Art

Harry crossed his arms as he leaned across the doorway, watching his lover sulk in front of the fireplace. The war had ended over a year ago and it had been almost as long since Draco's trial and subsequent freedom from a sentence in Azkaban. In fact, Draco had escaped all punishment save for a small amount of war crime fees, paid, not to the Ministry, but, to a Muggle orphanage.

Draco had been freed from social isolation as well, due to the publication of the trial and the testimonies from not only Harry himself, but Hermione, Ron, Remus, and Kingsley. It was clear that Draco was innocent. Then, when the public had been able to read the publications of worse Death Eaters (Fenrir Greyback, Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband, for example), Draco was seen as a hero in the public's eyes.

However, it seemed that despite all of that, Draco was unable to drag himself out of the depression that he had sunken into upon hearing about the death of Snape. Well, if Harry was honest, it seemed that Draco had been battling depression since their sixth year.

Harry had tried so many things. Romance, a vacation away from Britain, a day of shopping (Ron's suggestion), sex, deprivation of sex, being an arse, being inconsiderate, anything and everything.

Yet, still, here Draco sat, sulking and depressed.

Maybe...maybe Luna's suggestion might help.

Harry sighed and grabbed his coat as he went out the door. There was a well known wizarding art supply shoppe not too far down the road. He knew they would know exactly the sort of medium that would work. He hoped.

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When he returned home, he was laden down with bags. When he had explained to the shoppe keeper what he was looking for and why, the owner had known instantly what he was thinking. Unfortunately, the owner had informed Harry that neither of them (the owner nor Harry) would know for sure which medium would help bring Draco out of his shell. The only one who knew, would be Draco himself.

So, instead, the owner had decided to give Harry a bit of everything; all the basics that would get any artist a feel for a new medium, from acrylic paint to hemp and beads to clay, every little thing that would be needed for starters. It had been a hefty bill but, if it worked, that was okay. (Even if it didn't, Harry didn't mind; he had the money and nothing to do with it, even after the donations he had made at Hermione's suggestion.)

"Harry?" Draco called out. He sounded like he was still in the sitting room. "Where'd you go?"

Harry hung his coat up and brought the bags with him into the living room. "The art store."

Draco raised an eyebrow at him as he eyed the nondescript bags Harry was carrying. "For what?" He cast a critical eye over Harry. "Is this something Granger suggested? Like...art...therapy? Are you still having nightmares?" As he spoke, his voice had risen in pitch.

Harry smirked and sat in the chair next to Draco's. He pulled the other man into his lap and kissed him soundly. "I haven't had nightmares in months. You keep them away."

Draco, if not for his bones, would have melted in Harry's lap. He kissed Harry deeply, soulfully. "I love you."

Harry returned the sentiment and then reached for his bags. "These are for you, actually."

Draco's eyebrows furrowed. "Why would you do that? I've never wanted to be an artist, Harry. I'm not...creative." This sentence must have struck a chord inside the blond wizard and he seemed to get smaller in Harry's lap as he pulled into himself.

Harry quickly kissed away that look on his love's face. "I know. I'm not sure what kind of things your parents introduced you to, but when I was in Muggle primary, we had art class. It was fun, being able to create something."

"Harry, didn't you hear what I said? I'm not--"

"Creative. I heard you. Now, let me finish. I never knew what to create. I just did what my teacher told me to do. Eventually, it came to me what I could do. I used the frustration I had with my Muggle family to make something. It was almost never pretty but it helped to see that I could do something about the abuse they gave me. It was...empowering, almost."

"Until Dudley smashed them to bits, I'm sure," Draco said darkly. When he had heard what Harry had endured growing up, he'd wanted to go and kill Harry's relatives. He said that it had been the first time he'd truly wanted to make someone else feel pain that deeply and darkly.

Harry shrugged. "It’s true. However, for a time, it was good. It was...healthy and healing."

Draco eyed the bags like he would eye a snake. "Are you telling me to make something with these...things?"

Harry bit his lip. He knew this was a crucial moment. He took a deep breath. "Only if you feel like it. I'm not going to force you to do anything with them. It's just...there are a lot of people who have reported that art helps them. It might...for you."

Draco leapt up off Harry and ran off to the basement; Harry heard the door creak. Ah, well. At least he had laid down the idea. Now all he had to do was wait. If there was one thing he knew, it was that no one pushed Draco Malfoy to do anything.

