She rushes through the dimly-lit hallways, disturbing their peacefulness with the smack of her three-inch heels on the old stone tiles. The brick building in which these hallways lie is dusty, tired, and past its time. Uncharacteristically late, she swings herself through a wooden door frame and into a much brighter, more colourful room. A room that’s vast, with walls repainted into aqua – a setting which the eye cannot easily adjust to after being not meters away in the dank hall.

Facing her like an audience, seated in chairs against the far wall, are seven witches and wizards of all ages who bring their impatient eyes up to meet hers. ‘Ah,’ a tall woman who stands to the right of the room says, ‘how kind of you to join us, Lily.’ She speaks with a smirk, however warmness wafts from her. ‘You know what your lateness means, don’t you?’

Lily Potter smiles uneasily. ‘Yes, Madame.’

Feeling the heat of every eye in the room on her, she nears the group, reaching the velvet covered lounge that she is expected to take a seat on. She sits, facing them all, a little nervous, although this isn’t her first time.

‘Excellent,’ the tall woman dressed in lavish green robes says. ‘Now, conjure your supplies and let’s get moving.’

Lily takes a moment to collect herself as the individuals before her take out their wands and after a moment of summoning – some silent and some verbal – there is the loud scraping of timber against stone. Seven easels appear before the seven artists, and various pots of paint and brushes come hurtling along a moment later. Canvas, paint, and a subject – all give potential for a masterpiece.

‘Pick a pose, dear,’ Madame orders kindly. Lily shifts, her hands sliding against the soft velvet, sensual movement displayed before her indifferent audience members. She leans forward, places an elbow on her knee, and rests her chin in her palm. Feeling her top drape loosely, she wonders to what extent the old pervert in the corner will exaggerate her cleavage.

She hears the soft sound of paint spreading across the canvases, and envisions plainness tainted by colour and heart. She finds it hard to relax as the subject of an artwork, for how will they portray her? Will her truth be exposed on the page before she has the chance to erase it? This is why she would much rather paint than be painted. She likes to violate an individual’s sense of privacy in her art, however she prefers to keep her own self safely shut away.

As she gazes at the artists, wondering if they’ll catch her eye and paint what they see, she spots a face that she hasn’t seen in this room before. He’s still fresh as morning in her mind, despite it having been over two years since she last saw him. The two have never spoken before, and she doesn’t sense any recognition in his eyes as he paints, meticulously, carefully.

The afternoon stretches, and as the sun threatens to go down, Madame stands to examine the works that near completion. Lily aches to look at them too, but some are still painting, including him, so she must be still.

Though he looks at her closely with every glance, she still feels safe to stare at him as he hasn’t yet met her eye. She has longed to paint him for the most part of her sitting, to put brushwork to his hard-set jaw and furrowed brow. His hair is a tangled mess and she wants to capture every detail of it.

While the other artists begin to clear up and send their supplies back to the storeroom, he still works. As most begin to leave the room before she has the chance to glance at their representations of her, he continues.

Madame finally crosses the room to him when everyone else has left but the three of them. ‘Dear, I think Lily has a home to go to.’

At last, he brings his eyes to hers. Sighing, he says, ‘Of course. Sorry. She can go.’

It’s a dismissal, but Lily doesn’t bring herself to be offended. Standing, she shakes off the pose and stretches her arms in the air. ‘I’ll never be late again,’ she says.

Madame chuckles. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

Lily takes this moment to walk over to him, her heels echoing through the room. His movement has calmed now, and he seems to be merely adding bits here and there. As she comes into view of the painting, he glances up at her briefly before setting his eyes back to his own work. ‘Sorry it doesn’t much look like you.’

He’s right; it doesn’t. The painting is black and white, which is fairly fitting as all she is wearing today is black. But the girl in the photo’s only resemblance of Lily is the long, straight hair and slender frame – the clothes are different, the face is someone else. ‘It’s better this way,’ she tells him honestly.

He clears his throat and begins to clear away his paints. ‘No,’ is all he says.

Lily likes that he is critical of his work. This is strange as she didn’t know he was a painter until this day. She’d have guessed Quidditch star, due to his athletic frame and muscular arms. Or even an academic, given his apparent thoughtfulness. She thinks she likes artist the best.

