a masterpiece

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Yes, it certainly has room to explore and grow, and you know I like flexibility. I do complete the occasional commission if I get it from a personal reference, but the collection is growing. I’ll put you on the list to see for yourself if that show happens. Hopefully, it can be better than this one.” It disturbs her a little, how easily she has been parroting off personal information and opinions since she ran into him. It’s not wrong, per se, but she does feel discomfited by the ease with which she finds herself sharing with him. More than half a decade since they saw each other last, and not a hint of awkwardness?

Gisèle slides her phone out of her pocket and swipes the screen to unlock it. She offers the phone to him, gesturing for him to add his details. “Well, I’m not going to say no to an invitation to outlumberjack you, am I? Hit me up if you want to make a plan, I guess.” Because they are no strangers to sex, physical familiarity at least is something that she thinks will always exist between them. Even when she was a contrary teenager disagreeing with him on anything and everything just because she could, this existed. And still, she feels a little thrill at how bold it is to step up close to him in a crowded gallery, to trail careful fingertips across the facial hair. “Look at that, so it does. You’re all ready to touch skin with minimal chafing, aren’t you?”

"If an exhibit doesn’t happen, I wouldn’t be opposed to a personal viewing,” James quips, finding the friendly flirtation easy. Comforting, in a way, like an unexpected summer breeze that offers reprieve from the scorching heat. An apt comparison, he thinks, as Gisèle has always had a coolness to her. An art piece all her own, she’s akin to a chiseled ice sculpture in his head, and a shiver slices through him at this initial touch. Far from unwelcomed, there is something familiar to the spark of heat that expels from her fingertips. 

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he assures, recollecting his wits and typing in his information before sliding his arm back out so she could reclaim her device. Unlike in their youth, this doesn’t feel like a game of tug o’war, of push and pull. The magnetism is still as present, but it feels like the rules have changed. As if there are no rules, and the shift pleases James and is easy to lean into. “Good to know that all the effort I have been putting into maintenance has been paying off. I’d still have to execute a test-run, though, to know for sure that I have minimized the possibility of chafing.” Teasingly, he tilts his cheek just so that he can scrape his beard against her fingers. He chooses to verify for himself that her skin is as silky smooth as he recalls, his free hand reaching to bump his index finger along her knuckles. 

“There is definite merit in marking boundaries, sure. That’s why I don’t paint professionally either, I guess. Some things are just more rewarding when there is no end to the means, right?” Just imagining the scene makes her laugh a little. “Ah, so the age-honoured art of telling people they have more money than sense when it comes to their idea. Makes sense actually.”

“Drinking games and weapons of mass destruction? Oh, be still my fluttering heart — that does sound like a wildly good time, I must admit.” Gisèle is taken aback by how quickly her brain supplies the most inappropriate answer – but manly charm – and squashes it down just as quickly. How dramatic, to be charmed so easily. “Well, I’ve never known you to back down from a good challenge. I’m sure you can be suitably motivated to find a solution, should the opportunity arise.”

"Plus, what’s great about art is you could always set up your own exhibit, right? While still controlling your own muse. Win-win, if you ever decide to take up that avenue. I’d be in line to give it a look.” He remembers some of the pieces that he had seen of hers back in university, and wondered if she still dipped into the macabre or if her art had taken a different shape as she had aged. 

“Calling an axe a weapon of mass destruction feels hyperbolic, but yeah, if you ever got an axe to grind metaphorically, you should let me know. We could exchange contact information?”  Gisèle has always been a challenge, a battle that he didn’t strive to win but was just happy to participate in. What they have is more akin to a friendly brawl, he supposes, that had once upon a time ended with a good ol’ tussle in the sheets. “I am resourceful,” James concedes with a rub of his chin. “And I have been applying beard oil lately, so that should help.” He resists the urge to ask if she wants to give the beard a touch to test it for herself.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Exactly, yeah. Apparently, being inclined to a certain science doesn’t exactly make it fun? Nor do deadlines, I imagine. That sounds rough.” Gisèle says that as if deadlines are the plague; as if she doesn’t function on the back of colour-coded lists itemized by priorities. That’s just common sense, though. The mere thought of strict deadlines makes her shudder. “You couldn’t pay me enough to work on deadlines or for people. From what I hear, that’s a slippery slope?” 

