#painter harry

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 527 words

One late August afternoon, Tom wandered around the British Museum, trying to look like he belonged there despite his patched up second-hand clothes.

He came here often enough, but that didn’t stop some of the wealthy patrons of taking offence of his presence. Like the posh assholes that had just wandered into the same corridor as Tom. Behaving as if the museum was theirs.

Tom sneered. One day he would be better than them, he vowed, and he would be known far and wide. Turning and walking in a different direction to avoid any conflict today – he really wasn’t in the mood to spend the day in the orphanage or outside in the rain – Tom suddenly found himself in a room he hadn’t encountered before. Paintings were exhibited on this gallery, but more interesting than them was the man behind an easel, painting.

Tom had never seen someone do something so intensely. Then again, he had also never seen someone paint, only draw. Tom quietly stalked closer to get a better look and hovered in a safe distance to observe the man and his progress with his painting.

There was something captivating, something calming, that Tom couldn’t escape even if he wanted to. Over half an hour went by before the man sighed and his shoulders visibly sagged. He turned and Tom found himself caught by the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen.

The man smiled, “Why don’t you come over and sit with me? Keep me company, instead of sneaking around behind me, hm? Gives me the shivers.” The man exaggerated a shudder, but his eyes were still friendly and Tom couldn’t find any deception in them. Having nothing better to do and having received direct permission, Tom seated himself on the bench diagonally from the painter and his easel.

The man’s smile widened, but he did not comment and simply returned to his paints and brushes. Hours went by as Tom observed the man bringing the scene of an empty park bench on a rainy afternoon to live.

It wasn’t much, the painting rather small and the colors muted, but Tom was entranced nonetheless – until it was sadly time to leave. He bid the man goodbye and thanked him for the opportunity of watching. They hadn’t even exchanged names.

The next time Tom wandered onto the same gallery was a year later. He had murdered his father and grandparents just a week prior and felt unsettled still. He was dire in need of something familiar, something eternal, to calm his nerves and the museum was both.

And there he saw it. A small painting of a park bench on a rainy afternoon. He remembered the man who had painted it.

The plaque underneath told Tom the painter’s name was H. Potter. Unlike then, however, the bench wasn’t empty any more. A young man sat on the bench and for some reason Tom was sure that was meant to be him.