story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling,
various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic
Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no
copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Do you trust me?
Of course I do.
If I cut you, will you hate me?
No, of course not. Why should I?
Because I cut you. You're blood will be all over my hands, and your tears will fall. Aren't you afraid of the pain?
No, I won't hate you. Not again. Besides...
The pain won't last. You'll mend it. You'll kiss the cut. I know you.
I see. If I use a silver blade, and slice it down your arm... and if the blood drips to the floor, and I show you no sympathy when you gasp...
I trust you.
All right then.
They wonder, you know.
In the morning, I see Dumbledore and that old cow McGonagall survey the red marks on the Great Hall wall, and the rest of the staff eyes it from the High Table. They dare not ask what happened now. They will ask later when they are surrounded by the comfort of Dumbledore's office.
The drawings are vividly red. So red, in fact, that they could only be blood. I can see they way it trickled down the wall, and I know, even if I cannot see it, that the dried blood is pooled at the floor across the room. It's at the Gryffindor side of the room, and the mural is large and bright.
The Hufflepuffs don't look at it. They are too scared, and they don't want to consider of the insanity of it all. Their heads are bent over their plates, and those who are unfortunate enough to be facing the wall stare at something else.
The Ravenclaws eye it curiously. They want to find out the root of the story. They want to find out who did it, what was used and what was the purpose. I doubt that they'll succeed.
The Slytherins sneer at it. They disagree. When they find the culprit, the absolute fool who is responsible, they will stare them down. They eye it hatefully, and they talk in low voices around me at what they would do to the creator.
The Gryffindors glare at it. They think it's stupid, and wrong, and it shouldn't have been drawn. It has their house symbol on it, depicted with another symbol they clearly don't approve of.
I never realized how big it was. The drawings stand out proudly even across the room. The lion is drawn to perfection, and the snake coiled around the head is poised, and ready to strike. No one approves of the drawing.
I remove my eyes from the painting. It looks as if the artist spent a lot of time on it. I know it will be hard to remove it; blood cannot be easily removed from the stone-cold castle walls.
Ironic, though, isn't it? A snake? And a lion? Together?
It's beautiful the lion says.
I know, and the snake replies.
You're wearing a long-sleeved shirt, I see.
I don't want anyone to see.
Are you ashamed?
No, of course not! Why should I--
You covered it, that's why.
...I covered it because you cut too deep.
And because you're ashamed.
I'm not ashamed.
It's cold, and you're not here. But I wait, like always,
because I know you'll come when it's dark, and when you come, I won't see you.
You're invisible, sometimes, you see.
I prepare the materials. The paintbrush is gleaming in the candlelight, and I pick it up, and study it. It's clean now, no trace of any vibrant crimson or any other color.
All you need to do is come, and we can make the paint. We'll mix colors, and we'll cry at the beauty of it all. And when I paint it? It will be for us. For us. Our easel will be different this time, it will be smaller, and it will be more risky to paint our masterpiece.
I heard you come in. You, unsurprisingly, make no footprints. It's expected, and I feel your lips against my neck a minute later. You tongue it while I look at the candle, and I close my eyes and put down the knife as you slide your arms around my neck.
I'm ready you say.
Are you? I reply. You nuzzle my neck, and I know my answer.
"Did you hear?"
"Yeah, Snape told us all this morning. He thinks it's a Gryffindor."
"Of course it's a Gryffindor. No Slytherin would be stupid enough to paint those things in the Charms corridor."
"It's bizarre. Hell, look at what the person used. He used blood as the paint."
I listen as they talk. They talk in whispered, discreet voices, and I pretend to read the Charms notes that Flitwick gave us today.
"Do you really think it's a Gryffindor?"
"It might be! It could be that Thomas boy, he always draws those lions at the Gryffindor Quidditch games."
"Or it could be that third year girl. She draws snakes pretty well, I've seen her draw them!"