With how limited she keeps her social circle, she sometimes forgets what profound pleasure there is in being known, even infinitesimally by someone else. “Haven’t you known me a bit too long to make suggestions about throwing axes? Need I remember you about the many — many — hexing incidents over the years? ‘Cause I’m sure the axes are tempting on your average Monday.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, clear she’s joking. “Oh, well, as long as you’re maintaining the aesthetic… It is looking distinctly less avian lately. The whole beardy thing is definitely working for you.”

"Sometimes it’s best to keep a passion just that — a hobby. I am sure that you could still whip up an elixir with just as much finesse.” That’s what James had learned about his own interest in philosophy. Conducting research and debating on his own time was far more worthwhile than pursuing a career where he wouldn’t have owned his own findings. “It’s not so bad. Working with people, that is. The time crunch can be a hassle, but when you are a project manager, I have found people actually tend to trust you as the expert when you insist their ideas aren’t foundationally sound.” 

“Maybe it’s because I know of your past that I suggest axe-throwing as a stress-relieving alternative. You can even make games of it. And play while drinking. You telling me that doesn’t tempt you at all? Here I was about to invite you out with me.” He makes the suggestion with a playful flash of teeth and while rubbing at the full beard tickling at his chin. “I’m glad that you think so. I feared it may ruin my boyish charm, but I think I’ve grown into the look. It can be a bit prickly against the skin though.” There’s a spark in his eye, the innuendo kept subtle. 

“Maybe he didn’t go to university for a humanities degree, and learn how to bullshit 3000 words in an hour. Could have been spouting metaphorical meanings out of his arse, but alas.” She is not going to preen, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t look inordinately pleased at the assessment of herself. “I do. Tried the Potions thing for a while, but it was — how do I put this delicately? — a giant fucking bore. Plus, it’s fun that nobody knows if their work is done at 3 am while getting wine buzzed in the bath, you know?” 

“Oh, no, you’re an artiste now. Whatever will Lumberjacks Anonymous do?” She winks, giving him a casual onceover. The more she thinks about it, the better it seems: a solid career choice for a solid man. “That sounds so… Wholesome. Moving from Mother Hen-ing your army of friends to making livable space for others seems like a pretty solid choice. Whatever will happen to your street cred now?”

"You did always excel in Potions, but I feel like  — hmm  — that it would be too precise of a craft for you to want to stick with forever? Not enough variety and color, right? And working at your own pace sounds like a fucking delight. I haveta admit that working with strict deadlines has been a brutal adjustment.” James has found that he needs the stability, however, to keep him pushing forward, lest his mind wander. It’s a good balance that he’s achieved, and it seems like Gisèle, too, has carved out a path that works best for her. 

And he’s grateful that their paths have crossed again, even if by happenstance on a foggy afternoon in front of a sculpture that belonged in the bin. “Hey, I’ll have you know that using an axe can be an art form too now. You ever hear of axe-throwing? It’s a masterful form. Feel like you’d love it, actually. Great stress reliever.” And his friends and family are just as important to him, but he has found that doing his own thing has been good for his growth. “My street cred, if we can call it that, is still in place. I’m still just as well known for my plaid shirts, though my hair isn’t as much of a bird’s nest these days.” 

“Well. At the end of the day, it’s all about expression, isn’t it? You want someone to look at your art and feel something — the only thing this is making me feel is depressed at the current landscape. I was talking to the artist earlier, and apparently, he just thought silver-plating a tree ‘seemed cool’ and didn’t mean anything. Weirdly purposeless for an artist. And I say this as somebody who is definitely doing a lot of marketing work right now, yes. Freelance, though. 9 am offices and common workspaces simply do not agree with some of us.”

