I don't think anyone got this one right.

This hasn't been edited - but really, it's me - what else did you expect?

mama deer is still living off of validation - so comments are always welcome ~~

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Sometimes, life threw you the most horrific of all curveballs. One moment, you were sat at home, working through the last hitches of the academic essay you were writing, preparing it for publishing - your first article to be published after years of studies and right on the precipe of achieving a massive goal. And the next, you were standing to get the letter from the owl perched at your window and reading the news that one of your dearest friends, a lifelong friend, who just the week before, had asked you to be one of her bridesmaids, had been struck down in the line of work and now her precious life was cut far far too short. All of the danger was supposed to have been left far behind, back in the time of school when the major threat of Voldemort had hovered over us all. She wasn't supposed to have died in a potions accident, and certainly not whilst in her early twenties.

The more I thought of it, the harder it was to swallow the now ever-present lump in my throat. But the trouble was, I couldn't bring myself to stop thinking about it. How could I when life had opened up a colossal hole right at my feet and was just waiting for me to stumble right into it? A very minor consolation was that I was not alone in all of this.

Lauryn had left behind a group of lifelong friends who would mourn her in their every waking day. For now, we'd all banded together to help each other through it. We; Overholt, Fatya and I, regularly sought out each other's company in the days following Lauryn's passing. The four of us - three now - were lifelong friends who struggled to make time for one another, with life getting in the way, and it took the most unimaginable of circumstances for us to finally make time for each other. Perhaps it was too late, but we were trying now.

The women, seated around the muggle coffee shop table with me, were women I would carry with me for the entirety of my life. Salazar, I could swear that on Lauryn's memory. The same Lauryn's memory that had forced us to meet in the muggle world because in our world, we were being hounded at every possible turn to make a comment to the reporters who, upon realising that Lauryn had no biological family to speak of, settled for harassing us. It was really, the most inconsiderate action I'd seen in a while.

Bringing our short meeting to an end, Overholt was the first to leave. She gathered her things, offering us a final parting with a small, sombre smile and promised she would reach out again soon. I nodded, and waved, watching as she left. Taking the cue, I gathered my belongings and prepared to leave.

"Are you planning on staying for longer?" I asked Fatya, who made no move to leave.

"I might hide out in the muggle world," she confided.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not just talking about staying in this coffee shop for a little longer?"

"Because I'm not." Her eyes cast out of the window, watching the quiet street with a contemplative air. "Since Lauryn - well, being in the muggle world is the most calm I've felt since then. There's no one here hounding me and no potions that can explode and rip away someone you love."

I watched her silently for a moment, before reaching out to snag her hand in mine, "You know I'll support you with whatever you decide."

"I do." She offered me another smile, "I take it that means you'll be the one to tell my parents that I want to make this temporary move more permanent?

"Absolutely not." Scoffing, I could just imagine the way her mother would begin to shout, followed shortly by the emotional blackmail. "No way, that's all for you. I will help you though if that is what you want."

"I'm going to think on it a bit more and I'll let you know."

"Just don't make a decision too quickly."

Sharing another goodbye, I rose from my chair and headed out of the building. On my way, I thanked the man behind the counter for his service before stepping out onto the quiet street and right into a gust of cold wind. Tightening my scarf around my neck, I tucked my cold hands into my pocket and let my right hand curl comfortably over my wand. I briefly contemplated casting a warming charm but thought against it. It wasn't that far to the nearest apparition point, anyway.

My route took me past a newspaper stand and I found my feet stopping in front of it. Paying for a copy, I picked up the nearest one and flicked through it, struggling a little in the face of the wind. But I did it nonetheless, wondering if the muggles ones were anything like the wizarding ones. Of course, there were no moving pictures, but they were just as full of unnecessary probing into the lives of others. The front page alone had the image of a woman featured behind a story, claiming she was married to a ghost. Not that it surprised me much - ghosts could be uncontrollable creatures, but it wouldn't be too strange for one to decide to make a mess in the muggle world.

I continued flicking through the paper when my eyes settled on a small advertisement, printed in simple text. It wasn't too descriptive, just a call from a painter, requiring a muse for their newest painting. Normally, I would have brushed right past it, had I not sworn I could hear Lauryn's voice in my ear, reminding me that I'd made a bucket list, shortly after her passing to try and help me cope, and on that list, I'd said I wanted to get out of comfort zone more. And Salazar's soul, this definitely wasn't in my comfort zone.

What could it hurt? There were bound to be more vile and disturbing ways of getting out of my comfort zone and if I was truly too uncomfortable, I could always decline and go on my merry way. Besides, it was a muggle painter, it was hardly as if anyone from my real life was going to view the piece of artwork.

