Chapter 1 : One
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 10|
Background: Font color:
Luna sat down at her easel. She picked up her brush, dipped the tip into the red, and spread it across the canvas. She usually started with the main feature, and then quickly filled in the background. She always wanted to finish the background quickly, so she could lean back, and appreciate the focal point. But not this time. This time she was going to pour her heart and soul into every square inch of the picture. Because that is what he deserved.
She spread the paint up towards the top left corner, and smiled to herself.
One hundred and twenty five.
In a way, he was always in the background. He was never the hero, because he never needed to be. Instead, he contented himself with documenting the comings and goings of everyday life. And in some ways, Luna thought he lived his life through others. He was so immersed in not missing a single detail of an event that he forgot that his own life was whizzing past him, at the speed of light. Like the flash of a camera.
She picked up her pencil, and sketched the outline of his face. The same face that had smiled at her every day from across the Charms classroom.
Two hundred and fifty.
She always ended up sitting on her own. Nobody wanted to sit beside someone who smelled like gurdyroots, or who fashioned jewellery out of radishes and butterbeer corks. Nobody even wanted to look at her, for fear someone would find out they were getting friendly with the class weirdo. He hadn’t cared about that though, maybe because he was a bit of an oddity himself. They talked about him too. And maybe that was the reason Luna liked him.
His eyes were hard to get right. She found it near impossible to get the warmth into them, and she couldn’t get the exact colour of hazel brown. She got up off her stool, and wrenched open the top drawer of her old, battered dresser, which sat against the wall opposite her bed. She sifted through the different tubes of paint, adding squirts here and there into a little plastic cup. She mixed it ferociously with her paintbrush, moving towards the window. The golden light hit the side of her face and her arm stopped dead. She stared down at the brown mixture, and quietly made her way back to the easel. The colour was perfect in the sunset.
Three hundred and seventy five.
He loved sunsets. Dusk was the most beautiful time of the day in his eyes. She asked him why once and he had told her that the sunset had a funny way of making the colour come out in everything. And then he had tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t noticed that her usually dirty blonde hair had gone golden in the evening sun.
She blended the peach and the pink together with her fingertips. She spread the paint carefully, as if caressing his cheek. He always had the softest skin. She placed a darker shade on her fingertips, so to show his high cheekbones. She made sure to make it look like he was smiling. He was always smiling
Luna’s favourite sound was him laughing. Not his quiet titter that he used whenever there were others around, but the full out, breathless, belly-laugh that was reserved for her presence only. Sometimes it felt like she was the only one that knew the real him. The only one who knew what his favourite colour was, or what his lips felt like against hers. The feel of his fingertips tracing patterns on the back of her neck while they sat at the edge of the lake, her sketching, him watching her.
The curl of his hair took her some time. She had had to find another brush from the depths of her painting drawer.
Six hundred and twenty five.
Not many people knew he could dance, but she did. They used to dance in the sunset as it streamed through the windows of the old, dusty castle. They never needed any music. Luna always hummed. Sometimes he didn’t dance at all, but just watched her. He loved to watch her dancing. She would twirl and sashay, not following any pattern. Sometimes he would jump up at random, and swing her around in the air. For no reason at all. Just at random.
Eyebrows didn’t seem like a very important item to Luna when she began them, but she found his face didn’t look right unless she got them perfect. Not too bushy, not too thin, or else he began to resemble the stranger.
Seven hundred and fifty.
When she asked him to get her photographs for her murals, he told her he would have them for her by the end of the week. And ever the reliable, he came through. Luna had never really appreciated what he had gone through to find them, but she did now. He, ever the perfectionist, probably followed them for days until they were facing a certain way, in a certain light. Just as she was trying to do now.
It was finished. She leaned back and took it in. Drank in his features that she had painted purely from memory. Because he was usually never photographed, he was always behind the camera.
She stared into the eyes of Colin Creevey. The perfect, whole Colin Creevey. The Colin Creevey before he jumped in front of the green jet that had been destined for her. Not the body that had lain crumpled and broken, like a discarded doll while his younger brother wept over him, or the body that had lain in the wooden coffin, wearing his school uniform, Gryffindor tie tied perfectly, not a hair out of place, shirt tucked in.
The Colin Luna had known had never tied his tie perfectly, or his hair combed, or his shirt tucked in, he always looked a mess from rushing from place to place. For while he was a perfectionist in many ways, he never worried about petty things. He considered vanity petty. So Luna managed to convince herself that it was not her Colin in that box, but someone, anyone else.
Luna dragged the painting towards the eastern wall of her room, which was now bathed in the evening sun. The powder blue seemed like the perfect backdrop. She ripped down the diagrams of various creatures her father had tried, and failed to find and tore the many maps of their past trips. None of that seemed important now. She had ransacked the garden shed earlier, and had found a hammer and nails. She picked both up and began hammering the nails awkwardly into the wall. She hung the painting tenderly, and stood back to survey.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
Hi :) This was written in a rush as a Secret Santa gift! For whom, it will be revealed at a later stage! Not my best work, but I did try!
*16/2/13- Finally got around to fixing this up a bit!
Other Similar Stories
by Mad Hatter