search soleil (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
searchsoleil) wrote2004-06-18 04:14 pm
searchsoleil) wrote2004-06-18 04:14 pm
Entry tags:
I Am Writing And It Is A Miracle
I seem to have graduated from drabbles and moved on to ficlets.
It is, once again, Harry Potter. This time Draco Malfoy, in which he draws and likes all things beautiful.
What do I think of it? I loved the idea when I first had it. And the drawing has been in my mind for quite a while. The actual written piece I am still not quite satisfied with. But I think that is more because it is not a poem.
Poems are easy. You figure out exactly what you're going to say and you can't change it once it’s there because things get messed up. Not so with longer works. You're always wondering if something could be changed and said better. And since they’re longer, they make more of these little niggling problems.
But back to the ficlet. There was actually a bit more I wanted to put into it. About pure blood and why Draco cared so much about it. But unfortunately I couldn't find a way to work it in, so it's been left out... *cries at her incompetence*
I said I liked the idea of this one. It sprung almost primarily out of the last line, which came to me in a fit of utter randomness. For some reason, Draco drawing does not seem impossible to me. I've read much more outlandish stretches of canon and after the third movie, in which Draco folds quite a lovely paper crane and draws... an interesting picture... within it, the thought seems to have been somewhat founded.
Anyway, enough of my musings and more of the goods!
{Frustration, obsession, art. Draco Malfoy. OotP. No spoilers past book 3 really.}
Draco Malfoy was obsessed with beauty.
He looked for it in others and he burned it into himself. He strove to incorporate grace and poise into his every movement, until it became second nature to him. He kept himself meticulously polished, clean and well dressed.
He liked music and culture, but, more than both of those, he liked art.
He used to scribble when he was younger and he would keep the scribbles tucked away in a drawer in his room. His mother happened upon them one day and she was much delighted. When his father found out, he had begun drawing lessons. He had been eleven then, just before he was to enter Hogwarts.
His teacher admitted that he had a talent, but she was often frustrated with him. Draco Malfoy did not learn anything he did not agree with, and some of her lessons he just could not rectify.
It had been late August when she had attempted one such exercise. She put a bowl of fruit in front of him, asked him to draw it and he had complied. When he was finished, his teacher had wrinkled her nose and told him that he had not drawn what she had asked him to.
He had been confused. Had he not drawn the bowl of fruit? He attempted the sketch again, more meticulous this time, but again she had wrinkled her nose.
"Draco Malfoy," she had said. "You did not draw how things are."
How had he drawn then, he'd asked her.
"You drew how things ought to be."
She proceeded to point out little things in the fruit that he had not included in his drawing: a spot on the pear, a dent in the grape, a slight discoloration on the apple. He had drawn perfect versions of the fruit before him, yet at times, she had explained, imperfections were what made something feel real.
But he had drawn them as they ought to have been, hadn't he? He'd drawn them the way that was perfect. The most beautiful way.
He disregarded that lesson.
The next week, he had been taken to Diagon Alley to retrieve his school things for the coming year.
The trip was rather unremarkable. He had gone, but his father had pre-paid for almost everything. He had chosen his wand (or his wand had chosen him, the strange old man in the shop had remarked with a twinkle in his eye), but that was basically the extent of his involvement. In fact, the only thing remarkable at all had occurred while having his robes fitted.
He had been getting along fine and was actually quite bored with the whole affair by the time the young boy had walked in.
He had not known who he was at the time, only knew he was going to Hogwarts. In fact, in all accounts, the boy should have also been unremarkable. He was quiet and ignorant and his hair stood up at odd angles. But there was something about him. Something that piqued Draco's senses, both wizard and human. An innate feeling of ability, a well of untapped power lurking just below the surface. He thought it beautiful.
So he had tried to befriend Harry Potter and a good portion of the wizarding world knew how that turned out. That person so full of potential and latent beauty had walked away into the arms of a waste of a pureblood and a mudblood who had apparently never heard of the term 'hair product.'
He tried not to mourn the loss.
He talked with his housemates, he did well in potions, he snickered through DADA, and when he could, he snuck out onto the grounds and drew.
Landscapes mostly, but sometimes he drew people and animals. He noticed that he still did not draw imperfections. Everything was clean, smooth, and unblemished. Untouched. Untapped. Latent.
