Framing Harmony

Chapter One: Art for Art's Sake

"Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer to shape it."

- Vladimir Mayakovsky

There is something about a painting that can never quite be described. Sure, you can smell the paint, or see the man in the background; you can feel where layer after layer has been applied and hear the empty comments of jealousy of talent. However, what cannot be described, and shows the only true talent of any artist, is life. Some say that art should imitate life; some life should imitate art, though the truth is that the entire world is an audience, an audience that is all together more interesting than the show. Where fate and chance, despair and hope, harmony and discord are the players, the actors play on oblivious to life and those their play manipulates. We sit and watch. We capture moments in art. We take a moment to reflect on the man in front of us who eats his corn from the centre out, or the woman who can't get comfortable no matter what she does. The art in life is constant. Life is a spectator sport. But what if the play became audience participation? What if fate wrote the symphony or hope danced the ballet. And what if harmony and discord could work the painting?

It was raining.

Not so very unusual for this time of year surely, but never the less a rather large blot on the landscape. The damp smell of the rain still seemed to overtake the smell of the fire, even with the windows covered by the draft-tapestries and pots of paint lying open around the room. Everything in the Gryffindor common room was a cacophony of reds and golds. Lucinda Pierce always believed colours made the world what they were, and here, where the walls were covered in rich, warm inviting colours, she saw her proof. She often wondered how her older brother Greg, a fellow artist, could stand living in the Ravenclaw common room, filled with blues and blacks, cold and harsh as frosted glass. She imagined it dismal and always solemn. With a sigh, she dipped her brush into the prepared paint, filling the bristles with as much of the shimmering emerald green as she dared. With the briefest of frowns, she lightly put brush to canvas, to where there would soon be the over-extravagant dress robes of one Draco Malfoy. Obvious by the look on his face, he didn't much approve of the company he was keeping. It had been a wedding, of one of the professors. All fifth year and above students were invited, given a week off and had exams cancelled; on condition they came as dressed up as they could. Professor Dumbledore himself had requested the painting, asking expressly that the work be completed by students alone.

He had also requested expressly that she improve somewhat Dumbledore's own dress robes, which he claimed were 'almost as haggard and old as he was'.

Lucy smiled as she put more green below Malfoy's chin, the look on his face becoming suddenly smug as he admired himself. Hermione Granger, dressed in a peacock blue Muggle ball-gown was looking less pleased with the situation that Malfoy. They'd all been forced into a traditional line-dance that ended with every girl having danced with every boy. Even some of the Professors had joined in. Lucy still wasn't sure whether any approved of this at all. Hermione, at this point, had been landed with Malfoy. Malfoy seemed to be doing it mainly out of pride and solidarity, his arm resting at Hermione's waist and across her front, hers the same to his. They stepped around each other, in a perfect example of how it should be done. It was as if they were trying to out-do each other, as if the very pride of their houses rested on the perfection of the thirty-second battle of steps. Their competition could still be felt in the room when Lucy herself had reached Malfoy some time later. Another line of green, and Hermione's painted form, disapproving of Malfoy's smugness, jolted him bodily back to the matter at hand. The dance began again, neither of the pair having fallen a step out of time.

Beside Malfoy were Crabbe and Goyle, dancing with a very disgusted looking pair of fifth years (sixth years by now, Lucy reminded herself). Lucy glanced over the photograph she was using as reference. Just beyond Hermione, Ginny Weasley danced with the Slytherin Quidditch Keeper. They would be cut off by this portion of the canvas, and be the edge of the next. The five boards stood side by side, each with an under-sketch of dancing couples. The sketches looked annoyed.

Lucy turned her head when she heard the portrait door swing open with a rough grinding noise. That had been Timothy McCallum's latest prank, applying a permanent rust charm on the portrait. Timothy was in Slytherin, as if it wasn't obvious, and was ready to rival the famous Fred and George Weasley in the level of pranks.

"Estonia!" said the unmistakable voice of Ron Weasley. "Of all places, I had to get Estonia!"

