Chapter Text
The first time Pierre held a paint brush was when he was only four years old. He barely remembered how it went. Tragedy often lets you forget the measures of joy. He didn’t remember the place or the day or the room he was in. But he remembered his mother’s hands as they helped him better grasp her small round brush. Those hands guided his little right hand, and he felt the canvas' rough textures. Those hands were rough and calloused compared to his soft small palms, but they were cold. It was and always will.
“That is how you paint stars. Borrow them from the evening sky, and pluck some—not too many or you’ll make the world go dark—and let them sing their twinkling songs as they are tickled by the big friendly brush. Lie them next to the moon, for the moon should never be lonely.”
Until now, her voice was calm and soothing, like it was born to sing lullabies only for him. He will always remember the faint English accent that showed after the end of sentences spoken in Filipino. No laughter escaped her mouth because she knew herself that smiles were already enough. She’d let his hand go, and after painting stars all by himself, the painting was finished. He refused to forget anything. He still remembers and always will.
That painting was entitled Soar unto Solace . The moon and stars were not the focus. Soaring across a dark branch stroked by the palette knife was a magpie with one wing. Its other wing was replaced by a yellow streak that critics believed to be a paint spill. However, when looked closely, it reflected the textures of the Sun. From that discovery, the painting was worth 90 thousand galleons and displayed in Hogwarts’ walls.
It was not only Haliya Kalalacao’s painting; it was also Pierre’s. That was his true first painting, and he got to see it every time he entered the Arts’ classroom. It was hung at the center of the wall. Some of his mother’s paintings resided in Hogwarts, including Soar unto Solace . All of them landscapes whose styles were a combination of Romanticism and Impressionism.
His mother claimed her paintings to be “pretty”. Not beautiful, but pretty. Beautiful is a word used for things that can make you sad. When she looked at her own paintings, they were only pretty, but Pierre believed that every single one were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His mother was very beautiful. She still was and always will.
“Macario, your stepfather, won’t admit it, but he likes it when I call him pretty.”
“Why only pretty, mama? Is he not beautiful to you?”
“No, orbit. He’s made me very happy.”
“Did my father make you very happy too?”
A short silence.
“He did, and it was a beautiful happiness, and he gave me the most beautiful star who never fails to make me smile.”
Pierre spotted Dean Thomas, one of the students enrolled in the Arts class, laughing at his canvas when he entered. Dean caught his eye, and his face brightened. He shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Pierre. I’m surprised you're not early. You’re always in the classroom when I enter.”
Pierre shrugged. “Graham Montague got drunk from a butterbeer toilet. It’s not a pretty topic.”
“Oh, I understand. It took me a while to pull Seamus away from the bathroom sinks. I heard it was a Weasley prank.”
Pierre’s eyes darkened. “I see,” he muttered. He silently hoped Edvard wasn’t involved. Those Weasley twins were a bad influence on his brother. He’s told Edvard not to go with them a thousand times, but of course he wouldn’t listen. At least Edvard hadn’t gotten himself sent to the Hospital Wing yet. Another peculiar thing that occurred was with one of the twins. He had no clue which one, but he was acting strange all week. Just yesterday he jumped out of a window for no reason. It was ridiculous.
A happy chirp came from the easel which had him at ease. Flying with one wing inside Dean’s canvas was the magpie from Soar unto Solace . “At least Bituin’s having a good day,” Pierre said. He tapped his fingers on the canvas while Bituin the magpie acted like he was pecking at them. She tweeted excitedly as she flew towards the half-finished blue sky and nestled on a cloud. Pierre frowned. “Your cloud’s too thick. Don’t forget to apply water on your brushes.”
Dean gave a lighthearted laugh as he dabbed his brush on a glass of water. “And we’re back to Student-Professor Pierre.”
