of a Lady} - HP fic
I wrote this a couple of years ago and found it buried in the depths of my laptop. I am, surprisingly, still happy with it so thought I'd post. A quick warning; it is incredibly over-the-top.
Sketch of a Lady
general spoilers; Minerva, Tom
She was perfect.
He studies her, this woman who has been an enigma to him since the first day he met her. It was twenty years ago, and he was in his seventh year at Hogwarts when she strode past him. Her back arched as she curved her spine to avoid a clumsy first year and he'd caught a glimpse of curves hidden beneath voluminous robes. She held a broomstick on one hand, and wielded a Beater's bat in the other.
He'd remained in the corridor long after she'd walked past, riveted to the same spot. He was a Slytherin, she was a Gryffindor...and yet he saw himself in the sylph of a girl who had marched by him. There was a hardness in her eyes that belied the rare smile that occasionally touched her lips.
Oh yes, she was perfect.
Now, twenty years later, he studies her from across the room where she reclines on the couch, smoking a cigarette. She eyes him with pure hatred in her eyes.
"Let me go," she demands, the tendons in her temple knotting as she glares at him.
"No," he answers softly.
Her eyes turn emerald, and she takes a heavy drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke in the air as she looks out the window. The world is awash with grey, the lucent harr bleeding into the brackish moors, but he cares not as he removes the charcoal stick from its pouch and presses it against the parchment.
His movements are slow at first as they outline the curve of her body, but soon quicken. He glances up periodically, tracing the line of her smoothly-descending forehead which leads to heavily-lidded eyes which are now eying him with no small amount of imperious displeasure. She raises her eyebrows as he continues to sketch, each line more bold than the last.
"Surely you could have figured out a better way than this, Tom," she says scornfully, now pushing the butt of her cigarette against the polished oak of the couch. He hates it when she does this, a fact she knows and uses to her advantage.
He says nothing as he adds the finishing touches to the drawing. She rolls her eyes and folds her arms against her chest. The Devil's Snare that he has charmed around her wrists and ankles draws her arms apart, and she gnashes her teeth together angrily.
"Don't struggle," he says calmly as he rolls up the parchment and places it on the table before him. "It only makes it worse."
She glares at him as he reaches for another piece of parchment. "They'll find me," she says, jutting her chin forward.
He shrugs as he twirls another stick of charcoal in his long fingers. "Not for a while, yet," he says with a small smile, gesturing about the room. "We have plenty of time."
Scrolls of parchment litter the floor, each detailing a meticulous drawing. Her jaw clenches, and she looks steadfastly at the ceiling. He frowns and reaches for his wand which sits on the table before him. With a quick flick, her outer robe vanishes, leaving her clad in a simple, cotton dress. She flinches and instinctively folds her arms across her chest. The dress barely grazes her knees, and he leans back in his chair as he begins to draw the outline of legs that seem to go on forever.
She shudders, sending a ripple through the cotton material and he falters. His eyes narrow as he looks up, and his dark pools of grey meet her flashing emerald.
"Keep still," he says softly in a deadly voice.
"Make me," she spits.
He smirks. "Don't tempt me, Minerva, don't tempt me."
Her cheeks flare and he resumes his sketch. This is his best work yet, and he knows it as he traces the jutting line of her jaw. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth and when he is finished he places the parchment on the table with an exaggerated flourish.
"All right, Minerva," he says, still smiling as he rises to his feet and crosses the room. "I'll leave now. I have what I wanted."
Her brow furrows, and she curls into herself as he approaches.
A laugh escapes from his lips. "Oh, no, Minerva," he says, shaking his head. "I don't want that, you're too pure to be tainted."
He leans forward and kisses her lightly on the corner of her mouth. She stiffens and he draws back.
"Goodbye, Minerva," he says, bowing down before her.
She turns away and he shrugs as he reaches for the final, perfect, drawing. He doesn't look back as he strides through the door of the master bedroom and exits the once magnificent manor. Her perfection is immortal now, forever on the parchment he holds onto so tightly in his fist.