"Ron, for goodness sake, will you stop complaining! If you really didn't want to do this then why are you doing History of Magic?"

"Because Hermione, --dear, there is only one subject required for what I want to do."

"And that is?"

"Quidditch!" Lucy did her best to suppress a giggle, she was almost glad she never managed a boyfriend. Hermione and Ron had been going out for almost a year now, and they still never really seemed to get any closer than before. Well, as far as Lucy knew anyway. She didn't want to pry, of course, but she made a note to ask Dean next time he was helping on the painting.

Hermione joined her by the painting; hair wrapped in a tight bun and held here by a balding quill. "You're doing a pretty good job Lucy."

With a grateful blush, Lucy went back to work, still working on the satin lining of Malfoy's dress robes. She smudged two different tones carefully with a finger, blending them into a tolerable imitation of three-dimensional. The painting seemed to agree, as the lining began to move the moment her finger left the canvas.

"There is one thing that will make it better, you know."

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, and that is?"

"Delete Malfoy." Ron laughed briefly at his own joke, since nobody else would. "Harry's outside with your brother, by the way. What they could be talking about I don't know. Probably comparing notes on..."

"Oh do shut up Ronald!" Ginny Weasley said from her corner by the fire. She liked that corner, loved curling up in the overstuffed chair reading some book or other. She also knew very well that Ron hated being called Ronald. Lucy returned once again to her painting. The green parts were almost done, and so now, all that was left were the parts she needed her brother for, the parts that no matter how hard she tried, she could never get to work. The architecture of Hogwarts' Great Hall always eluded her, but never Greg. She applied one last final addition to Hermione's dress, and the pair suddenly began the full and sweeping movement of the scene, perfectly in step with the photograph. If she had to say so herself, she'd caught the feeling of competition in the work incredibly well, right up to Draco's attempt to toss Hermione on to the next person, who, being outside the painting's edge, had been replaced by a return run to Draco. And so it went on.

Greg entered the common room, laughing heartily with Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. More often than not lately Harry had become The-Boy-Who-Was-As-A-Haemorrhoid. Lucy waved at them both, splashing a small amount of blue paint toward the doorway to the girl's dormitory.

"Hey, Lucy, watch where you're flinging that stuff."

Turning to her brother, Lucy flicked a little more paint in his direction.

"Well that's mature." He wiped the paint from his eye with one quick movement.

"What? I watched where I flicked it!" Lucy wiped a little paint from her brother's nose absently with a finger. "So how goes life in Ravenclaw then?"

"Slightly odd actually," Greg said, helping himself to a seat nearby. A voice outside the portrait hall distracted him for a moment, and then he went back to his story. "You see, Padma Patil found something in her trunk- I don't have any clue what it is- but she went storming into the Boy's dorm, levitating some bag that smelled completely rank behind her. I left before it got heavy, but I have a feeling this isn't over yet."

Lucy began to tap her chin. It was a habit that had been destructive to her and yet she persisted. A scar on her chin displayed for the entire world a wand-tapping accident she had in first year. Professor Flitwick had given her a dormant want to tap, just to stop her blowing her nose off. The voice outside the portrait was getting louder and more insistent.

"Hey Lucy, you're doing it again," Greg said absently. He was used to this by now. She'd done it since the day she could pick anything up. Greg snatched the brush from her hand, and in his other hand his wand stood poised. "Scourgify". The brush was instantly clean, and the familiar slimy feeling on her chin disappeared. Lucy could feel herself blush as she opened the portrait hole for whoever belonged to the screaming voice. A girl in a black and blue cloak wandered by, and Padma Patil pushed her way roughly past and up the stairs, calling her sister's name.

"Why are we being invaded by Ravenclaws?" Neville Longbottom asked as he ambled down the dorm stairs and to a desk in the corner.

Lucy joined Ginny by the fire. It was warm and comforting in the common room, and made her feel perfectly at home. Nothing could ever go wrong when she was there. With a sigh, she sunk down in her chair, trying desperately to see what Ginny was reading. A crash and a "bloody hell" hailed the presence of Ron's homework, now spread across the common room. From somewhere behind she heard a voice.