Closing the newspaper, I folded it shut and searched the street. Finding a muggle phone booth across the road, I made my way into it. Shutting the door behind me, I didn't give myself the chance to back out of the impulsive decision. Inserting some coins into the machine, I dialled the number that had been advertised.

The voice on the other side, warm and kind, greeted me professionally. They took a few of my details and I gave them a false name, the one I tended to use in the muggle world only to be stumped when Fatya's current address sprang to mind. Offering up her address, I made a mental note to owl her once I got home. The short call ended and I hung up, putting the handset down as the surprise settled in. I had really just done that.

**********

Fatya, who had been roped into my newest endeavour with the indulgence only a true friend who'd known me for years could have, offered to drop me off at the studio where I was supposed to meet with the painter for the first time. Of course, when I'd first told her what I wanted to do, she'd thought I had been hit with some sort of spell that clearly robbed me of all sense. At my insistence that I hadn't been, she insisted that she needed to be around me to keep my head screwed on straight.

"You definitely have your moments Zoller," Fatya said with a sigh as her car - Salazar, was it bloody strange that she even had one of these muggle deathtraps, let alone that she knew how to drive one - turned into the right road. "For someone who doesn't like to go out on a Saturday night because it's hair wash night, you sure do have your moments where you just like to go for it."

"It's fine," I insisted, looking around the road as Fatya found somewhere to park. The road seemed pretty normal, with a few shops dotted at one end and the rest of the road appeared to be full of homes.

"What if it's not fine?" Turning off the engine, Fatyat turned to look at me with narrowed eyes, "What if this person is a killer?"

"Then I'll just hex them, the statute of secrecy be damned."

Unimpressed, she sighed. "What if this guy tries to get you naked - all under the ruse of wanting to paint you."

"First of all, I don't even know if he'll want to paint me, which is why we're meeting today." I retrieved my wand from my pocket and waved it pointedly, "And again, I'll hex him."

Shaking her head as if I had gone beyond the realm of her possibly being able to reach me, Fatya glanced around the street. Finally, she conceded, "At least it doesn't look like a dodgy area."

"It doesn't."

Before she could begin to worry again, I clambered out of her car and shut the door behind me. Agreeing to contact her if anything happened or if I needed any help. She lowered her window to call out that she wasn't going to leave until she saw me enter the studio - that way at least she would know where to send the Aurors if anything happened. She'd been watching too many muggle crime documentaries.

Locating the studio which was situated between a coffee shop and a shoemaker, I hesitated outside for just a moment. I hadn't agreed to anything yet, I could just as easily turn right around and leave and just never show up. It would be so easy, but the whole point of this was to do something I hadn't done before.

Taking a final fortifying breath, I pushed the door to the studio open and stepped inside. The inside of what looked like the reception area appeared plain and professional and I was greeted by the woman whose voice I recognised from the phone call. Approaching her, I exchanged pleasantries and she assured me that the artist was inside and that he was waiting for me. Thanking her, I acknowledged her next words - that he was currently working so I should try not to disturb him - with a nod.

Walking towards the back of the reception area, I found myself approaching a room that was empty save for an easel set up in the middle and a sofa and a small table in one corner. The sofa was covered with things that I assumed belonged to the artist who was standing with his back to me. The artist in question was busy working, standing tall in front of the easel, his frame blocking the canvas from view.

I hesitated for a moment on the outer edges of the room and gathered my courage to finally step in. Instantly, I regretted it when the heel of my boot tapped against the laminate flooring. So much for not disturbing him.

The man at the easel stilled, rolling his shoulders and I hesitated, not daring to take a step further. I'd heard all about the sorts of artists who didn't even want people to breathe too loudly when they were working.

"Sorry if I kept you waiting," the apology was the first thing to leave his mouth when he turned his back to the canvas.

He faced me and my eyebrows rose sharply in surprise. Uncertainly searching the face of the familiar man before me, I found myself at a loss for words. The whole point of this experience was that the artist was supposed to be someone that I didn't know, a strange muggle. This - the man in front of me was neither of those things.

"Zoller," Thomas called out in surprise, his hold on the paintbrush going lax for a second. His eyes glanced over me once, twice before he turned away briefly to set his paintbrush down. When he turned to face me again, he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again.

"Thomas," I acknowledged him, mouth suddenly too dry to formulate a sentence. Fatya had been right, this had been a bad idea, but not for any of the scenarios she had conjured up. Suddenly, my mouth was running, trying to explain why now I couldn't sit for a painting, regardless of whether or not he wanted to paint me. "I didn't think it would be you - or anyone I knew. I thought it would be a muggle painter, that's the only reason I agreed really. And I don't think I can do this anymore, so - "

"Why?" he cut in abruptly, bringing my words to a halt. I watched him in silence for a moment; had his voice always been so deep?