Arts was an extra-curricular class optionally taught in Hogwarts. Pierre’s been taking it ever since his first year, and the professor overseeing Arts was Professor Aurora Sinistra herself. She acknowledged Pierre’s artistic knowledge and helped cultivate it when he joined. Soon enough, Pierre’s skill blossomed to the point that he could make his paintings move. Like his mother, his talent and skill were unmatched. Eventually, wizardkind noticed his potential, and he made a reputation of himself as an art prodigy. His first recognized painting, Veil of the Deep , was sold to the highest bidder (Narcissa Malfoy) for 200 thousand galleons.
Although he was successful, there was an empty feeling inside him; that all his paintings were incomplete. Sure, his paintings can move and gain a little consciousness, but his mother brought her paintings to life . Her paintings can not only move between walls, but they can project emotions to the viewer. There was so much magic poured into them that you can sense it yourself. He read articles and accounts of people who had temporary illnesses feeling themselves in great relief that they were cured in just staring at Whispers in the Winds . He witnessed people’s drinks and snacks refill when they noticed that the little yellow shapes from Heavenly Siege were fireflies. And in melancholic delight, Pierre can hear the faint voice of his mother reading the Hopping Pot in My First Love in Late Spring . That painting brought so much pain to many wizards that it drove them to imminent grief and depression, so in 1985 it became a private painting to be hanged in the Malmvinsey house. Pierre had to avoid the parlor to keep himself sane. He couldn't handle the voice that could never whisper in his ear anymore. It was Haliya Kalalacao’s last painting.
“It’s my responsibility to help guide everyone’s developments, even if class was over three hours ago,” he told Dean.
“Sometimes, I admire your tortured-artist mindset.”
As both lightly chatted in the classroom, Pierre worked on his own painting. He was about to finish the first portrait, a knee-up of Dean Thomas’ mother. It was for her forty-ninth birthday this coming Monday. He had painted her in a white dress, and her frizzy hair was tied with gold beads and ribbons. She stood in a meadow background.
He lifted his mother's brush and painted. He had his own brushes and palettes he bought himself. Not much of his mother’s art materials were preserved and salvaged after her death. Her prized easel, her crystalline fan brushes, everything was destroyed. Not even her moonstone palette knife, her most prized possession.
Brushes often get lost or damaged overtime, and palette knives rust and become dull. A quote from his mother recalled his mind.
“The process is temporary, but the final piece is immortal.”
Pierre was able to keep only one of his mother’s items. Her round brush, carved by herself. Macario told him it was made of casuarina wood, the same wand wood his mother's wand was carved with.
The same brush she left, and the first brush he held. Unlike the brushes here in the classroom, he carried the brush wherever he went. In a way, her mother was with him, painting alongside him.
Bituin later transferred from Dean’s portrait to Pierre’s and upon seeing the meadow, she twittered around the meadow with her one wing. Pierre smiled slightly at the sparrow. Dean stepped away from his own painting and walked towards Pierre’s easel.
“Woah!” he exclaimed in awe. “My mother looks beautiful! Pierre, this is wonderful. My mom’s a big fan of your work, she’s going to cry when she sees this.”
Pierre lightly dipped his head. He was used to compliments like these. “No problem, but it isn’t finished yet. I still have to add the wildflowers.”
“And you’re going to make it even more perfect?! How is this free?!”
“It's a gift,” Pierre said. "I’ll have to reapply paint in my palette.”
Dean nodded excitedly. “Can’t wait for the final result!” He stepped aside and went back to his canvas.
Once Pierre was finished with the grass, he grabbed some paint tubes. He applied small splotches of blue, violet, and pink, but the red paint tube ran out. Not to worry, though. Nearby was the supply closet that held paint cans.
A habit of his, he tucked his mother’s round brush behind his right ear. He took out his wand and spelled the closet door to open. “Accio red paint can.” What he exactly wanted shot out from the closet and sped to his open hand. Satisfied, he opened the lid to be greeted by the metallic smell of new paint.
“Pierre!” he heard Dean shout. Bituin chirped alarmingly with her one wing towards the window.
He heard glass break. At the corner of his eyes, he saw a dark haze speeding towards him.
And everything went black.