"Merlin, save me from stupid people!"

And still it rained.

Draco Malfoy sat alone in the Slytherin common room, his homework discarded among a pile of magazines and a book he owned only out of interest. He was glad to be away from Crabbe and Goyle. He was glad to be rid of stupid people for a minute. Stupid people, in his opinion, were put on the earth simply to annoy him. He'd sent the others away on a whim. That was how stupid they were; they even allowed themselves to be told when they were tired. Having to think for three people was tiring. But they were his muscle; they were the only thing that stopped most people beating him to a pulp. Or worse, hexing him into one.

Now he simply savoured the silence. The tranquillity of a complete lack of sound. He savoured the chance to be able to read the book in his lap without ridicule. The book was by anyone's standards huge. It was old too. One of those books that made it obvious the author was on commission. It was by no means too long in his opinion, even after thirty-seven books and no indication that it would stop anytime soon. He was sure, however, that he was the only person to find the hero to be a complete and utter git. He was also sure that the book had plagiarized every piece of fiction ever to be produced in the Wizarding world, and he'd wager a bit of the Muggle one too. He was beyond every doubt that he wasn't the only one who could see that either. It seemed so obvious even Goyle could have seen it, and he was known, on occasion, to fail to notice that that tough stuff around a banana was its skin. He read on, turning the page, annoyed at the hero's obvious love interest without really wanting to be. Finishing the paragraph, he shook his head absently. "Honestly woman, couldn't you have just summoned it to you without going to get it!"

He kept reading, ignoring, for the time, the complete stupidity of the woman. He could of course guess what was going to happen. The villain would somehow capture this woman -again- and draw her into his power -again- and try his best to have his way with her -again. The plot was getting repetitive. The villain also reminded him somewhat of his father, the man he'd once aspired to be. Now he aspired only to be the best. And to rid the world of stupid people, but that was one of those dreams designed to make you feel better. He closed the book as soon as he'd finished the page, tossing it down on top of his unfinished homework. He walked slowly to the door of the boy's dormitory, not entirely sure whether he was ready for bed yet. Perhaps he'd just change into his pyjamas and come back for some more reading. Yes, that's what he'd do. He walked up the steps pointedly now, looking forward to his black and green satin boxers and robe. He never wore full pyjamas, never could stand the restriction. He'd sleep naked, if it weren't likely to give Crabbe and Goyle reason to as well. The thought made him shudder.

"Hello." A voice came from behind him. He rolled his eyes, just what he needed, yet another first year girl who couldn't sleep in the dank dungeon. He didn't bother turning around.

"There's water in the jug by the fireplace. There are spare blankets in the cupboards in your dormitory and no, there is no chance of a nightlight, now go to bed."

The voice persisted, "I don't need any of that."

"What do you need then, someone to tuck you in? Well I'm sorry but not only is it beneath me but your dormitory corridor is booby trapped so anyone of the male persuasion can't get within three feet of it without resembling a Yorkshire pudding." Draco continued up the stairs, trying to make a point of ignoring the person behind him. The voice had a strange accent to it, one he'd never heard before. It persisted.

"Well there's no need to be like that, I only wanted to talk to you. You seem like the kind of person I could get to like." The voice, now so blatantly obvious that it was not going to leave until he turned around, seemed like the kind of voice he imagined the hero's bitch in his book to have.

"Not at midnight, I don't even know you."

"Well you could at least ask my name, Draco."

"Ok then I'll play, what is your..." Draco had turned around to face the insolent little girl and threaten her with bodily harm if she didn't leave him alone. The only problem was there was no one there. "...Name?"

"I'm over here, silly."

Draco turned to where the voice was this time, nothing again. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He'd fallen asleep, he must have.

"Well if you aren't going to ask, then I'll just go. Good bye, Malfoy, see you tomorrow."