Even though she wouldn’t ever class herself as theatrical, Gisèle has to whip her head around at that, brows raised. “Oh? That’s — unexpected? Congratulations are in order then? I wouldn’t have pinned you for a creative career, Potter, but it does sound oddly fitting. Do you enjoy it?”

"It’s kinda a shame that’s the answer the artist went with. He missed his chance to say that someone looking at this piece and feeling empty was purposeful. There’s some kind of trite  existential message that could have been wrestled out of this.” He’s no longer bothering to look back at the sculpture even as they critique it, warm eyes locked on the person next to him. “I didn’t picture you as someone who wanted to answer to anyone other than yourself, so that checks out. You like the change of pace then?” 

Her surprise isn’t unexpected. When she had last known him, James had been lost in a sea of indecision, and had no clue what path forward he wanted to pave for his future. “I know, who would have thought, right? I wound up going back to school after getting my first degree. Guess I caught the sketching bug. Wonder who from?” He gives a waggle of his brow. “I enjoy it, yeah. Creating new spaces is fun. Worthwhile.” And distracts him from the various spaces and holes in his mind. 

She shakes her head, unwilling to display amusement, perish the thought. “Still not funny, I see,” she comments dryly. “Neither paint nor prayer can save this one, I’d say. You’ve seen one mediocre commentary on the deteriorating world, you’ve seen them all, wouldn’t you say? The whole steampunk schtick— well, let’s just say it’s about seventy or so years too late.” As an afterthought, she shrugs and adds: “I still paint, of course, but lately, the focus has been on digital art. It’s unexpectedly enjoyable, now that our world is catching up to it. And you?”

Dimples crater his cheeks as he shrugs, boyish charm on full display. “Is art not cyclical like everything else? Or does the emergence of digital art create a whole new space?” James is essentially answering his own question. “You doing marketing kind of stuff or what?” It’s hard for him to picture Gisèle hunched over a cubicle instead of in front of a canvas. “I opened up my own architectural firm not too long ago, actually. Focusing more on function than ornamentation. You know me. I’ve always been the simple guy, and that translates into my designs.” It’s a different sort of art in a way, he supposes. 

“Well, if the scuffed boot fits, I suppose.” A begrudging grin lifts the corner of her mouth at the expected candour. “Sure, recycled ideas, that is. Not that I believe individual efforts make any considerable difference to the planet, but even if they did, I’m not sure installation art is the way to go. Present company gets it, but we do not respect it.”

“The boots are a little big, actually. I need a half-size, but can’t be bothered to order custom shoes.” It’s more information than necessary, but it’s offered up anyway in favor of keeping the easy back-and-forth going. “Enlighten me, then. How would you go about constructing this piece? If memory serves me correctly, you were always more into painting. Have you switched up your craft?” 

She folds her arms across her chest imperiously as she steps up level to him, shrugging innocently. “Au contraire, Potter, for once, no disrespect directed at you in the least. Even workman’s chic outshines the triteness. The art community seems to have taken silver plating to heart with about as much enthusiasm as nifflers to leprechaun gold, wouldn’t you say?”

"Is that your roundabout way of saying that this sculpture is somehow more tacky than me?” A laugh bounces through his chest. “I’m no expert on the art community like my present company, but from what I have seen of this exhibit, everything, uh, looks a little recycled?” His commentary is as unrefined as the rest of him. “Which...good for the planet, I guess.” 

@scorchedhoney​​

“You know, staring intently only works if you get what the sculpture is about in the first place. This… even I must admit: even more perplexing than your footwear choice.”

An upward quip of the lip accompanies a sparkle in his eyes as he glances at her, then down to his shoes. “I’ll have you know that I’m staring respectfully so that I can get a good look at all the details. Disrespecting my boots seems highly unnecessary.” 