At first, Pierre thought he was back to his little self, sleeping in his mother’s arms. Then he silently called himself an idiot and tried to go back to sleep. However, the searing pain coming from the side of his head prevented him, so he just lied still, too tired to move. He was hearing muffled and faint voices; at one point coming almost to a shout. He tried to sleep it off. He hadn’t gotten a good sleep in years. But the voices got louder until they were almost understandable. He could hear bits of sentences.
“ . . . thinking?!”
“fault . . . the Gryffindors.”
“Who threw that quaffle?!”
Pierre opened his eyes. He was lying in bed in the Hospital Wing and as he slowly turned his head, a pain shot up at the back of his neck. He was having a migraine. He winced. He felt cloth wrapped around his head, and one part was soft and damp. What am I doing here? He thought.
He looked around him until his eyes rested on a group of people. Three teachers; Snape, McGonagall, and Sinistra. All of them had their backs turned to face the group of students they seemed to be scolding. In front of them were ten students, four of them from Slytherin and six from Gryffindor. Immediately he recognized their faces. It was his friends. They were arguing with the Gryffindor students about something. What trouble were they up to this time? He speculated.
“We caught them breaking school rules! They should get detention, not us,” Graham reasoned.
“We weren’t breaking any rules yet !” argued one of the Gryffindors; Angelina argued.
“Enough! Because of all your reckless impulse and careless actions, not only did two of you account for unauthorized flying, but a student also got injured! I am very disappointed in all of you, especially you, Montague and Johnson. I expected better from you, this isn't how potential Head Boys and Girls should act,” scolded Professor McGonagall.
A girl with dreadlocks looked down in shame, while Graham kept apologizing.
Pierre wanted to sleep again, having wanted to skip whatever the fuss was, but then he paused. He placed a hand on his right ear. His mother’s brush was gone. A wave of panic surged inside him. No, he couldn’t lose that brush. It was his mother’s. That brush was too important for him to lose. He had to find it quickly, there was no time to rest in the infirmary. He tried to sit up, but his migraine acted up. He let out a painful grunt, and he glanced at the teachers and students.
The first person his eyes rested on was George Weasley. He was the first to notice him waking. Surprised blue eyes met his own dark ones. He assumed they were navy blue. Probably not. The Hospital Wing was kind of dark.
Pierre stopped staring when another pain prickled at the back of his head. Merlin, why was his head hurting so much?
“Pierre!” he heard Adrian cry out in relief. He broke away from the group and ran to him. He almost hugged him but held back. He sheepishly sat on a nearby stool. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to fake his headache. “What’s happening?”
“One of the Weasleys hit you with a quaffle.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, we were just messing with the Gryffindors outside ‘cause we found out they were going to play Quidditch. Then one thing led to another, and we started fighting—you know—like always. And then Miles and Weasley flew up trying to get the quaffle until well, you get what happened next,” Adrian explained. He inspected the bandage wrapped around Pierre’s head. He brushed away his bangs. “You sure it doesn’t hurt?” he asked in a slightly worried tone.
Pierre’s mouth twitched at the unexpected touch on his forehead. He didn’t like people touching him. Adrian knew that, but he must have forgotten from all the worry. He brushed Adrian’s hand off. “I manage.”
“Thank Merlin, you’re okay, Mr. Malmvinsey,” Professor Sinistra said as she walked towards the two of them. Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were busy reprimanding the rest of the students. “You took a heavy blow from the quaffle. Thankfully Mr. Thomas alerted me when I was walking past the Arts classroom. Madam Pomfrey says the healing potion will take effect in two hours, so it’s best you take a rest for now.” She gave Pierre a kind smile.
“Thank you, Professor, but I’m alright now. If you please, I must get back to work,” Pierre said as he tried to sit properly. It was a lie of course. His migraine remained painful and annoying, but he had to find that paintbrush. He can’t afford to lose it.
To his disappointment, Professor Sinistra shook her head. “That can wait. As also the Arts Professor, it is my duty to see that my students are well, especially you, Mr. Malmvinsey. You are my star student, after all.”
“But—” He was about to complain when Professor Sinistra raised her hand.