Draco turned again to where the voice had shifted. "How in hell do you know my name?" It wasn't until he'd asked that he thought it was a stupid question. Everybody knew who he was, he'd seen to that at the welcoming feast the week before. He shook his head and headed upstairs, now determined to go to bed.

"Accio junk." He decided it was a bad idea when everything can flying at him that wasn't part of the furniture.

He was suddenly glad of the lack of windows.

Ginny Weasley curled up tighter into the ball she'd formed of herself, the book she'd been reading fallen to the floor hours ago. She'd told herself that she'd wait up for the others. That plan had failed dismally. She couldn't quite remember when she'd fallen asleep, but it had to have been some time ago. She opened her eyes and drank in the morning light in which she was bathed. Morning? How could she have slept upright until morning? She told herself it didn't really matter, and stretched. She heard the characteristic cracks in her spine rather than felt them. Ginny rubbed her eyes, the day before had been Sunday.

"Damn. I live at school and still I hate Mondays." Ginny gave her back one last twist and retrieved her book from the floor. She'd been tempted on more than one occasion to take it to breakfast with her. Only one thing ever really stopped her, and that was that she had to put up with the snide remarks of the Slytherins. She was sure they were all jealous, none of them could probably read, and those that could would have no chance of getting through this. Not with thirty-seven volumes and no chance of it ending anytime soon. She yawned as she closed the book and held it instinctively to her chest before heading for the girl's dormitory.

"Morning, Gin."

Ginny jumped despite herself. Hermione stood on the stairs in her dressing gown, yawning, with her hair in such a frizz it made Crookshanks look positively bald. Crookshanks wound his way through their legs methodically. Ginny could feel the cat's fluffy tail tickle her ankle. She could also smell some odd combination of about seven different smells coming from the both of them.

"Morning, Hermione. How are you?" Ginny rubbed her eyes and shook the sleep from her head. She nudged Crookshanks away.

"Not bad. Lavender and Parvati are attacking each other with perfume. I really had to get out of there." Hermione fluffed her robe; wafting more of the mixture of smells Ginny's way. She held the book she carried to her nose in an attempt to deflect the smell.

"What are you reading?"

Ginny pulled the book down immediately. "Nothing."

"Oh don't be silly. I'll find out from Harry anyway, what is it?"

"Why would Harry know?" Ginny felt the blush in her cheeks rise, burning and threatening to burst out of her face.

Hermione did the most deliberate hip movement any human being could make without folding completely over. "Ginny, it's obvious, you two are as close as anybody could get. Plus, Harry told me you were going out."

Ginny was certain her cheeks had just caught fire. "Does that mean Ron knows?"

"Are you kidding? Ron's thick, you know that. Don't get me wrong, I love him, but sometimes I think he keeps his brain where his bottom should be."

Both girls giggled, Hermione pulling her unruly hair from her face. They both headed toward the centre of the common room. Ginny had given up on going up stairs. The couches did look inviting, even if the House Elves had left robes lying around (perhaps assuming they were Ginny's, or left lying around to free them). The room still smelled like paint, and there was even a patch of it smudged into the carpet. Ah, the House Elves were never even here. Ginny opened her mouth to speak her concerns to Hermione, but thought better of it. The memory of S.P.E.W still fresh in her mind. Dobby probably just didn't want to disturb me. Somehow, this thought wasn't reassuring.

"Lucy and her brother finished the first part of the painting. You were asleep when Greg left," Hermione said, yawning. She sounded as if this information was an obligation, and had no desire to inform anyone that she was, for the time, perpetually dancing with Draco Malfoy.