"It could be both of them! Collaborating!"
"Shhh, keep it down. Whoever's doing it, they're obviously trying to prove a point."
That's all I need to hear. Five points to Slytherin.
You were wearing another long sleeved shirt today.
Because you're ashamed?
I'm not ashamed! Stop saying I--
But you are. I see it when you look at me. I see it when your friends talking about what the painting could mean. I don't wear a long sleeved shirt, my Gryffindor.
That's because no one would suspect you. They wouldn't be brave enough to ask why that cut is on your arm.
True. But they would ask eventually, and when they do, I'll just tell them what I know.
What do you know?
I know that there is a purpose. Eventually, one day, they will be smart enough and they will know that it was us. They will figure it out. Give them a bit of credit.
Can I see you're arm?
You're cut is deeper than mine. Does... does it hurt?
Of course. It's deeper than yours because you said you trusted me. If I cut too deep, I would make you cry. If I cut too shallow, it wouldn't be enough.
Oh. I wouldn't cry, you know.
You would. You know you would. But--
I want you to cut my arm deeper.
To show you that I'm not ashamed.
Will it matter? It's twelve at night, and no one will see it but me. In the morning, you will wear that sweater over your long sleeved shirt, and you will hope that you're friends don't find out. What is the point of making this mural, if you don't have your materials to show that you contributed?
What is the use?
Don't be ashamed. I'm not, and you won't be. If there is no one else, I am here; you know I will be here. Always here.
Always, I promise.
You're welcome. Now, let's hurry, we don't have that much time tonight.
You're skin is so soft, did you know that? You chuckle as I
kiss you belly button, and you flash me a small smile as I rest the side of my
face on your hip.
The room smells of sex, and lust, and passion. We share an intimate glance and I kiss your belly again. You chuckle again. It's an endless cycle.
Did I ever tell you of my first paint set? My mother got it for me when I was five. It came with ten magical brushes, twenty paints, and five large easels.
The first thing I ever painted was a flower. I remember, because my mother praised me for it. It was all I could paint, because it was all I could draw. Simple as that.
You tell me that your cousin got a paint set for his seventh birthday. Not as many brushes, though, or paints, or easels, but a paint set nonetheless. You tell me that he gave up painting as soon as he got a remote-control car, which was the day after he received the paints. So you tell me that you got some paint, and got some paper, and you painted several doodles with your fingers.
I tell you that I drew a snake. It was a big one too, big, green and black, and a red tongue was coming from its mouth.
You tell me that you were never good with art.
I ask you who told you that. I disagree with what you say. You draw felines very well.
You tell me that your Uncle found that you got some of the paint. He told you that the things you drew were not that good, and your cousin -- Dudley, is his name? Who cares -- could do better.
I disagree on that.
I tell you that my father found out of my paint set. He threw it away, and said it was for girls. But what he didn't know was that I kept on drawing. I never was good at art, but it was fun, and it was better than listening to that idiotic girl tell me about her dolls.
You brush the hair away from my face, and I kiss your belly one last time. You don't chuckle this time, and you hug me, and you kiss me.
You ask me if we can paint tomorrow. I say yes, because I can see that you're tired. You're arm probably hurts, because last night, you cried when I cut a little too deep. I kissed your tears away, and I held you.
We'll paint tomorrow. And we'll make it grander than before.
You did a good job on the patterns...
Not as good as you did with the mane, my Gryffindor.
Can I sleep in your room tonight?
Is something wrong?
It's nothing. I just miss you. Alot.
Well, if you want to, of course you can.
Tell me what's wrong?
It's ... it's nothing.
I see it in your eyes, you git. There is something wrong. What is it?
Then stop lying!
I'm not lying. Fine, I don't care; I can sleep in my bed to--
No-no, I... I was just asking. Okay? I was worried. Okay?
It's nothing... o-okay?
Of course... now come here.