School went on and Draco nearly forgot that he had gotten that feeling from Potter. It lay dormant in him for long periods of time, only to be realized again when he saw a flash of something remarkable from the other boy, the day he spoke Parseltongue, when he beat him in Quidditch. The feeling hit him at full force, though, in Fifth Year, when he saw Potter perform the Patronus Charm.
The animal was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen: a great shining stag, perfect in its magical glory. And Harry! Draco could feel the magical power rolling off him. Waves of it, from him and from the creature that fell on everyone in the room. And when he finally called it back, he smirked at Professor Umbridge. It stunned Draco. Potter did not smirk!
That evening, after dinner, Draco tried to talk to Potter. He had not meant any harm by it really, yet he was greeted by the other boy with sullen quiet, letting his Weasel friend make rude comments that were not amusing in the least, while Granger told them both to just ignore him. Draco was very annoyed by the whole incident.
Where was that power, that confidence? Where was the beauty he had glimpsed? It seemed a horrible waste to Draco. To let someone with that much possibility be coddled and protected, letting whatever independent character he might have developed fall by the wayside. He detested it.
When he returned to his room later (his father absolutely insisted he have his own room), he pulled out his sketchbook and one of his pencils. He held it to the paper for quite a while, not drawing anything, before he returned it to its case and brought out an unused charcoal. He began drawing immediately.
When he was done, he surveyed his work. The sketch was of a person walking forward, holding a wand. The face was tilted down, but looking forward, a smirk of absolute confidence on the lips. Clouds of black surrounded and rolled off the figure condensing at the tip of the wand. He traced the thick, messy lines with a finger.
He put the stubby tool back and took an oil pastel. When he was finished, two vivid green eyes stared out at him from the page.
It was the messiest, most imperfect thing Draco had ever created, but it was beautiful just the same. He loved it immediately and thought of his instructor's teachings. They made him pause.
This thing he had created was messy and imperfect, but it was certainly not real. The person in his drawing would never - could never - exist. He shook his head and decided not to be bothered by this.
After all, Draco Malfoy did not draw things as they were. He drew them as they ought to be.
~~~~~~~
Oh, yes. Cookies to anyone who knows where I blatantly stole the art lesson from. More cookies, perhaps even something concrete, if you can actually name the lady, since for the life of me I can’t remember. ^_^;;
It is, once again, Harry Potter. This time Draco Malfoy, in which he draws and likes all things beautiful.
What do I think of it? I loved the idea when I first had it. And the drawing has been in my mind for quite a while. The actual written piece I am still not quite satisfied with. But I think that is more because it is not a poem.
Poems are easy. You figure out exactly what you're going to say and you can't change it once it’s there because things get messed up. Not so with longer works. You're always wondering if something could be changed and said better. And since they’re longer, they make more of these little niggling problems.
But back to the ficlet. There was actually a bit more I wanted to put into it. About pure blood and why Draco cared so much about it. But unfortunately I couldn't find a way to work it in, so it's been left out... *cries at her incompetence*
I said I liked the idea of this one. It sprung almost primarily out of the last line, which came to me in a fit of utter randomness. For some reason, Draco drawing does not seem impossible to me. I've read much more outlandish stretches of canon and after the third movie, in which Draco folds quite a lovely paper crane and draws... an interesting picture... within it, the thought seems to have been somewhat founded.
Anyway, enough of my musings and more of the goods!
{Frustration, obsession, art. Draco Malfoy. OotP. No spoilers past book 3 really.}
Draco Malfoy was obsessed with beauty.
He looked for it in others and he burned it into himself. He strove to incorporate grace and poise into his every movement, until it became second nature to him. He kept himself meticulously polished, clean and well dressed.
He liked music and culture, but, more than both of those, he liked art.
He used to scribble when he was younger and he would keep the scribbles tucked away in a drawer in his room. His mother happened upon them one day and she was much delighted. When his father found out, he had begun drawing lessons. He had been eleven then, just before he was to enter Hogwarts.
His teacher admitted that he had a talent, but she was often frustrated with him. Draco Malfoy did not learn anything he did not agree with, and some of her lessons he just could not rectify.
It had been late August when she had attempted one such exercise. She put a bowl of fruit in front of him, asked him to draw it and he had complied. When he was finished, his teacher had wrinkled her nose and told him that he had not drawn what she had asked him to.
