Their Eyes

She walked slowly through the exhibit, her heels clicking authoritatively. The footsteps echoed oddly in the all-white room. She moved between the magnificent paintings, so realistic that not only the eyes seemed to follow her, but the entire head seemed to trace her movements. She shuddered involuntarily. She paused in front of each painting, admiring its beauty and detail.

The paintings were all of people, some done as posed portraits, some in a more candid style. And all the faces, the solemn, haunted faces. Some were tearstained, weeping. Others were smiling, though the smile never seemed to reach their eyes.

Their eyes.

She stopped in front of a portrait of a woman with dazzling copper-red hair, holding a bundle that must have been a child. It was so real that the baby was practically wriggling in its mother's arms. But that was not what had captured her attention. What were so remarkable were the woman's eyes. They were a dazzling emerald green, piercing and expressive. That was what had given these painting the ethereal aura.

Their eyes.

She looked around, peering into each of their eyes. They all shared the same pair, it seemed. Every painting in the room had the same green eyes, with the same sorrow and the same joy pouring out. So many different people, sharing only their eyes.

Her curiosity was immediately piqued. Who was this tortured artist, who only knew one pair of eyes? She moved slowly, almost reverently, towards the white plastic placard, next to the largest painting, obviously the masterpiece.

It showed a teenage boy, probably about sixteen, lying on a large four-poster bed. He was tangled in sheets, and his torso was exposed, revealing a lithe, sculpted build. He was stretched out, catlike, across the bed; his head draped elegantly on his arm, messy, jet-black hair thrown in a particularly wind-swept fashion. His eyes, though the same shape and expression as all the others, were closed in ecstasy. A gentle smile played across his lips.

As she drew closer to the placard, she felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though she was somewhere she wasn't allowed. She waved it off as the stiff atmosphere of the art museum, and bent to read the placard.

Draco Artemis Malfoy

1996

"Perfection"

She blinked. Draco Malfoy. What an odd name. It sounded like Latin. Thinking briefly, she though it must translate roughly to "Dragon of Bad Faith." Certainly not a name she would have identified with so passionate an artist. She wondered vaguely who this man must have loved, to have painted her eyes into every one of his pieces.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp beep! From her Palm Pilot, reminding her that she had an appointment to attend in just less than fifteen minutes. She sighed, wishing she had more time for this sort of thing, and turned swiftly and strode out of the eerie white room, her heels echoing once again.

As she left, the boy in the portrait sat up, opening his startling green eyes. A single, glistening tear rolled down his cheek, as he watched her walk briskly back into the world beyond. He sighed. They never stayed long.