I heard your friends talking today outside the Potions
classroom. They talked about the most recent painting. It's bigger than any of
the previous ones, and this time, it's more detailed.
This time, the painters painted the lion and the snake at the Great Hall entrance. The lion's head is massive, and the mane is gorgeous. It's full and vibrant, and the blood makes it powerful. The snake is coiled around its head comfortably, and its scales are mesmerizing.
I heard your two friends say -- or rather, the girl in your inseparable trinity -- that it's a rather beautiful form of art. Your redheaded friend says it sucks, but we know that someone like him could never appreciate fine art anyway. Hey, don't give me that look, I was just teasing.
My companions were talking about it as well. One of them said that the scales on the snake were nice. The other, who for some mysterious and unknown reason to wizards actually appreciates art says it's different. The others say nothing, and stare at the painting.
It's working, the snake hisses quietly.
Only because we're doing it together, the Lion roars in reply.
They know what?
They know that it was part of my blood on the wall.
Come here, let me hold you. What did they say?
Nothing yet, but Hermione was staring at my cut.
I noticed that you weren't wearing your sweater today. I think it shows your figure perf--
Please, I'm not in the mood for joking around.
Fine. Come here.
You're welcome. Put your feet under the covers and I'll hold you.
If she asks... what do I say?
It depends. What do you want to say? You could tell the truth, and say yes, it is part of your blood on the wall, and it has been your blood that has graced the walls all those paintings before. Or... you could lie, and tell her that you just... cut yourself...
What if she asks who painted it?
It depends as well. We both painted it. The mighty lion and the cunning serpent. We also both used our blood...
All right... just... wanted to know what you would say.
It's going to be all right. And if not? We'll have each other.
I would like that.
So would I. Go to sleep, and we'll paint another tomorrow night.
But McGonagall says th--
So did Snape. They both said they would give us detentions if they ever find out who is doing it -- unlimited detentions until school lets out. But we have your invisibility cloak.
That's true. Where do you want to paint the next one?
You pick this time; I picked all the other times.
...I know where.
looked at me curiously when I almost fell asleep in Potions. I could feel his
glare on my face, but I just stared at him. He won't ask me why I almost
spilled the Pixie Dragon wings all over the table.
I'm pretty tired, and so are you. It shows. Your eyes have bags under them, you're your shoulders are slumping. But you smile, and you grin, and you are the boy wonder.
McGonagall and Snape are irritated because the painters struck again. Instead, this time, there were two paintings. One in Snape's Potions classroom (where we are right now), and one in McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom.
I could hear McGonagall's ranting all the way from the Slytherin Common room this morning. Rather amusing, if I say so myself.
The one in McGonagall's room isn't that nice as the one in Snape's room. The lion is deranged, and it's obvious that the same person didn't paint it.
Snape is furious, and I've never seen McGonagall quite this angry, either.
Even the Hufflepuffs talk about it now. They whisper, of course. They talk about how the blood is so red, and they talk about what the blood-as-the-paint could mean.
The Ravenclaws say it reminds them of some old meaningful cave paintings they have read in a recent book. Or, possibly, what the Lion or Serpent could mean, and of course, they still wonder who it is.
The Slytherins are quiet. They have a feeling about the meaning of it all. They know that the Serpent is our house animal, they aren't that stupid. They have shifty gazes.
The Gryffindors? They also have a feeling about it. They all stared at you when you left their table yesterday, claming you had Quidditch practice. I've seen Granger stare at your arm, and as much as you try to aid it, it's still deep, and red, and there. She knows.
Dumbledore smiles, I see him. He knows what's happening.
I'll send you an owl tonight. I want to talk to you.
It's not funny!
Of course it is. I'm laughing.
Hey, we went past the normal time we paint, you git.
Aw. Did we go pwast your bwedtime?
Shut up, that's not funny!
It is funny, especially since you were the one who wanted to paint two instead of one...in McGonagall's room and in Snape's! And I tried to paint the lion's mane. Not my fault that you fell asleep on me.