The silence between them lingered on as Astoria breathed through the roiling anxiety swirling in her gut. Of course he could see right through her. Astoria suddenly wished they were sitting across from each other in her office, or standing in the imposing black-tiled rooms of the Ministry courts. She was a consummate professional; cutthroat, even. She would have no problem looking Draco straight in the eye and turning the line of questioning back onto him. 

She could leave. Brush off his concerns with a flurry of excuses and never pick up a quill to write to him again. But even thinking of that option made her heart clench painfully in her chest, and she found the words springing to her lips before she could suppress them:

“I think there is one story, in fact, that it would benefit you to know,” Astoria’s gaze snapped back to Draco’s face, steady and even and unblinking. “About three centuries ago, my ancestor Laertes pursued a relationship with a muggleborn witch before ultimately jilting her due to her bloodline and class. In her despair and anger, she laid upon him an oath that his ‘children and his children’s children would possess a poison in the very same blood that your family prides itself so greatly upon’.” She rolled up her sleeves again, this time to gesture at the blackened space on her arm that had started to fade with the aid of the bruising salve. 

“My Ya-ya calls it ‘Aphrodite’s Curse’, but those who are familiar with Dark magic know it as a blood malediction. At least once in every generation a Greengrass is born with it. I bruise easily, like I said. Any cut I get will not heal without some sort of magical intervention. My circulation is so poor that I wear jumpers in the summer. And the… ” she swallowed. There were some details best kept to herself. “…well, without the fine work and dedication of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, I wouldn’t be sitting across from you right now.” 

Perhaps most surprising of all for Astoria was the anger that bubbled through her thoughts as she explained her condition to Draco. Not at him, for the only thing compelling her to tell him the truth was a confusing barrage of feelings she did not have the time to disentangle, but at the way the blood curse touched everything in her life, ceaselessly, all the time. “It’s not exactly a secret, but you can understand that it’s something I do not like to advertise.” 

The story she told was unpleasant. It revealed a weakness that was beyond her control, bestowed upon her at birth, and it was one that has threatened her life. One that he imagines still threatened her life, with the way that she described the malediction. Draco’s face flickers with a stormy expression before he morphed his visage to one of clay, too soft at the edges to be considered stone. There had been whispers of a Greengrass sickness, rumors that Lucius and Narcissa were happy to spread, the kind of chatter that, quite frankly, Draco hadn’t cared enough about at the time to pay much heed to. 

To say he didn’t view Astoria differently would be a lie. He saw before him a woman that was dealt a heavy burden, and it’s not anything that he could understand or truly empathize with. “There’s irony to be found in pure blood being cursed because of ideals of blood supremacy.” Blood supremacy, he had found, was an illness all its own. 

The comment, however, was no comfort, as Draco didn’t know how to offer any, and he knew that Astoria didn’t want his pity. Astoria was above that. The clench in his gut was not pity. He could only guess that it was concern, but even that, he struggled to properly display. “It’s not a fact I would want to broadcast,” he relayed, his fingers curling around his knee, finding himself itching to reach out to her. His eyes caught onto the bruise, as if he could will it to go away with his gaze alone. 

“And I won’t advertise it for you.” This truth is safe with me. That’s what he’s saying, and he could only hope that Astoria understood it. Understood him in a way that she only seemed able to. She’d read between the lines before. 

She probably didn’t want to talk about it further, but Draco had a few questions that he wanted to ask anyway. What he didn’t question was whether or not it could be cured, whether or not certain possibilities had been considered, as he wouldn’t insult the Greengrass family by insinuating that they hadn’t already thought of every avenue of alleviating their family of this ailment. 

“You have clearly found a way to live with it.” After all, she was not dead. She very well could be, but she wasn’t. Fortunately. He’s glad that she’s alive. “Thrive, even, despite this.” He didn’t name it, didn’t verbalize it as an illness. He didn’t think Astoria would like to hear it. “You have not let it stop you.” He paused, mulling on his words, uncharacteristically careful of his selection. “I appreciate being aware of it, though. Now I know to not invite you to a game of catch with a Quaffle. Plenty of other options available to us. There’s a Magenta Comstock exhibit coming up, actually, that I was wanting to see if you were interested in.” 