Oh, yes, she is perfect.
Sketch of a Lady
general spoilers; Minerva, Tom
She was perfect.
He studies her, this woman who has been an enigma to him since the first day he met her. It was twenty years ago, and he was in his seventh year at Hogwarts when she strode past him. Her back arched as she curved her spine to avoid a clumsy first year and he'd caught a glimpse of curves hidden beneath voluminous robes. She held a broomstick on one hand, and wielded a Beater's bat in the other.
He'd remained in the corridor long after she'd walked past, riveted to the same spot. He was a Slytherin, she was a Gryffindor...and yet he saw himself in the sylph of a girl who had marched by him. There was a hardness in her eyes that belied the rare smile that occasionally touched her lips.
Oh yes, she was perfect.
Now, twenty years later, he studies her from across the room where she reclines on the couch, smoking a cigarette. She eyes him with pure hatred in her eyes.
"Let me go," she demands, the tendons in her temple knotting as she glares at him.
"No," he answers softly.
Her eyes turn emerald, and she takes a heavy drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke in the air as she looks out the window. The world is awash with grey, the lucent harr bleeding into the brackish moors, but he cares not as he removes the charcoal stick from its pouch and presses it against the parchment.
His movements are slow at first as they outline the curve of her body, but soon quicken. He glances up periodically, tracing the line of her smoothly-descending forehead which leads to heavily-lidded eyes which are now eying him with no small amount of imperious displeasure. She raises her eyebrows as he continues to sketch, each line more bold than the last.
"Surely you could have figured out a better way than this, Tom," she says scornfully, now pushing the butt of her cigarette against the polished oak of the couch. He hates it when she does this, a fact she knows and uses to her advantage.
He says nothing as he adds the finishing touches to the drawing. She rolls her eyes and folds her arms against her chest. The Devil's Snare that he has charmed around her wrists and ankles draws her arms apart, and she gnashes her teeth together angrily.
"Don't struggle," he says calmly as he rolls up the parchment and places it on the table before him. "It only makes it worse."
She glares at him as he reaches for another piece of parchment. "They'll find me," she says, jutting her chin forward.
He shrugs as he twirls another stick of charcoal in his long fingers. "Not for a while, yet," he says with a small smile, gesturing about the room. "We have plenty of time."
Scrolls of parchment litter the floor, each detailing a meticulous drawing. Her jaw clenches, and she looks steadfastly at the ceiling. He frowns and reaches for his wand which sits on the table before him. With a quick flick, her outer robe vanishes, leaving her clad in a simple, cotton dress. She flinches and instinctively folds her arms across her chest. The dress barely grazes her knees, and he leans back in his chair as he begins to draw the outline of legs that seem to go on forever.
She shudders, sending a ripple through the cotton material and he falters. His eyes narrow as he looks up, and his dark pools of grey meet her flashing emerald.
"Keep still," he says softly in a deadly voice.
"Make me," she spits.
He smirks. "Don't tempt me, Minerva, don't tempt me."
Her cheeks flare and he resumes his sketch. This is his best work yet, and he knows it as he traces the jutting line of her jaw. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth and when he is finished he places the parchment on the table with an exaggerated flourish.
"All right, Minerva," he says, still smiling as he rises to his feet and crosses the room. "I'll leave now. I have what I wanted."
Her brow furrows, and she curls into herself as he approaches.
A laugh escapes from his lips. "Oh, no, Minerva," he says, shaking his head. "I don't want that, you're too pure to be tainted."
He leans forward and kisses her lightly on the corner of her mouth. She stiffens and he draws back.
"Goodbye, Minerva," he says, bowing down before her.
She turns away and he shrugs as he reaches for the final, perfect, drawing. He doesn't look back as he strides through the door of the master bedroom and exits the once magnificent manor. Her perfection is immortal now, forever on the parchment he holds onto so tightly in his fist.
Oh, yes, she is perfect.