Ginny turned to the painting. She had to admit, she was looking forward to seeing the whole thing finished. Dean Thomas had even volunteered to help finish it off with the pair of artists. He did hold claim to being the equal best painter of people Ginny knew. Dean and Lucy were a pair who proved without a doubt that men made the best painters of men and women the best of women. There was no mistaking it in these works either. Lucy's rendition of Hermione and the pair of now sixth-years behind her were perfect, and yet there was something about Draco and his cronies that just didn't look right. That was until Dean got at it. Somehow, the faces looked more right when he got hold of them, and Ginny couldn't explain how. But that didn't much matter now. The painting was beautiful as it stood. Even with Draco permanently stuck in the centre for the time. There was such detail that Ginny could identify everyone down that side of the circle, even with the perspective shrink and movement. She always wondered how artists did that. A figure, beautiful in her own right, wandered through the work, through the under sketches and into the painting, fully complete and painted. Something wasn't right there; sketches couldn't leave their pictures, let alone actually paint themselves when they got to the next one.

"Who's she?" Ginny asked Hermione, pointing to the figure, which had now stopped and watched Draco and Hermione dance as if they were some kind of display. She had her face half obscured by the black velvet cloak she wore. The midnight blue satin lining peeking through from beneath the hood.

Hermione tilted her head. "I don't know, I don't remember her. Do you think she's from one of the other paintings around the school?"

"I doubt it, we'd have seen her."

"Maybe we're imagining things."

"Well she's obviously there."

"Then maybe we didn't get enough sleep. Now I'm going to get dressed. See you at breakfast." Hermione took one last look at the picture. Ginny could see she was confused. She continued upstairs, leaving Ginny contemplating the painting. The girl looked up and straight at her. Her eyes were a colour Ginny had no chance of describing, and her hair was the kind of red that any red-haired girl wished hers had grown out like. Everything in her face seemed to come together to create something so very unnerving in its harmony. She wasn't incredibly pretty, just well matched. They stared at each other for a moment, each seeming to contemplate each other coldly. The girl in the painting raised her finger to her lips for Ginny to be quiet. Ginny closed her mouth, she hadn't even realized she'd let it open. She watched the girl take hold of Hermione's hand, the one that was not on Draco's waist, and spread the fingers, like she was dropping something.

"WHAT IN BLAZERS ARE THESE DOING IN HERE?!" Ginny heard a cry from the girl's dormitory, and turned to look at the source. The voice had been so unmistakably Hermione's that Ginny almost put it down to it being something of Lavender or Parvati's, or that thing Padma had been levitating. There were voices mumbling, yelling, screaming and swearing in every language Ginny knew existed. Ginny started to hurry upstairs, having heard the voice of one of her roommates. She took a final look at the painting, her mouth working in words that never came out.

The figure was gone.

Hermione was fuming. Very few had seen her so angry, only one of them had she been that angry at. It was his time again. She marched into the Great Hall, an army of girls close behind her, each looking angrier than the next. There had to be around ten of them, all the sixth and seventh years. They hadn't told the boys what was wrong, this wasn't their battle. They'd just cause a scene. The girls were ready to defend themselves, ready to create a scene of their own. There was no such thing as the weaker sex in magic. There was no hope for those they aimed for. There was no chance they'd survive this with their dignity in tact. Hermione was determined, she squeezed her fist around the collection of satin, cotton and silk she carried toward the Slytherin table, her wand gripped firmly in the other hand. This went way beyond telling the teachers so they'd lose points; this went way beyond petty revenge. This...was...war...

Draco was about ready to kill someone. It was really beyond him to show this much anger, but he didn't care. They'd gone too far. He stood sharply from the table, a group of boys backing him up, each bulkier than the next. There had to be around ten of them, all the sixth and seventh years. They hadn't told the girls what had happened, this wasn't their battle. They'd just cry and accuse them of cheating. The boys weren't ready for a catfight, not without mud and white t-shirts at any rate. There was no such thing as chivalry in magic. There was no hope for those they aimed for. There was no chance they'd survive this with their looks in tact. Draco was determined, he screwed the wad of lace, satin and curved wire he carried along the Slytherin table, his wand gripped firmly in amongst the turmoil. This went way beyond insult and class pranks; this went way beyond petty revenge. This...was...war...

"What's the meaning of this Malfoy?" Hermione yelled, shaking the fist full of fabric at him. She hadn't even bothered getting dressed. Not that she could in the situation.