He’s changing the subject, offering an out. It’s what he would want. 

“Society is changing. Rightfully so — and I know a number of dragonologists are grateful for such antics. I just wonder if everyone can get a moment in the spotlight at the same time. Consider, for example — synthetic dragon hide. It’s already been done with leather, and if someone were to develop it before they try to ban dragon hunting, then — ” Her hand, halfway-stretched toward the crystaline glass of water in front of her alerted her to the problem before she even registered Draco’s words. She frowned. “Ah.”

“…I bruise easily,” Astoria explained, her response just a fraction of a second too-late to seem as easy-going as she wanted it to be. She forced a small, half-hearted laugh, and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Very easily. My parents even had me exempt from Flying lessons in school because of it, overprotective as they tended to be.” She didn’t mention how she’d cried for days after hearing the news, how she would linger in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies and pretend it was her own hair becoming windswept like the athletes’ in every broom advertisement, how she always had to sit in the back rows of Quidditch games on the slightest chance a stray Bludger came her way. It was fine, she was fine, everything was fine. 

With the practiced movement of someone who tended to their injuries hundreds of times, Astoria summoned a small jar of salve from her bag and applied a generous amount of the peppermint-infused balm to her bruise. She rolled her sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs, checking their security once, twice, thrice. 

The tinkling of silverware on china and babble of voices seemed so loud with the absence of their conversation. She didn’t want to look back at Draco — his eye for detail could be prickly and uncomfortable whenever he used it to examine her. and she never mastered the art of being unreadable. Her shame, though an emotion as familiar to Astoria as treating a bruise, was not something she wanted to introduce to their friendship. It was fine, she was fine — 

“I’m fine,” she reassured the young man across from her. Iron-deficiency. She probably did have that, even if it wasn’t the most pressing symptom on her Healing charts. 

She doesn’t want to talk about it, and she doesn’t want to tell the truth. That much is obvious. The ease in which Astoria rolls out an explanation is telling, as is the immediate reach for a balm, her hands appearing to instinctively knowing its location in her bag. Similar to the way wixen can so quickly draw out their wands. Because they’re accustomed to it. The bruising has to be indicative of something that she’s already aware of, then. 

He could drop the matter. Accept the story that she’s giving him. But he won’t. “My parents are notoriously overprotective, but even they understood that bruises are a natural part of childhood. They heal rather quickly, and to deprive you of an imperative wixen skill seems quite extreme.” The commentary could be viewed as accepting of the story he’s being fed if it weren’t for the airy, unconvinced deliverance. Shame recognizes shame, and Draco hid his own underneath long sleeves, preferring them to concealment charms. Seeing bare skin where he knew there was a charred mark would only leave him queasy. So her motions to cover up her blemish were familiar. Why would she feel distressed over a bruise if it were ordinary? 

“You do not have to spin stories with me,” Draco assures, surveying her closely, watching any minute expression that crosses over her face. “I understand wanting to have your secrets. You are entitled to them.” Even if he no longer has many of his own, most of his worst memories and decisions splashed across headlines and forced out of him for court records. There were still shadowy parts of himself he kept tucked away. “But I would hope you were comfortable enough to give me the truth all the same.” 

He had no interest in forcing her to disclose, yet he knew that if she chose to evade, their dynamic would surely shift and not for the better. She’s uncomfortable under his gaze, and Draco doesn’t like it. He had come to enjoy the fact that she could steadily look him in the eye, that she wasn’t afraid to confront him head-on. 

