Greeny

“Merlin's beard, are you still here? How can you look at one painting this long? We'll never see the whole gallery.”

“It's fascinating. I've been thinking on the ways it might suggest flowers.” Quirrell said. He slid down the iron bench, and patted the empty space for Lockhart to join him. “And what did you find on your wanderings?”

“Ah!” Lockhart sat upright, index finger in the air. “I made four introductions and received three invitations to dinner! A very good afternoon, if I do say.”

Quirrell laughed. They were surrounded by works of art from all over the world, but Lockhart made time to collect invitations to dinner. Then again, socialising itself was an art to Lockhart.

“Well, go on, then. Did you accept any? Do we need to get you back to the hotel?”

“They were three women and one man,” Lockhart said, lifting his chin, a boyish gleam in his eye. “One of the women didn't ask me out, but the man did, and the other two women did.” He frowned and squeezed one eye closed, thinking. “Well, the two women were sisters here from France, so perhaps that only counts as one invitation.”

He felt his jaw go slack, black irises forgotten. “A pair of sisters from France? I hope you had the good sense to say ‘yes’,” Quirrell said. “What about the fellow?”

Lockhart waved a hand. “Oh, he was blond. I don't care for other blonds. It's not possible to improve upon perfection.”

As if to illustrate his point, Lockhart arranged his golden waves and winked at Quirrell, who felt the bridge of his nose grow warm. He glanced at the painting instead.

“I suppose that's true. It's not possible to improve on you, is it?” Quirrell cleared his throat and looked back. “Tell me about the sisters. Did you say ‘yes’? Are they good-looking?”

“They are. A pair of brunettes, in fact.” Lockhart smoothed a line on the sleeve of Quirrell's jacket. “I declined their invitation, however. You and I have plans for dinner, lest you've forgotten.”

“Are you actually mad, Gilderoy? We have dinner every night. This isn't a chance you get every day.”

The smile faded from Lockhart's face. He shifted his gaze straight ahead.

“I could if I wanted to,” Lockhart said quietly, examining Black Iris. “But I'd rather keep my plans with you.”

Neither of them spoke.

Quirrell stared down at the ring on his thumb, and twisted it. He had no doubt Gilderoy could collect half a dozen such invitations a day if he wanted.

Why Quirrell, though? With burn scars on his face and palms, with his head bare because hair only grew back in patches. What could possibly be in this for Lockhart, who was so sensitive to beauty?

Lockhart stood and held out a hand to him.

“And the first step towards getting you to dinner is getting you out of this gallery. So come on with me, I've figured out your painting. We can go now.”

The painting?

Quirrell ignored Lockhart's outstretched hand and peered again at the heavy black strokes.

“How is it flowers, then, if you're so clever?” he demanded.

“Because it's not flowers, Quirinus. It's iris.” Lockhart pointed at one of his bright blue eyes.

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Quirrell's jaw dropped. Lockhart offered him a hand again. Quirrell took it this time and Lockhart pulled him to standing.

Quirrell stepped back from the painting and tilted his head.

“Gilderoy, you're a genius,” he said, then twisted his head in the opposite direction. “This changes everything.”

“So good of you to notice after eighteen years.” Lockhart looked entirely pleased with himself. “I thought it was rather clever of me. But can we go now? You still owe me dinner.”