“Rest,” she told him gently. “We don’t want your head to ache too much.” Having no choice, Pierre reluctantly obeyed. He watched as Professor Sinistra turned to face the others.
“This is only the first week, so Professor Snape and I decided to lessen your punishments. However, if one of you dares injure someone again, we will have you expelled,” declared Professor McGonagall. Her eyes bore holes through all the students.
“Detention for two weeks for Mr. Bletchley, Montague, Pucey, and Warrington,” Snape said. “You will be cleaning the dungeons with Mr. Filch after dinner. For unauthorized flying, Mr. Bletchley will have one extra week in the Forbidden Forest,” ordered Snape. Pierre saw his friends silently groan.
“Thank Merlin there’s no Hogwarts Cup this year, else Snape would have been harsher,” Adrian whispered. He didn’t go back to the group. Pierre assumed he just wanted to sit down.
Snape then told the Slytherins to leave the Hospital Wing as they were already finished, and eventually Snape excused himself. Adrian also left as well. “Get well soon,” he whispered to Pierre, who gave a nod in return.
“Now, two weeks detention for Ms. Johnson, Bell, Spinnet, Mr. Lee, and Mr. Fred Weasley. You will be polishing the floors of the entire first floor after dinner. I will also be confiscating your brooms and Ms. Bell’s quaffle,” Professor McGonagall said as she raised the quaffle in her hands.
One of the girls let out a gasp.
“And as for you . . .” McGonagall turned her stare at George. “Mr. Weasley, as the direct cause of Mr. Malmvinsey’s injury, we cannot take the matter lightly.”
He saw George looking down on the floor in silence. He tugged nervously on his sleeves; his jaw clenched.
“As conducted by the school regulations,” McGonagall continued. “Your punishment will be more severe. I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a one-month suspension.”
From that, George’s face fell. The other Gryffindors were in shock. His brother, Fred, stepped forward. “You can’t do that; he’ll miss out when the other schools arrive! And we won't get to put our names in the Goblet!” he argued.
“That’s enough. My verdict is clear and fair. I’m sorry, but he won’t step foot in this school until the second week of October.”
“Professor, I’ll accept any punishment you get, just don’t suspend me! There’s got to be another way,” George begged.
Pierre felt pity for him, in all honesty. It was an accident. How could George know that he’d hit the Arts classroom and bludgeon a student? Plus, he wouldn’t have thrown it if Miles and the others hadn’t intervened with them. Honestly, his friends needed to know when to mind their own business. It seemed this would be another mess he’d have to clean up . . . and maybe put into good use.
“Professor,” he whispered to Sinistra. “I know that what Professor McGonagall is doing follows regulation, but as the injured victim, I believe I have a right to also discuss the terms regarding Weasley’s punishment.”
Professor Sinistra nodded. “You have a fair point. What is it that you have in mind?”
After Pierre suggested his plan, Professor Sinistra cleared her throat. Professor McGonagall and the others who busily argued had stopped to face her. “I just had a little chat with Mr. Malmvinsey, and he generously proposed an alternative punishment for Mr. Weasley.”
Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “And what is this proposal, Professor Sinistra?”
“That Mr. Weasley will not be suspended at all,” Sinistra proposed, receiving a look of confusion from McGonagall and visible relief from George and the others. “And instead, he will serve detention under Mr. Malmvinsey’s care for a whole month.” She gestured over to Pierre.
Pierre continued after Sinistra’s proposal. “He’ll be my temporary assistant for the time being, and if he were to disobey and object, feel free to resume his original punishment.” That was enough for the grin George wore on his face to vanish. His mouth went agape with suspicion and confusion. Now his eyes looked like pale sapphires. The others were trying to hold in their laughter.
“I suppose that is an admirable suggestion, but are you sure of this punishment? Do remember that he’s the one who injured you,” Professor McGonagall asked.
“I’m sure, professor. If he has some decency left in him, he may also learn some discipline when I’m around,” Pierre smirked, and he caught George rolling his eyes. That made him smirk more.