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Harry had kept the supplies in their bags; he would have put them out on a table but he knew better. Draco knew where the bags were and would find them if he wanted to give the idea a try. In the meantime, Harry set about making dinner. It helped sooth him; it was his therapy for after the war.

There had been Order members in the days after, all of them staying around trying to come to grips with reality. The downside was that Mrs. Weasley was at the Burrow, keeping her own brood together. It meant that there were few cooks in the house and even fewer were passable.

So, Harry got bored one night and started cooking. As the meal came together under his hands, he realized he felt better than he had since the war had really begun (except for when he had fucked Draco that first time; that had been magical) and had just cooked for the entire house. Soon after, he was being urged and coerced into cooking for everyone and he'd just never stopped.

When Draco had found out, he had ordered a cook book for dessert making and all but thrown it at Harry. Harry, who knew that Draco had a sweet tooth a mile long, had started to experiment and found out he was even good with that, too. Draco, who had all but orgasmed with Harry's first chocolate dessert (brownies), had taken to withholding sex from Harry in order to get Harry's desserts.

Lucky for them, they had so much sex that the calories hardly ever accumulated.

When the meal was done, Harry used a handy spell to send Draco's food down to the other wizard with a note saying that Harry was going to be in the gym room (it tired him out enough that he slept through the night without nightmares which he was sure to have if Draco didn't come up from the basement) after dinner and then he was going to bed.

In the moments before sleep, Harry hoped that the art therapy would help Draco.

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I was brooding in the basement, wondering why Harry felt this need to help me with a problem I didn't think I had, when he sent down dinner. I didn't feel like eating but my stomach grumbled and I grudgingly ate it. I only ate half the food, but at least I had eaten. I read the note and felt a little down. After all, I knew that Harry worked out to get tired and to keep the nightmares and memories away in his sleep. Normally, he would have found me and shagged me until we both collapsed in exhaustion.

I crept upstairs and brought my plate to the kitchen. I then walked to the gym room where Harry was lifting weights. He had been at it for some time, I thought, as I watched the sweat roll down his arms. He knew he should have had a spotter with him, but he never did. Usually there was a spell that would alarm through the house and if I wasn't home, after five minutes, a note would be sent to Ron or Hermione to tell them what had happened.

It was setting my lover up for utter humiliation but I figured, let him do it. At least it kept the horrors in his memory at bay.

Watching his body tense and the muscles work, I felt the familiar tingle of arousal in the pit of my stomach. Harry was too pale and still too gangly with youth but I knew if I got him out in the sun (not myself, you understand; Malfoys are and always were pale) and he kept working out, I'd have to work harder at keeping his attention. He would be...delicious is the least of the words that would be used to describe him.

I felt a burst of possessive pride at the thought. This hero, this wizard-almost-god, was mine. He wanted me and fucked me.

Suddenly, I thought of the bags Harry had brought home for me. I don't know why but, I did. Harry had said he didn't know what I had been taught pre-Hogwarts; yet, I'm sure he had some inkling. I snorted, thinking of Harry imagining the Dark Arts I'd been taught or the history I'd been taught. I'm not sure but, I think he'd be surprised that I had actually been classically trained.

It was the studia humanis of the Renaissance. I'd learned history, science, arithmetic, music, literature, manners, and the proper ways of pureblood society. It brought back memories for me, longing for the parties my mother had thrown, the headiness of money and elegance and class. Despite what anyone else in those circles had felt at any of society's get-togethers, for me it was a time of beauty and classic romance.

My fingers itched for a piano, maybe play the Sonata. I could feel the nerves in my fingers begin to itch with the familiar movements that even now they remembered.

My great aunt on my mother's side, the one who had held reign in this particular Black Manor, had never been fond of music and even less fond of a boy playing it. She claimed it played with my development as a good, strong, proud male pureblood. If only she knew, I chuckled. My point? When she had inherited this house, she had done away with any musical instrument. Preferred silence, she said.

So now, what could I do? I longed to make music again. As I said, my fingers were itching for it. I walked away from the gym to the living room, wondering if Harry had left the supplies in there. When I saw the bags, I grabbed them and went back to the basement.

I would have called it a dungeon, but it was just a basement. There was, though, a doorway that lead to the hall that went to the dungeon. However, as I said, this was the basement.