"I don't know, Mudblood, perhaps one of your beloved house-rats decided you'd look better in black!" Malfoy hadn't dressed either. His black satin robe was tied loosely around his waist, though his chest was slightly visible. "At least then it would explain why they did no CLEANING!"

"Oh, and I suppose they're laughing so hard at your little joke they forgot to put breakfast out as well!" Hermione threw the bundle to the table, landing some in the empty milk jug and some in a third-year's empty bowl. "Do you think this is FUNNY, Malfoy? Did you think it was somehow amusing to dump your... HEY! THAT'S MINE!"

Draco swung the object in his hand. "Ah, which explains why it's so small."

The entire hall had stopped to watch the coming carnage. There wasn't one person in the hall that couldn't see the pink lacy bra dangling from Malfoy's outstretched arm.

"Try it on for size did you?"

"No, pink isn't my colour."

"I'd say it suits you perfectly." Ginny Weasley threw the pile she was carrying amongst the pile Hermione had deposited, and one by one the Gryffindor Women's League threw theirs with them, finishing with a rather ratty pair of y-fronts.

"Malfoy, I have to credit your creativity. Stealing underwear and trading it with your own is so funny," Lavender Brown said, the sarcasm in her voice possessing her body into sudden bouncy, limp over-action.

"Yes, incredibly amusing, however there is generally a rule when pulling stupid stunts like that," Parvati Patil added, not even bothering with the sarcasm and opting rather for steaming fury, "you make sure one of your mook's mummies didn't put their names on little tags on their knickers, right, Vinnie?"

Malfoy turned suddenly to Crabbe. "Your mother what?"

Crabbe blushed and shuffled back. Malfoy turned his attention to Hermione, disgusted. "What about your lot, Mudblood?" Malfoy wasn't willing to admit he had no clue what the others' names were. "Did you think it prudent to leave your underwear lying around? We may get the wrong idea you know. Goyle has needed to get laid for a long time, you got his hopes up."

"Don't make me sick. Now... give... me... Back... My... UNDERWEAR!"

Malfoy made a noise that closely resembled a spitting camel.

"Mr. Malfoy." The thick Scottish accent of Professor McGonagall stopped his snort dead. "Please return those under-things to their owners. I will see you all in detention. And just for good measure one point from Slytherin for every item of lingerie..."

"What about them?!"

"...in this room! Now with ten students per year, seven years worth of students, four houses, the staff, any that came into the room with you, that should be about a thousand points each should it not?"

"But professor..."

"No buts! I will limit the point loss to fifty points each, and you will serve three weeks in detention, each. And as for you girls, as much as I dislike it, fifty points each from Gryffindor, and one week detention."

"Only one!"

McGonagall still managed to look like nothing worse was said than, 'butter on your toast?' "They are not the ones back-chatting, Mr. Malfoy, nor did they choose to make derogatory remarks of a personal nature."

Malfoy took the opportunity to practice being silently angry. Hermione took the opportunity to snatch back her underwear and head off to dress. The others followed like a regimental victory march.

At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley turned to Harry Potter. "Has everybody gone mental? What was all that about?"

Harry stared at where the toast should be. "I don't know, but whatever it was, Malfoy looks hacked off. What has happened to breakfast?"

Harry stabbed at his empty plate with his fork. Confused mumbles resounded all over the hall. Dumbledore was trying to call for silence, though Harry wasn't sure if he'd be heard over the rumbling of their stomachs. He threw his fork at the table. Behind him, groups of Ravenclaws were complaining very loudly.

"That's it! If I ever see that bloody Gryffindor who invented spew, I swear I'll hex the daft bint into next week!"

Harry waited for Ron's reaction. Nothing came.

"Ron, aren't you going to defend Hermione? She is your girlfriend."

Ron leaned over the table, removing himself from between Seamus and Dean. "Harry, look around. There's no food, our robes haven't been washed. I'd defend Hermione in a second Mate. Problem is I'm thinking the exact same thing."