You should pout more, it makes you look very sexy.
You know you are. That's why you're turning away from me.
There, I'm facing you! And I'm not blushing.
I know what will make you blush...
Come here... and I'll show you.
She tried to talk to me tonight. I knew she would try to
kiss me, so I just went to my dorm and locked her out of it. I would only let
you touch my lips.
I think they know why there is a long, deep cut on my arm. I think they know why I look at you the way I do. They have seen your wound, and they have seen mine. They look at me, sometimes, with calculating gazes, and I stare back at them. They are the first to look away.
Why should I be scared? I know you'll be there if something happens. Why do I know you'll be there? Because it's you. We belong together, and I know you would do anything for me. You trust me, and you let me cut your skin to spill your blood so we could make a masterpiece.
Are you okay?
You look pale.
Did something happen with you and your companions? Not that I care about them, or whatnot.
Come see me tonight? No, wait, maybe not. Go to the Astronomy tower. We'll talk there.
And, what else did she say?
She said it wasn't healthy. She doesn't know why I'm doing it. She doesn't know why I'm losing my blood to put it on a wall. I told her that I'm doing it for a purpose... and one day, I, along with someone I... deeply care about... I will tell them. I will tell everyone.
And Ron said that I was mad. He doesn't know what I'm doing with you, but he says to stop it. He says not to trust you, and that you're a Slytherin, and you're untrustworthy and ... well. You know Ron. Sort of.
And Seamus and Dean and Neville know. They stared at my arm all day, and ... I could see them look at y-you during Lunch.
A-and Ginny was crying today because she's smart, and she knows that I love you-
...Come here, Harry. Yes... it's okay. We won't do it anymore. You're becoming pale, and I think we used too much blood.
... One last time. Let's do it one last time.
No, Harry, we can't.
Please... one last time, then never again. ... We have to create our masterpiece. Please?
... Fine. Just one last time. You pick.
stare as I walk down the corridors. They stare at the long, deep, red, gash in
my arm as I walk to the Great Hall. They look at my face, and I stare back. The
Professors watch as I sit down at my regular seat, and Crabbe and Goyle sit hesitantly
The Hufflepuffs stare at me. Their mouths are open, and they are flabbergasted beyond belief. Their gazes flicker back between my arm, and my cheek, and I raise my eyebrow at them.
The Ravenclaws are irritated. Why? Because they didn't figure it out before the culprits admitted their crime. Not because of what's on my face, or on my arm, but just because they didn't figure it out.
The Slytherins watch me. Their gazes are indescribable, but I look at them plainly. They look back at me. I don't attack, and they don't offend, and they sit where they always used to sit. Beside me. Pansy and Tracey and Millicent smile slightly at me, Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise eye my face.
The Gryffindors look back and forth at us both. I say I did a perfect job on the serpent. It's long, and it coils fluidly, getting ready to strike. I thought it would look beautiful coiled around your scar, so I painted in my blood with my fingertip on your face. It's red, and it's vivid, and the color -- I can see it from where I'm sitting.
I don't know what the lion looks like on my face. It's on my cheek, like finger-paint, but instead, it's your blood.
They all stare, silent. McGonagall is opened-mouthed like a fish. I wonder if she can transfigure herself into one? Snape looks at me -- and it's weird. There is no hate on his face, no resentment, nothing of any ill nature.
I think they understand, now, Harry. They understand from our blood, and our trust, that the Lion and the Serpent can live harmoniously.
And they understand that we can love each other. That our houses can interact, and communicate, and love.
From our blood, Harry. They understand that it came from our blood. Where our love, and pain, and suffering, and torment, and passion come from.
Thank you, for everything, the Lion says, and you raise your eyes to look at me.
You're welcome, the Snake replies, and I smile as I look at you.
And as I look around the room one last time, I think, And things will never be the same again.