When Voldemort had declared war the first time around, Severus had converted the musty old basement into a potions lab and when I was brought into the Order to brew potions, I continued this tradition. It had needed a good cleaning, what with the cobwebs and dust and potions that had been left to rot and explode, and of course ingredients that had spoiled and also erupted out of their containers.

In the end, though, it had turned out beautifully. I had completely scoured the area down to its original walls and floor and polished those. Then, I had found some old tables and stools and shelves in the attic that I dusted off, sanded and repainted. Lastly, I got new supplies and ingredients. I had also all but moved into the lab in the end as the demand for potions increased with the attacks.

When the war had ended, it became my personal space. I had asked Harry for it, but he had grinned and said I shouldn't have asked. He said it became mine when I moved a cot in there. He'd also said, while blushing, I might add, that it didn't matter. Now that we were together and in it for the long haul, what was his was mine.

Mmm. That had led to one of our top ten fuck nights.

I ran an eye around the room to determine some place where I could put the art supplies. There were potions still set up as Order members still tapped me for potions when Severus couldn't make them, but with the decrease in demand, I had spread the cauldrons around the room. There was no sense in having a cramped work space with so much room.

I made a mental list of what I was brewing and what could safely be moved and be brewed next to each other. I placed the bags by the stairs and rolled up my sleeves. This was going to take a bit.

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When I had cleared a space and pushed some tables together and placed all the supplies on said tables, the first hints of daybreak were leaking in through the sparse windows. I was sitting on a stool, my head in my hands. My fingers were still itching for a piano but, since it had been hours since I had seen Harry, my initial burst of need for these supplies had dwindled.

I had tried to reach for all of the supplies, trying to find what I wanted. In the end, only the sketchpad had worked and only then barely. I sighed heavily and watched for a few minutes as more light trickled in.

Studying the sunlight, I felt my eyelids grow heavy as the lack of sleep caught up with me and I figured I'd rest for a bit before trying this again. Then, maybe, I would broach the subject of a party with Harry, maybe a get-together with the Order members or the few innocent members of my old school house. A party might just be the pick-me up I had been looking for.

I had unbuttoned my shirt by the time I had reached our room and was halfway to pulling it off when I saw Harry. He slept in the nude, said that clothes restricted him when he turned when he was sleeping, and the sheet only showed this off. He was lying on his back, one hand splayed over the tanned stomach, the other curled under the pillow his head was lying on. His face was turned to the left wall, innocent with sleep. My eyes slipped lower to where the sheet had slid down past his erect penis. One of his legs was lying straight out; the other was bent into the first. The curtains had not been closed so the rising sun was streaking through to highlight Harry's near perfect skin.

My fingers were itching again. I started hunting around the room and stifled a hysterical laugh when my search turned up a piece of parchment and a quill. After a quick Transfiguration from quill to pencil, I was leaning against the doorframe, a Quidditch book as the base for my paper. It wasn't easy; I wasn't used to doing this. There were a few strokes off and I knew that Harry's face was off by several inches.

Still, it felt...liberating.

When it was as near to complete as my untrained fingers would let it get, I let the book and paper fall and slumped down the doorframe. Something had just sparked inside of me.

Harry had been right. I hadn't thought there was anything wrong with me. I thought that it was just shock from the sudden and abrupt end to the war and then the innocent sentence I'd received at my trial. However, there was always a nagging doubt, as well, under the surface. A doubt that I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

Despite the fact that I had done good for the Order and what Hermione and Harry had both said about me being good, I'd never felt that way. In school I'd been cruel to so many people. I'd never been brave enough to stop any of the Death Eaters who had been at Hogwarts. On top of all that, I had spent the rest of the war hiding away in a moldy basement, doing so little.

Then, despite the way public opinion had swayed after the publications of the other Death Eater trials, I had always felt that they were whispering behind my back, waiting for me to slip up again and I had always been afraid that I would.

Aside from potions, what else was I good at besides being a bad guy?

I looked at the sketch I had just done. If that sentiment was true, then how was I able to create something like I had just done? Surely it meant something, meant that I was able to do more than destroy. I could create something.

Harry was stirring on the bed as I watched. I was still stuck in my epiphany, but I felt a sudden need for Harry. (Later on, at an exhibit where there was a show on metal artwork, I learned that, for most artists, creative energy can very easily become sexual energy.) I quickly scrambled out of my clothes and pushed the sheet off of Harry.