He had been confused. Had he not drawn the bowl of fruit? He attempted the sketch again, more meticulous this time, but again she had wrinkled her nose.
"Draco Malfoy," she had said. "You did not draw how things are."
How had he drawn then, he'd asked her.
"You drew how things ought to be."
She proceeded to point out little things in the fruit that he had not included in his drawing: a spot on the pear, a dent in the grape, a slight discoloration on the apple. He had drawn perfect versions of the fruit before him, yet at times, she had explained, imperfections were what made something feel real.
But he had drawn them as they ought to have been, hadn't he? He'd drawn them the way that was perfect. The most beautiful way.
He disregarded that lesson.
The next week, he had been taken to Diagon Alley to retrieve his school things for the coming year.
The trip was rather unremarkable. He had gone, but his father had pre-paid for almost everything. He had chosen his wand (or his wand had chosen him, the strange old man in the shop had remarked with a twinkle in his eye), but that was basically the extent of his involvement. In fact, the only thing remarkable at all had occurred while having his robes fitted.
He had been getting along fine and was actually quite bored with the whole affair by the time the young boy had walked in.
He had not known who he was at the time, only knew he was going to Hogwarts. In fact, in all accounts, the boy should have also been unremarkable. He was quiet and ignorant and his hair stood up at odd angles. But there was something about him. Something that piqued Draco's senses, both wizard and human. An innate feeling of ability, a well of untapped power lurking just below the surface. He thought it beautiful.
So he had tried to befriend Harry Potter and a good portion of the wizarding world knew how that turned out. That person so full of potential and latent beauty had walked away into the arms of a waste of a pureblood and a mudblood who had apparently never heard of the term 'hair product.'
He tried not to mourn the loss.
He talked with his housemates, he did well in potions, he snickered through DADA, and when he could, he snuck out onto the grounds and drew.
Landscapes mostly, but sometimes he drew people and animals. He noticed that he still did not draw imperfections. Everything was clean, smooth, and unblemished. Untouched. Untapped. Latent.
School went on and Draco nearly forgot that he had gotten that feeling from Potter. It lay dormant in him for long periods of time, only to be realized again when he saw a flash of something remarkable from the other boy, the day he spoke Parseltongue, when he beat him in Quidditch. The feeling hit him at full force, though, in Fifth Year, when he saw Potter perform the Patronus Charm.
The animal was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen: a great shining stag, perfect in its magical glory. And Harry! Draco could feel the magical power rolling off him. Waves of it, from him and from the creature that fell on everyone in the room. And when he finally called it back, he smirked at Professor Umbridge. It stunned Draco. Potter did not smirk!
That evening, after dinner, Draco tried to talk to Potter. He had not meant any harm by it really, yet he was greeted by the other boy with sullen quiet, letting his Weasel friend make rude comments that were not amusing in the least, while Granger told them both to just ignore him. Draco was very annoyed by the whole incident.
Where was that power, that confidence? Where was the beauty he had glimpsed? It seemed a horrible waste to Draco. To let someone with that much possibility be coddled and protected, letting whatever independent character he might have developed fall by the wayside. He detested it.
When he returned to his room later (his father absolutely insisted he have his own room), he pulled out his sketchbook and one of his pencils. He held it to the paper for quite a while, not drawing anything, before he returned it to its case and brought out an unused charcoal. He began drawing immediately.
When he was done, he surveyed his work. The sketch was of a person walking forward, holding a wand. The face was tilted down, but looking forward, a smirk of absolute confidence on the lips. Clouds of black surrounded and rolled off the figure condensing at the tip of the wand. He traced the thick, messy lines with a finger.
He put the stubby tool back and took an oil pastel. When he was finished, two vivid green eyes stared out at him from the page.
It was the messiest, most imperfect thing Draco had ever created, but it was beautiful just the same. He loved it immediately and thought of his instructor's teachings. They made him pause.
This thing he had created was messy and imperfect, but it was certainly not real. The person in his drawing would never - could never - exist. He shook his head and decided not to be bothered by this.
After all, Draco Malfoy did not draw things as they were. He drew them as they ought to be.
~~~~~~~
Oh, yes. Cookies to anyone who knows where I blatantly stole the art lesson from. More cookies, perhaps even something concrete, if you can actually name the lady, since for the life of me I can’t remember. ^_^;;