“A generous offer,” McGonagall accepted. “Very well. Mr. Weasley, instead of suspension, you will be assisting Mr. Malmvinsey for one whole month, starting Monday.”
George's brother and friends were holding back their laughter after hearing his punishment.
Professor Sinistra clapped her hands. “So, the matter has been settled. All of you,” she pointed at the Gryffindors. “You may leave the Hospital Wing now. Detention for the rest of you starts tonight, and you better do it fast. We have Astronomy at midnight.”
“And don’t commit the same mistakes. Or I won’t be as kind as today,” warned McGonagall.
The students left the Hospital Wing, including George, who at first hesitated and gave Pierre one last look. His face was an open book, Pierre thought. It was like a palette of mixed emotions. Gratefulness, suspicion, and embarrassment were most visible in George’s cerulean (Was it really cerulean? Hard to tell.) eyes. Then he left, and McGonagall followed shortly after, wishing Pierre to get well.
Professor Sinistra was the last to leave. “You best sleep, Mr. Malmvinsey. Telescopes often increase the tension of migraines.”
Pierre nodded. “Not to worry, Professor. How is the Arts classroom? Is anything damaged?”
Sinistra’s twilight eyes stared at Pierre’s oaky brown ones in pity. “Not much, but I spotted your painting for Mr. Thomas’ mother and I think it might be damaged.”
Pierre held his breath, wanting to go more than ever. He tried to calm himself down; the migraine was worsening. “How so?”
“It’s best if you see it yourself since I can’t be sure if it’s actually ruined. All artists have different minds, you know. I had Mr. Thomas fetch Professor Moody who happened to be nearby and asked if he could clean the classroom while Mr. Thomas and I ushered you to the Hospital Wing.”
“I see. Thank you, Professor,” Pierre said.
“I’ll see you in class,” she bid goodbye.
Now that he was alone in the Hospital Wing, Pierre sat still for a while. And then, when his instincts told him the coast was clear, he stood up and snuck out. His headache worsened, but he doesn't care about that now. He needed to find that brush. He searched thoroughly in the halls heading to the arts classroom, whispering “accio brush” whenever he can. His head was spinning, and it wasn’t because of the injury.
As he trudged down the moving stairs, he overheard voices below him. He looked down to see George and the other Gryffindors from before.
“My quaffle!” One of them, Katie Bell he guessed, howled.
“I knew that was a terrible idea,” Angelina grumbled.
Fred snarled. “It’s always the bloody visions—”
“Vyssiers.”
“Yeah, them. Our mortal enemies since first year are never going to spend a day without trying to screw us off! Merlin, why do they always show up at the worst times? It’s like they have a sixth sense for making us miserable.”
“At least you’re not meeting up with one of them every day,” George muttered. “Suspension doesn’t sound so bad right about now.”
That burst Fred and Lee into laughter. “What’s wrong, George? Afraid of one little Slytherin? Listen, if he tries to get at you, you just zap him back with a hex! Easy. But if we are being honest, I rather spend scrubbing every floor in Hogwarts rather than hanging out with pictures.”
Pierre rolled his eyes unfazed. He just wanted to get to the next corridor. Why were the stairs moving so slow?
“I’m a little curious,” the shortest girl added, her brunette hair wrapped in a braid. “Why did Malmviney propose such a punishment? I don’t think he’d want to spend a day with someone like you, no offense, George.”
“Offense taken.”
“Huh, you do have a point there, Alicia. Maybe he wants to use my brother in a blood sabbath?”
That earned a small laugh from George. “Maybe.”
Finally, the stairs reached the fifth floor. He proceeded up, listening to the group. He wasn't eavesdropping, it's just that their voices were so loud.
“Well, I think he felt bad about George being suspended. I’d feel bad if someone got suspended from an accident, even if I don’t like them,” theorized Angelina. She was half-correct.
“ Felt bad ? Since when do Slytherins ever feel bad? I cast accio pity on them and I received twenty hexes in twelve languages. The blood sabbath is more believable,” taunted Fred.