He turned his head but otherwise, didn't do anything. Smirking, I bent and started sucking on his cock. He moaned and lifted his hips but, still, he didn't wake up. Oh, well. I knew he'd wake up eventually. He never could resist watching me give him a blow job.

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Harry asked me later what had brought that on, but I hadn't been able to answer. I wanted to, desperately. Yet, telling him just seemed too…personal. I didn't want to share this, not yet. He seemed to understand and instead, got up to make breakfast, promising some chocolate scones. Again, despite the fact that I wasn't feeling hungry, my stomach rumbled. So I showered and followed my nose to the kitchen.

Harry made some small talk that I minimally answered but he didn't seem to mind. I made a mental note to get him something later for being so understanding. He went out to get groceries, not asking if I wanted to accompany him, but I didn't feel let down. Strange how we so easily were able to develop a relationship that didn't need words but relied seemingly only on telepathy.

I wandered back down to the basement where I set up an easel and canvas. I sat and stared at the blank whiteness, feeling that it was a void that needed filling. I closed my eyes and relaxed a bit, my fingers again twitching. A sudden, vivid image came to me, of Harry's face not in an orgasm but when he had entered me and at the same time, rubbed his hands down my body. The sun had fully risen at that moment and the rays had hit his face beautifully.

My hands started moving before my eyes had even opened. I poured the colours of paint onto the little sectioned tray Harry had picked up for me and a brush was chosen. I had no intention of drawing Harry; that wasn't what I had in mind. No, there were colours in my mind's eye, a burst of love and passion that didn't need a face. It just needed to be shaped out.

The paint dripped onto the floor and onto my jeans. There was a figure that could've been Harry but wasn't; it just a blob of colour lit up in a way that showed where the sun was hitting it. The background was the cacophony of colours that, to me, was the love and passion I felt both from myself and Harry.

No, it wasn't the orgasm. It was the way our bodies had seemed to sigh at their rejoining and it was exquisite. It was love and passion but also something undefined.

This painting, though a pale comparison, had done its job. My fingers had stopped twitching.

Scared of this sudden burst, I moved away from the canvas and bumped into the far wall. I slid down to the floor and stared at it.

I'm not sure how long I was down there staring, losing myself in this sudden and almost fearful moment. I wasn't too far gone, though, to know when Harry had joined me. He had started down the stairs but stopped when he was able to sit and watch me. He never stepped down here unless he had permission from me. He said it was an invasion of my privacy. At first, when he had told me that, I was offended because I wanted to share everything with him. As time went by, I loved that he respected this space. There were times when I needed to be alone.

It was also at that time I had realized that I wasn't really alone. For some reason, I felt that I could feel Harry right down to my soul. I was physically apart from him but not away from him.

In the present, I half smiled and lifted my arm toward him. "Harry," I called softly. I couldn't bring myself to say more, but he understood, again.

Unhurried, he was by my side and an arm was wrapped around me. I leaned my head on his shoulder and sighed happily.

"All right, there?" Harry asked after some time.

I looked at my painting, knowing that Harry had seen it and I wondered if he knew what it meant. Maybe I'd share it later on. "Not quite, love. But, I'm getting there."

He sighed and pulled me closer. "Good."

I stirred, wincing because I found out that I'd lost circulation in my legs, but still I sat in Harry's lap and kissed him soundly. "Thank you."

He grinned; well, beamed, actually, and returned my kiss. "You’re welcome. Anytime."

I laughed. "Well, I'm sure this will be the last time."

He sighed happily as his arms twined around my waist. "I'm glad. So--" his eyes flickered over my shoulder, probably at the painting, "--paints and canvas is it?"

I shrugged. "I think so. I'm going to try out all the other things you brought me, though. Who knows? Maybe they'll all work."

He nodded. "Good. The owner of the shoppe said that I should get them all, something about how you'll be the one to know which medium is right for you."

I looked over at the work station I had set up. "He's right." I looked at my love. "It's not that you don't know me well enough. It's just too...personal right now...It's something I have to discover because it's a part of me, a part that I keep to myself still." I lowered my eyes, unsure of what this discovery would mean to Harry. I knew I wouldn't have lied about it. He deserved to know.

