Sweat and Blood

No one notices the artist. No one sees the painter. They just watch the paintings, never thinking of where they were made. Or how.

She uses nothing but the purest paint. A unicorn hair brush made with the finest, most expensive hairs, taken from young, still-gold unicorns. The most beautifully-made easel. The finest canvas. Only the best for her beloved masterpieces. For every one of her paintings is a part of her. And she will never allow any part of herself to be less than perfect.

She paints landscapes. Animals. Shapeless, nameless creatures. She even paints people. But her favorite paintings are portraits. They are the rarest of rare. A person must die, before they are bestowed the honor of being immortalized with paint and brush. And so the artist must wait, maybe her entire life, before she can paint a portrait. And of course, only the best are immortalized. Only the most heroic. The bravest. The purest. Only those special few, perfect people.

She is lucky. She does not need to wait her entire life. She is still young, still hale, still possessing of the most vivid imagination, when her turn to paint a portrait comes. He was old, the one she is to immortalize, but that does not matter. He was still fascinating. She had watched him, day by day, as she painted her other works of art, hoping, praying, pleading with the Higher Being, that she would be given the chance to immortalize him. To paint the hair, the flowing silver beard, and those eyes… it would be an honor, a privilege. Even a form of revenge.

…revenge…

As much as she had dreamt of bringing him to life on canvas, she knows that her dreams flow only partly from respect and awe. More than anything she wants to take her revenge. He was a traitor, he fueled and encouraged the damnation of the artist’s trade. It may be that he did not understand, did not know what he was doing – but everyone always said, and continues to say, he knew everything. And if he was blessed with All Knowledge, then he was one of the few who knew who she was – who knew of her life’s work. He should have remained on the truest path. The purest path. The perfect path. He, of course, was pure. If he had not been, she would never have wanted to paint him.

Blood is her trade secret. It makes all the difference in a portrait. Just a daub of blood, the smallest drop, will bring a portrait to life in a way even the best magic cannot. And blood, magic and the perfect utensils together, make the most magnificent pictures. Her portraits will be the best of the best. They will stand out from the older artworks and her landscape and animal paintings. They will be a world apart. All because of the blood.

And of course, only the purest blood. Mudbloods, half-bloods, they do not make for good art. Their blood is dirty, disgusting, adulterated, imperfect. Their blood only destroys the picture; it adds no life to the portrait. And this man, a “hero�, the silver-haired one she is finally going to paint, he supported the Mudbloods, the half-bloods, the scum of the earth. Their impure blood… revolting. How is she ever to paint more than one portrait, if half the witches and wizards of the world are flawed?

But she will, for now, settle for one. She will paint this man. Get her revenge by painting him. One should be enough – her first and her last – because of course, the chance to paint a portrait comes very rarely.

**

Ah, there is the body. Even in death he looks magnificent. Even broken, he looks powerful. It is this power, this magnificence, she wishes to portray. Her secret ingredient will make it possible. She waits until the half-giant leaves the room – he, of course, cannot see, does not use his eyes.

She steps up to his body, her eyes glittering red in anticipation. Her joy clearly etched on her face, for those who care to look. Her revenge is near. She pulls away the robe sleeve from one wrist – but no. It is damaged, flawed! She rushes to the other wrist, pulls back the sleeve, rips it back and sighs in relief. Ah, yes. It is clear. Undamaged. As it was. The body is still warm – thankfully. She pinpoints the vein with practiced accuracy – she has been waiting for this moment for years now – she has dreamt of it, even. And she bites down hard.

Yes! Yes!

She feels like screaming with joy. There is still blood. Quickly, quicker than lightning, she pulls out a small vial, allows a few drops to trickle into the glass container, her excitement growing with every glistening red drop. She corks the vial, and rushes away, to return to her canvas. Her revenge is almost complete.

**

At her easel, she lifts her golden-bristled brush and dips it reverently into the vial. The red soaks onto the gold; it looks beautiful. Almost dancing with joy, she lifts her brush, and adds a tinge of red to the curtain behind the silver-haired old man. Just a tinge is enough. Just a hint will do. She pulls out her wand from where it hides, deep in her pocket and waves it at the picture. A few sparks of blue drift from her wand and hug the portrait.

Almost there!

The spell takes effect. The portraits eyes focus…on its artist. And she knows that he knows what she has done and she is pleased. His eyebrows rise slightly, his eyes narrow slightly and that is all – the only acknowledgment he gives. He knows he is different, he knows how and it troubles him. She grins, bares her teeth and picks up the canvas. She will hang it in the Headmaster’s Office now. And it will stay there for as long as the castle exists. And he will know for as long as the castle exists.

She has defied him. Used something he is against to make him who he is.

Her revenge is complete.

**

The taste of blood is on her lips. She needs it, more and more. Everyday. She craves it. Dreams of it. Not animal blood on which she had sustained herself before – but human blood. Pure, delicious, beautiful human blood.