Did Astoria believe that Draco would judge her? How could he? What ground did he have to stand on? “Or are you just not going to make eye contact with me again, now that it’s obvious that you are hiding something?” 

some posh café, london, april (???) 2001

Astoria shouldered her sleek messenger bag without so much as a wince as she stepped into line to order lunch, a certain blond wizard moments behind. Her right forearm throbbed from her mishap with the heavy café door, but she paid little attention to the pain. It was all swiftly eclipsed by the bubble of joy blooming deep between her ribs — the relief of an extended lunch break from her work at the Ministry, a brisk sunny day, and the company she was keeping during both of those things. 

How odd it seemed now (after a tense first meeting, weeks of awkward run-ins, and now several intentional rendezvous’) that Astoria could consider Draco Malfoy a friend. “We all lead busy lives,” he had said at that spectacle of a Zabini wedding all those weeks ago, explaining how infrequently he sought company from his former schoolmates. And yet, whenever Astoria beckoned — in letters she penned with obscure gallery brochures enclosed, invitations for coffee with a few days’ notice – he came. And Astoria found herself beckoning more and more. She liked how observant he was, able to pick at all the tightly woven threads that made up the tapestries of the world around them and find something to critique or praise. He was smart and sharp in a way that felt real and refreshing, so unlike the thick layer of artifice and showmanship that permeated their social circle. 

Some small part of Astoria hoped Draco saw her as a friend, too. Her drive and ambition certainly seemed to interest, if not impress him. She’d even gotten used to his jabs at her (admittedly unhealthy) work schedule. And if an even smaller part of her wanted to nestle under his arm as they waited in line to order, well. 

Later, with her jacket hung on the chair behind her and the crisp white sleeves of her blouse rolled up, Astoria didn’t notice the ugly purple-blue contusion on her arm.  “—and you would not believe the fervor of these creature rights organizations. An anti-dragon poaching activist chained himself to my supervisors’ desk with goblin-forged steel this morning. He was still there when I left the office.” 

Draco used to thrive on being the center of attention and wasn’t beneath throwing a fit when he didn’t get his way. These days, he’s a lurker in the shadows, and he doesn’t like eyes being on him. Astoria’s an exception, and if he is jolted with a burst of energy every time her twinkling, steady gaze landed on him, that’s his business. No one needed to know. Not even his parents. Especially not his parents, who would tut and stick their nose up at the idea of their one and only son voluntarily spending his time with the younger Greengrass daughter. 

Not every ship is unsalvageable, she had once told him. Perhaps she hadn’t realized the metaphor, how the wrecked boat had represented Draco and his journey, his attempts to stay afloat in a sea of self-loathing, but Astoria’s smart. Observant. Captivating. She stood out in an ocean of plain, flopping fish. And he didn’t see the harm in indulging himself with her company every now and then. By choice, now, instead of just by coincidence and happenstance. This was just lunch. He wasn’t being interrogated and neither of them have to bother with the pleasantries, the expectations that came with the events of the pureblood society that they had been birthed into. 

The cafe they were patroning still had the ambiance that they were accustomed to, lavish enough that they weren’t out of place, blending into the atmosphere, their conversation a bubble that wouldn’t be punctured as no one around them was interested in their discussions. What was interesting was the bruise blossoming on Astoria’s arm on the area that had been jarred by the door upon their entrance. 

Draco’s not the type to believe in coincidences, and even as he’s listening to Astoria relay office shenanigans, he’s hyper-focused on the injury that has poked its way to the surface of her skin at an abnormally fast pace. “Society is changing. It’s a domino effect of sorts, isn’t it? After everything that’s happened,” He doesn’t name the occurrence, knows that Astoria will deduce that he was referring to the Second Wizarding War, of the fallout of the crusade for blood supremacy losing out. “Societal progress is being fast-tracked, and every cause wants their moment in the spotlight.” 

Draco paused, leaned close as his eyes narrowed. “What shouldn’t be moving at such a fast pace is the discoloring of your arm. Iron-deficiency? Perhaps you should order the steak?” Masking his concern behind his quips. The world around him may be changing at a fast pace, but Draco’s own evolution was much slower.