He kissed me again. "It's okay, love. I understand. The way you looked when I came down here...This is something you have to discover on your own before you can even consider sharing it with me."

I wanted to melt into his arms in a happy love puddle. "I love you."

He smirked. "Of course you do. Who else would do something this sappy for you?"

I laughed again and I realized that, in the last day, I'd laughed more than I had since before the war had even begun. This was amazing for me. Not to mention, now that I'd completed one painting, I suddenly had more ideas. I also found myself in need of another good shag. Hmm, this was beyond helpful. This was...I didn't even have a word for it.

So, instead of dwelling on it, I grabbed Harry and kissed him. He groaned and pulled me closer as he took control. I was happy to just Banish my pants, let Harry's cock out and then fuck just like we were, but Harry had other plans. I was pushed to my back onto a suddenly cushioned surface and was undressed quickly.

When Harry was nude as well, I moaned and reached for him again. He smiled softly and lay down so we were touching as much as possible. My skin tingled with the contact and I rubbed my hands over Harry's skin so he could feel the same. As he kissed me, his hand roamed down to my arse and rubbed it before muttering a Lubricating Charm. His finger slipped in and I clenched down on it.

He bit my lip in response before adding a second finger. I lifted my hips, grinding my cock into his as my fingers twisted his nipples. Our kiss grew more ferocious as our hips kept grinding into each other and soon I was riding his entire hand.

"Please," I ground out, needing the heat and friction that only his cock could bring.

He muttered the Lubricating Charm again on his penis and then, he was sliding home. I let out a breath I was holding as a feeling of completion and content rushed through my body. This was heaven. He rested his weight on his forearms, forehead touching mine and lips grazing as he started thrusting in and out of me, unhurried.

I could have fucked like this forever, being connected to him, feeling a slow build up but, all too soon, his pace increased and I was bending my back as my prostate was repeatedly brushed. His head bent to bite at my neck while he lifted his weight to one hand and the other arm slid around my back, pulling the arch into him.

It was during some of these moments that his control over his magic was shaky and the uncontrolled leaks skimmed over my skin and in the air. There was nothing more sensual than the feeling of his magic; it was more intimate than Harry's cock touching me. I literally breathed him in. He swore that I did the same and knowing this, after riding the creation wave that I had, was more orgasmic than anything else at the moment.

"Oh, Gods," I moaned, eyes closed against the assault.

"Draco, Draco, Draco," Harry lowly said, my name his mantra.

I had to open my eyes. He had been watching me and the moment our eyes connected, the air crackled around us. For the first time, I felt my magic outside of myself and felt it intertwine with Harry's and I couldn't hold back.

Somehow, Harry knew this. "Please, come, love," he growled. His eyes were glowing.

I think they heard me yell all the way to Hogwarts.

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After a light doze (and wondering how Harry's Cushioning Charm had remained even when he had fallen asleep), I walked over to my painting and stared at it again. Harry joined me not long after and he slowly wrapped his arms around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. I laid my hands on his and leaned into him.

"Thank you," I whispered. I'd never be able to thank him enough for this gift.

"You’re welcome," he said just as quickly. He sucked my ear lobe playfully, familiarly but not to arouse me. I loved when he did that; no one else I'd been with had.

"Do you want to eat or do you want to do something else?" I knew he was talking about me painting again. I closed my eyes and my body was humming with sudden energy.

I turned to kiss him and then pulled away to put on my pants. "Just something quick. Go ahead and make something for us to eat. I'll be up shortly."

He smiled and kissed my nose. "Don't take too long." His arms wrapped around my waist and squeezed quickly. "I need you close."

I sighed happily and watched him walk up the stairs. I knew what he meant. I wanted to be close to him as well. I grabbed a pencil and the sketchpad he'd gotten me and did something quickly, just as I had said. It was enough to build on later, enough that I wouldn't forget what I had wanted to do. Maybe something in charcoal. It had called to me earlier but, had paled in comparison to the paint. Yes, I think the charcoal would work. Then maybe paint again.

I had a feeling I was going to be facing some long nights in the future. Not to mention some even greater sex.

As I turned the light off at the top of the stairs, smelling the beginnings of what was to be sure some great meal, I smiled. I knew Harry wouldn't mind and frankly, I felt better than I had in months.

‘Thank you,’ I mouthed to whichever deity was looking out for me, 'for giving me Harry and my art.’

FIN