AN: Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Potter hate each other on principal, despite the fact that they share a dormitory. Scorpius is an artist, however, and he can appreciate a fine piece of art. . .
Scorpius's POV. Written in response to the 'a god unfolds' prompt. I felt like describing. . . something.
Warnings: None, really. Not slashy; just one man appreciating another man's body.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters or anything even remotely related to the Harry Potter Franchise, except my own copies of the books and some merchandise.
I walk into the dormitory I share with Potter. As always, he's already there.
Potter is on his bed as usual, facing away from me. He's lying on his stomach, legs bent at the knees and feet crossed at the ankles, in the air. He's leaning on his elbows, his chin resting in one hand, the other holding up the book that he is reading.
I note how the sun, too weak this late in the day to burn, looks like it might be warming his back pleasantly. Like a lion basking in the warm sunlight. The light is highlighting the toned muscles of Potter's back and shoulder blades and radiating off his fair skin, granting him a honey-ish glow in this late-afternoon lighting. This scene shouldn't startle me. But it does.
Because Potter is reading his novel, ever so blasé. . . stark naked.
And he hasn't noticed me come in.
I walk over to my bed, dumping my satchel on the floor unceremoniously, hoping the thump will make him aware of my presence.
"I didn't realize you were here, Malfoy" he states without tearing his eyes from the page. He sounds unfazed.
"Well now you do" I remark. After a few more silent seconds I clear my throat. Potter lowers his book and looks back at me over his shoulder. He uses his toe to delicately scratch the back of his slender foot. Even the skin on his feet looks radiant, I note. This just makes me more annoyed with him. Oh, and he also has almost NO bodily hair. Or facial hair, for that matter. He doesn't even need to shave. All he has is a head full of messy, thick, lustrous locks that end in slight curls barely skimming his shoulders.
I wonder if he waxes his legs. Idiot.
"Was there something you wanted?" Potter asks.
"Um, perhaps you could consider putting some clothes on, Potter" I say sarcastically. Isn't that obvious? Why is he lying around the room in the nude anyway?
"Or perhaps not" he replies with a sarcastic grin that I want to smack off his perfect face. I continue to glare at him, annoyed.
He puts the book down gently and turns over, strategically pulling the messed-up sheets over himself so that just vital areas are covered. He stretches himself out like a cat and yawns. At least he has enough respect not to flash me.
I shake my head and go lay on my own bed. Potter is now lounging on his side, sheets still covering the bare essentials, leaning his head on his hand while the other hand casually rests over his navel. Another reason for me to hate him, he looks so godly in this light, in that pose. His body is the perfect balance between lean and muscular. Although Potter is slight, his chest and shoulders are manly. His arms look like they've never done any manual labour, which they probably haven't, but they look strong. Just not built.
Without realizing I'm doing it, at first, I begin to sketch with a soft lead pencil on an A3 piece of drawing paper. I often do this. When the artistic side of my mind sees inspiration, my body moves of its own accord and begins depicting the source of inspiration. I sketch everything, from landscapes to my classrooms to what ever happens to be in front of me. It's habit.
I follow my hand's lead as it transfers a perfect body to paper. The gentle decline where the midsection sinks in and the hip curves out again, mostly angular edges though. From the sharp elbows and the lean, graceful arms to the toned torso. I let the god unfold. The sculpted chest, the collarbone, the Adam's Apple.
I stop at the neck and fill detail in rather. I shade the hard, subtle blocks that lie under the smooth skin of the abdomen. The indents that form a "V" that leads to inner thighs from the hip. I shade the folds of the sheet that keep this picture from being pornographic.
I am almost finished, and it's only taken me about forty minutes. I've done the long, lean thighs and the shapely calves. The knees, slim ankles and slender feet. I've even done the rest of the bed, the sheets that are all ruffled under the body and the stylish headboard in the background. It's just the face. I did the outline for the head and jaw, and even completed the hair. It's only the facial features.
If Potter could sit still for ten more minutes. . . and I wonder why he hasn't moved in forty. I glance at his face only to be met by his gaze.
I startle. I hadn't realized he'd been watching me. I'm somehow affronted. Although I am the one who was drawing his naked body. Who should take offence here?
"Are you done?" Potter pipes up curiously. Somewhat kindly.
I shake my head. "Just your face".
He resumes the blank expression he had on a moment ago and I suddenly feel guilty. Making him sit still for so long for my own purpose. What right do I have?
I finish the sketch, wanting it to be complete but not wanting to ruin it by rushing. So carefully I add the contours of the nose, the eyes, the perfect mouth. I shade the dark, thick eyelashes and the gently arched eyebrows. The nostrils, the slight shadows under the eyes and along the jaw to bring out the cheekbones. I try my best to capture to smooth texture and radiant quality of the skin. The shadow that makes those lips look pouty. The very subtle cleft in the slightly pointed chin. I draw it all.
Drawing makes you notice things. Like how Potter's jaw isn't square, it's pointed. . . But not sharp. How his cheekbones are high. How he has dimples.
Wait, he shouldn't be smiling. I've already completed the drawing and I realize I'm still assessing his features. He's smiling now, that's why he has dimples. I hadn't noticed before.
"May I see?" he asks hesitantly but excitedly. I flip the piece of paper around for him to see. Potter's eyes light up.
He isn't as vain as me, but he should be. Maybe he thinks I've idealized him, made him look better in this picture than he really is. Ha! I wish. Everyone knows my style of drawing. My sketches are photographic in their quality.
"You're talented" he remarks.
"You sound surprised" I reply, smirking, pleased with myself. Even Mr High-And-Mighty approves.
"I'm. . . not" Potter admits with a childlike honesty. I lose the smirk. This is the first conversation we've had in three weeks that hasn't turned into an argument. I don't want to break this fragile air.
"What do you think?" I ask. It's only fair to ask his opinion on an artwork of which he is the star.
"I think that you're talented. Didn't I say that?" he says. My eye twitches involuntarily.
". . .of the drawing?" I explain.
"I think that it's a good drawing. You've portrayed me divinely-"
"I portrayed the scene the way it appeared. Nothing else" I interrupt.
"-and I take that as a compliment" Potter finishes. "What will you do with it?"
I think about it for a moment. I have countless drawings and sketches in my folder. I suppose I could give this one to him. But I'm strangely attached to it. It is a good drawing. Perfect. Just like the subject matter.
"I'm going to put it in my portfolio" I'm surprised to hear myself say. But it makes sense. I should keep this masterpiece with my best.
Potter stretches again, stiff from lying so still for almost an hour. He then curls up in the fetal position (but with one leg stretched out), snuggling up to his fluffy feather pillow. His eyes are closed but he's smiling.
"I'm going to have a nap. Goodnight, Scorpius" he says amiably. So we're on first-name basis now? When did that happen?
"'Night, Potter" I don't waver. Just because we had a total of one decent conversation, if you can call it that, I am not his buddy.
One last thought goes through my head as I put my drawing things down and prepare to lie down myself:
What a beautiful piece of art.
AN: What did you think?