‘Scor,’ calls Madame from by the door, addressing him as if they’re old friends, ‘speaking of late; I’ve just realised it’s my turn to cook for that wretched husband of mine. I’ll need to pop into Diagon Alley before home. Do you mind locking up for me?’

‘No,’ he said without tearing his eyes from the canvas. ‘Have a good night.’

‘Thanks, dear.’ Madame grins. ‘And, Lily, good luck with your NEWTs, if I don’t see you before school goes back.’

As the woman rushes from the room, Lily calls out, ‘Thanks!’ and she’s suddenly very aware that she is alone with him. And with this painting of her. If it’s even really her.

A realisation occurs suddenly then, as she stares at the immobile girl on the page. The statue, unflinching. ‘Where’s her movement?’ Lily asks quickly. ‘She should be animated by now.’

It didn’t take long after Lily began to take an interest in art that she learned paintings were not life-like from the start. After all, how on earth would one finish a painting that had limbs running across the page at random? Once the paints dry, it is then that things begin to spring into action.

‘Muggle paints,’ he says.

‘Right,’ she responds, although she isn’t certain she understands his decision to use this particular medium.

‘I find that I can’t look at our life-like paintings and photographs without feeling a bit of frustration,’ he suddenly explains, walking across the empty room to place his Muggle paints into the storeroom.

‘Why?’ she asks as he heads back in her direction, his blonde hair like a halo in the light.

‘I like how a Muggle photograph can capture a moment in just one frame ... without feeling the need to go further,’ he tells her. ‘Single frames expose people; a whole scene tends to cover the truth. Expressions ... slight movements ... I keep trying to grab them and put them onto a canvas. It rarely works, though,’ he finishes with a mumble.

Together, they analyse his newest painting, and Lily wonders what expression he had tried to capture in her. Was it sadness? Loneliness? She’s suddenly glad the woman on the page didn’t turn out to be her.

‘I guess you don’t like my shoes,’ Lily says jokingly, pointing to the canvas girl’s bare feet.

He looks down at her black high-heels, and then up at her face. ‘They don’t match your angelic face,’ he says quietly. ‘But then again, I didn’t get that part right either, did I?’

Staring at him, she feels the discontent he has within himself. ‘Don’t be upset about it. It’s really brilliant. So detailed ....’

He laughs. ‘Thanks.’

Lily suddenly wishes to be closer to him, to rid him of his sadness with a single touch. As if she has the power to be capable of such a thing.

He’s sitting down and glaring at the painting again. ‘We could try again ... if you’d like,’ she offers.

‘Oh, thanks,’ he says, ‘but I’m sure we’ve both got places to be.’

‘No,’ she says a little too vigorously, and she’s not sure why but her hand is on his shoulder. ‘I’ve got nowhere to be tonight.’

Her hand slides down his arm and he stands up, facing her. A little too close, his paint-covered fingers lingering near her waist. ‘You’re young,’ he says quietly.

‘Only two years younger than you,’ she breathes, inching closer. An expression forms on his face, as if he’s wondering, She remembers me?

‘Hogwarts says you’re young,’ he persists, stepping back.

Lily takes a breath, and begins to slide the sleeve of her black top from her shoulder. ‘Go on,’ she says, ‘paint me. You want to do things right.’

‘No,’ he snaps, reaching for her sleeve and tugging it back over her shoulder. ‘Stop it. Listen, I’ll see you –’

‘In a few years,’ Lily interrupts, rolling her eyes.

‘No, I meant next lesson,’ he says, scowling. ‘But this –’ he points back and forth between them ‘– never. And don’t act like you don’t know why.’

She feels her cheeks flush in embarrassment – of course he wouldn’t want her. Not just because she’s young but because of who she is, who she belongs to. Wrong of her to think one similarity, a love of art, could connect them in ways their families had failed to.

‘Good luck with your paintings,’ she mutters, and then she walks quickly from the room, wondering who the girl in the painting is, and if he’ll take her home with him tonight or leave her in the dusty storeroom, the captured frame of her existence left to face a brick wall eternally. That single instant, discarded, and insignificant to anyone else in the world but him.