Just as he was about to get off the stairs, he felt a prickling pain at the back of his head. He winced, and as he started walking faster, he glanced at the Gryffindor group to see if they heard. Thankfully, it seemed they didn’t.
“I’ll catch up, I forgot something in the Hospital Wing,” he heard George say.
Soon enough, he reached the fifth floor, and to the arts classroom surrounded by hundreds of paintings. When he opened the door, someone was already inside. “Professor,” he greeted.
“Malmvinsey, how’s your head? Lucky it wasn’t a bludger,” Professor Moody said. His real eye looked at him, but his enchanted one was transfixed with Soar Unto Solace . “It seems I lost track of time staring at the art after fixing the windows. This one is nice. Isn’t there supposed to be a bird here?”
Bituin was nowhere to be found. Strange. She loved meeting new faces and entertaining company. “She flies off most of the time."
Moody nodded. “A mind of its own. Which one’s yours?”
Pierre moved to the racks of brushes nearby. None of them his mother’s. “None.”
“I know, you’re Haliya’s boy. Your art always sells,” Moody laughed, a hint of mania in his voice.
Pierre's eyes twinkled. "You know my mother?"
"Who doesn't?" Moody said. His enchanted eye looked at the paintings in a tantalizing gaze. "Kids these days, all they care about is Quidditch and card games. But wizards older than you know her. We thrive on history, and Kalalacao was historical."
"Have you met her?"
Professor Moody took a while to answer. "Yes, but I don't suppose we can be called friends. I just admire her work."
"I see."
Searching subtly around the room, Pierre’s eyes couldn’t spot the brush. It was nowhere to be seen. Moody continued to praise him. “I’m no painter, so I have no say in painting. But you really do have a gift. Moving paintings can move wizards.”
He’s heard praises before, this one no different. Nothing new. He’s used to people softening their voices just to score some discount. He nodded, half-listening.
He found his unfinished canvas of Dean’s mother. A bright red streak and splotches of paint was on it already, splashed across her dress.
Moody went on with the compliments.
“Talented boy.” He’s heard that complement the most. Talent.
“Your father must be proud.” He’s heard that too.
"My father’s too busy looking at his coat than paintings,” he tried to joke as he inspected a nearby tray of tools.
“I wasn’t talking about Macario.”
Pierre almost dropped a carving knife.
He slowly turned around. “What do you mean by that—”
He jumped, startled by George standing in the doorway with his arms folded. Moody had left without an explanation to what he said.
“What are you doing here?” Pierre demanded.
“I followed you,” George explained, earning a guffawed look from Pierre. He coughed. “I saw you at the stairs, but that’s not the point—”
“I can expel you for spying on me.”
“Ha! After hearing your ‘generous’ offer to McGonagall, that doesn’t sound dreadful at all. I’m here to get this over with, so spill it.”
A short pause.
Pierre pursed his lips. “Spill . . . paint?”
“What.”
“Spill what.”
George huffed. “Spill the beans! No Slytherin ever bails out a Gryffindor,” he hissed as he sauntered over. “Unless they have something up their sleeves. So, spit it out. What do you want from me, ‘Vinsey?”
Pierre shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“And you think I believe that?” George spat.
“I don’t really give a shit about what you think,” Pierre sneered. He picked up the fallen carving knife and proceeded to prop up a new palette. George watched him reapply some paint tubes. “Some madman threw a quaffle at me.”
“It was an accident!”
“I got hit nonetheless, so you’re still at fault. Not only did you give me a concussion,” he went on as he spelled the canvas to be placed on the easel. “You also added a little touch to my work. If curators saw this, they’d say it’s worth a dozen thousand galleons as repayment for damages.”
Georg gulped. “A d-dozen thousand.”
“But I don’t care about another wizard’s coin. I’m an artist. Painting over mistakes is what I do everyday. I can easily make this look just as exactly as it did before.”
“Oh, I think I get what’s going on here. You’re making me a servant for your entitled arse,” George guessed. “To mock me. Like that liquorice you told your brother to give me on the train!”
