Drarry Microfic: Weak
"Who is responsible for this?"
The complaint cut through the ambient hum of the Ministry atrium, a familiar, posh drawl that Ron would have recognised anywhere. He had barely made his way from his office in the Department of Magical Games and Sports when he'd decided to take a peek at the freshly unveiled portrait of his best mate. The crowd was already three-deep around the massive, gilt-framed painting.
"See that tick at his left jaw? We're in for a proper strop."
Ron sighed as Pansy Parkinson fell into step beside him, the schadenfreude radiating from her almost palpable.
"What's the ponce on about, though?" Ron wondered, accepting the small bag of pretzel wands she held out to him without looking and tore the paper open with his teeth.
"Oh, he'll tell everyone all about it, I'm sure," she said with an amused snort, her eyes fixed on the scene.
"Who is the artist?" Malfoy's voice rose in volume, carrying easily. "I demand a name, an address of the charlatan, preferably."
"Oh, Merlin," Ron groaned.
Beside him, Pansy let out a high-pitched squeak of pure delight.
A middle-aged man in paint-spattered robes detached himself from the crowd near the portrait, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He had the look of someone who had been quite proud of his work five minutes ago and was now reassessing his entire career.
"Good sir," the artist said, "if you're meant to give critique, I'm the artist."
Malfoy spun on his heel, the sharp movement sending the hem of his impeccable robes flaring. He was a full head taller than the man, and he used every inch of it to loom. "You!" he hissed, pointing a long, pale finger. "The nerve you have!"
The artist held his ground. "I need a more specific comment, if I am to make any amendments."
"A more specific comment?" Malfoy stepped forward, jabbing his finger towards the portrait. "What is that weak, muddy green you gave his eyes? Do you suffer from daltonism? Colour blindness? If so, you should have requested help to pick the correct colours for Potter's retinas." He was gesticulating wildly now, his pale cheeks flushed with indignation. "The spring green, the deep forest colours to the outer edges, the glowing jasper dots that line his pupils? Where are they?"
Ron slowly rubbed a hand over his face, the pretzel wands momentarily forgotten. "Merlin's tits," he muttered into his palm. "The worst part is, I've heard those words before. Almost verbatim."
"So have I, for over a decade, darling," Pansy said, her voice dry as a bone. She was watching Malfoy with a look of long-suffering fondness.
"My condolences." Ron gave her a sideways glance, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "For what it's worth, I've heard monologues about the exact shade of Malfoy's hair when wet and standing in the setting sun."
Pansy let out a cackle that turned a few nearby heads. "Ah, they are so obsessed."
Ron shrugged, finally popping a pretzel into his mouth. "As long as they're happy," he said around the crunch.
Ahead of them, the confrontation was reaching a crescendo.
"You will take that portrait down," Malfoy was ordering, his voice dangerously low. He punctuated each word with another sharp jab of his finger towards the painting. "Right this moment. And you will fix this offending detail before it is reinstated."
The artist, to his credit, looked more bewildered than frightened now. "But Mr Potter sat for his portrait in person, I can assure you I depicted him true to nature." He paused, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his professional terror. "How do you know his eyes so well?"
The atrium seemed to hold its breath.
Malfoy drew himself up to his full height, a smirk playing on his lips that was the unadulterated Malfoy arrogance he never grew out of but into. "Oh, I don't know." He paused for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch. "Maybe the fact that I was lovingly staring into them while he sucked me off this morning."
A wave of scandalised gasps and barely suppressed laughter rippled through the crowd. Ron choked on his pretzel.
"Draco, love, leave him be."
Harry pushed through the throng of people that had gathered, his cheeks a little pink but his shoulders set. He turned to the artist, who looked like he might either laugh or faint. "Excuse my husband," Harry said, "He's a bit dramatic when it comes to me."
â written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "weak"