And so she forms a plan, almost subconsciously, as she paints another landscape.

There is only one left in the Hogwarts Castle who deserves to be immortalized on canvas; only one she is willing to wait.

She has heard the stories; the brilliant tales of strength and courage and implausible boldness. The tale that most interests her is the one that spread only a year and a half ago. She still keeps the paper, the ugly, cast-off piece of parchment that disguises itself as a page from a schoolbook when she does not wish to examine it. It was banned, she remembers. If it had not been forbidden she never would have seen it, never picked it out of a student’s bag; it was from a grubby newspaper that used photographs. Photographs that moved! As if paintings needed to be renovated. As if the perfect could possibly be perfected. Despicable. But she had hidden her loathing for sometime, contained it, to read that scrap of newspaper. Most of the story is of no interest to her. Most.

There is a small line, a few words put together, that make a sentence she has thought of again and again since the day she read it. It has become an endless mantra, looping inside her head.

He took a bit of my blood as well, just a drop or two.

Blood! His blood flows in the Dark Lord’s veins! It is amazing, unthinkable. She must have it. She needs it. The Dark Lord is precious to her heart, though he does not know it. She worships him. He was always unreachable to her but now – now something of his lives in her castle. A boy, a brave, magnificent boy who has done enough to be worthy of a portrait. And now he and the Dark Lord share blood.

She draws her tongue over her lips – she can’t even begin to imagine how the Dark’s Lord blood would taste. And tonight… tonight she will find out.

**

Painting is simple. Most anyone can dip a brush into paint and form patterns and shapes. With a bit of practice and luck, drawing and shaping true forms of animals and people can become second nature. But to know, instinctively, what will make a picture beautiful, and what ugly, is a gift. Is a golden unicorn-hair paintbrush better, or silver? Does Veela hair work better than unicorn? Gold-spun canvas, or silk-spun? Pigments from a Venomous Tentacula seed or from the Devil’s Snare vines?

Blood… or paint….

**

So easy. So simple. No one ever notices the artist….

She walks slowly, casually up the spiral staircase stopping now and then to gaze at the pictures that hang on the stone walls. None are hers, but her look is not one of admiration. A smug smile spreads on her face. These previous artists – compared to her – were poor, dumb, untalented, delusional fools. She has perfected art. She is truly an artist. And tonight – tonight everyone will know…

She continues up the staircase, and pushes open the correct door soundlessly. Five beds. She goes to each, peers around the red curtain, until she finds him. She expects him to be awake: the events of the past few days must have been torture for him. But his eyes are not open. He lies there, asleep, unaware. His scar, even in this dark, is clearly visible to her. She narrows her eyes as she gazes down at him. He has probably never thought of the paintings – never thought of her.

Fool.

But tonight, soon, he will think of her. And then he will know her – for the rest of eternity he will know only her.

She raises her hand, moves it over his rising and falling chest. In the moonlight from the window, the object in her hand glints an eerie silver. Again, she knows exactly where to aim; she has prepared for this day.

She does not go quickly. No, she wants to enjoy this as much as possible. Her mouth is watering already, but she will not hurry. Slowly, she lowers her precious tool, Slowly, slowly…

It pierces his clothing first, and then his skin. A shiver of excitement runs up her spin, a wicked smile spreads on her face. Oh, how she loves it. Still slowly, but with slightly more force now. Down, down, down…

And his eyes fly open. Green, a beautiful, lovely green she will have to spend days painting. They are wide and afraid and darting.

Of course. Imbecile. He is as blind as the others.

He gropes at his chest, gets a bloody hand for his effort, but he cannot push away her prized instrument. Now the time for enjoyment has gone. She plunges it. One movement. Her teeth bared in a grin. The green eyes register inhuman pain and fear, but oh, the time for fear is long gone. A flutter of eyelids and his lashes rest upon his cheeks once more. Just as if he were sleeping. So easy.

Now she must work quickly. She pulls vial after vial from her robe, filling them to the brim with the precious liquid dripping from the wound. So much of it! She fills as many vials as she has need of. Then licks her fingers, her eyes on his pale face. The taste is overpowering. She has tasted the blood which runs through the Dark Lord’s veins! She wishes, oh how she wishes, to bite, to sink her teeth into a vein, but there is no time.

She turns away, pushes the curtain back into place. She wonders what will happen when they find him. The thought brings a rare laugh to her lips, as she exits the room.

**


She sits at her easel. Takes up her brush and dips it into the color of her choice. A green, now. She must paint his eyes. The final thing. Green blood, she thinks. Blood in all colors. It was so easy to dye the precious fluid with magic. So simple. A masterpiece in blood.

Simple, perfect, beautiful. Just as she is. She strokes the canvas with her brush. And bares her teeth in her excitement. Delicate, and pointed. Perfect…

**