Pierre chuckled harshly. “I don’t need a servant. I have a wand that can do a hundred things you can’t do. And I only gave you liquorice as thanks for your forgettable company in the World Cup.”
“Merlin, what do you want from me?” George demanded.
“To keep my eye on you. You’re a bad influence on my brother, Weasley.”
George scoffed and showed him a cocky grin. “Not my fault you’re a killjoy. Morgana smite me, I think your brother would rather have me as a brother than you.”
Pierre ignored that last bit. “I wouldn’t make a big deal out of this if the person he was associating with wasn’t so accident prone. Seriously, Weasley? Edvard’s a child. Whatever pranks you have going on, it’s not safe for him.”
“Cut him slack, let Edvard do whatever he wants. You’re not his dad.”
Pierre’s head started to ache from the boiling anger beginning to stir. “I’m his brother. Surely you understand. Don’t you care about your brothers’ safety?”
George giggled. “Oh, they’ve been through more near-death experiences than me.”
“Merlin, it’s the bloody Olympics trying to talk some sense into you. You should thank me that you escaped suspension,” Pierre narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll put a raincheck on that.”
“Just as McGonagall said, you’re to assist me throughout the month, and I'll make sure you don’t attract my brother with any of your hazardous energy.”
“Hey! I’m not hazardous.”
Pierre gave him a look. He raised a brow. “You put a python in the bathrooms.”
“It’s not venomous.”
“You jinxed Adrian’s broom to fly backwards.”
“For charms!”
Then he pointed at his own head.
“I’m sorry for hitting you, but it was an accident !”
“Not my head, you git! I was pointing at my hair. You doused me in acid!”
“Oh!” George laughed at the realization. “Yes, one of the highlights of my fourth year!”
Pierre must’ve made an unusual expression, because when George glanced at him, he stopped laughing and looked away a bit guiltily and scratched his head. "But I apologize for that too, I guess . . ."
Pierre cleared his throat. “Those are just a few of the countless things you did. You and your twin are a walking hazard. I wonder why neither of you have been expelled yet."
Then George was back to his dislike for the Slytherin. “How come you don’t complain about your friends hexing others?”
“Oh, I do. I’m the one that gets them out of trouble.”
George scrunched up his nose. “Unbelievable. So that’s it? You just want to babysit me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why not just have McGonagall suspend me? I wouldn’t be causing a ruckus for a month at all, and I’ll be out of your way, genius.”
Ah . Pierre hadn't thought of that. Easily he could have just let McGonagall do what she wanted, and George would have been gone for a month. He wouldn't be throwing Edvard into imminent danger for a while. Maybe the quaffle hit him so hard that he wasn't thinking straight. Instead of answering him, he countered with another question. "Did you want to get suspended?"
"Merlin, no!"
"Then you're welcome. Your punishment starts on Monday at four," Pierre concluded. He turned to his painting and held a random brush he picked off. Not his mother's, but it will have to suffice for now.
On the other hand, George wanted to say something else, but he only sighed. He started towards the door. "You should play with your little brother sometimes. Minivinsey's a fun kid," he suggested, throwing him one last look of distaste.
And then he was gone with the wind. Minivinsey . It was clever, he'll give him that.
He stared at the painting with a brush in hand. The red streak of paint stared back. Like the abyss that gazes back from his mother's painting, Abyss of the Deep .
To be honest, he loved the red. It was a beautiful splash of bright crimson clashing the neutral colors of the painting.
But it wasn't perfect. Wizards would see it as a large mistake. A paint spill. Even though he already saw the streak as a part of the painting, he had to give what the wizarding world wanted.
The 'damage' was a lot, but nothing that can challenge him. He can repaint it in a day, if he doesn’t sleep.
His hands hovered over the painting. The red streak stayed quiet, waiting for its death.
Erase it, the world beckoned. Make it vanish without a trace. To be forgotten.
He dropped the brush and the palette. " Accio ," he whispered in hopes that the brush would fly home to him. " Accio ," he repeated, over and over. He can't lose it. He just can't. He can't lose her .
He's never had, and never will.