"This is just too embarrassing."

"I disagree." His eyes, from the moment he'd turned to face me, hadn't shifted from me. Rather, they'd seemed to glue themselves to my features, as if cataloguing them. He reached blindly for the paintbrush he'd set aside before and held it aloft as if trying to get a measurement of me. "I disagree, very very much."

"Still," I took an aborted step back, halting when he raised a hand as if to silently ask me to stay, "I don't think I'm going to be a good muse."

"A good muse inspires you to paint." He lowered the brush and sent me a charming smile, "And I really want to paint you, Zoller."

**********

Arriving at the first of the painting sessions, I hadn't expected to feel so nervous. I didn't usually become nervous, not before sitting any exams at school, not before the beginning of any house quidditch match. The only time I could think of feeling anything close to nerves had been during the war and that hadn't been nerves - rather it had been dread. And yet, here I was, standing on the outer edge of Thomas's studio and thinking about turning and fleeing.

It was nothing more than sitting for a portrait of some sort, but the idea of it had hippogriffs running through my stomach. Maybe it was the potential of Thomas looking a bit too closely and seeing something he didn't like - although, why did it matter if he saw something he didn't like?

Dismissing the thought and refusing to entertain it for even a second longer, I crossed the room to the solitary sofa and set my bag down. My eyes cast across the room, settling on the chair situated in front of the easel where Thomas would stand, once he finally entered the room. Never before had a single piece of furniture brought me as much anxiety as that damned easel had.

Looking back to my bag, I rifled through it, mindlessly checking that my wand was tucked away in the hidden pocket far more times than necessary. If I really wanted to, I could duck out of this studio and rush to the nearest apparition spot. It would take only a minute or so -

"How are you feeling?" Thomas's voice cut through my musings, making my head shoot up like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have been.

"Fine." I wondered briefly if he could hear the nerves in my voice the way I could.

Clearing my throat, I rubbed my damp palms against the legs of the muggle trousers Thomas had asked I wear. He'd requested I dressed in simple muggle clothing and I'd obliged, but I couldn't help but wonder that I'd dressed wrong in some way. Muggle clothes weren't the most natural of things for me to wear and I -

"Nervous?" The short question was followed by silence where I briefly contemplated lying. But what was the point when he could clearly see it?

Instead of answering straight away, I watched as Thomas headed to his easel and started to do something that I couldn't quite make out. Taking a silent queue, I settled into the chair that was meant for me, I fidgeted for a minute.

"A little - I'm a little nervous." Crossing and uncrossing my legs at the ankle, I messed about with my hair, pushing it over my shoulder and bringing it forward again.

"There's no need to be." He punctuated his assurance with a gentle smile that, to my mild annoyance, had some effect on my fraying nerves.

Thomas's eyes appraised me as I sat in the comfortable chair, the weight of them enough to stop my fidgeting. Straightening my back, I held my hands together in my lap. Under my eyes, Thomas shifted from someone I had gone to school with and slipped into the role of the artist, eyes hyper fixated and concentrating on what I was sure was the briefest of details, and his brows furrowed a little as he watched me. Then, with slow measured steps, he approached me, the motion enough to stop me from wringing my hands in my lap. His steps came to a halt in front of me.

My eyes kept their focus on his face, head tilted back to appraise Thomas who now stood less than a metre away from me. He raised his hands, and then paused, holding them aloft before him.

"Can I?" his voice was quiet and I nodded regardless, not knowing what he meant.

Without another word, Thomas crouched before me and brought his eyes in line with my own. Holding my breath a little, I started when his hands, warm and easily dwarfing mine, rearranged my hands so they weren't anxiously clinging to one another, and were settled much more naturally in my lap.

"There." He lifted his head a little, smiling up at me from beneath his lashes, "that's better."

Thomas stood slowly then, looking like he wanted to say something else before he turned and returned to his place behind the easel. He set about beginning to work and I watched the Gryffindor as he silently worked. Had Thomas always had such entrancing eyes framed with thick, dark lashes?

I continued to watch Thomas as he worked, cataloguing the moment he began to frown at the canvas and those eyes flickered repeatedly between the canvas and myself. "Is everything alright?"

Briefly, I chastised myself - was I even supposed to talk whilst sitting here? Was I allowed to do that? What if I disturbed Thomas and threw him off somehow?

He didn't seem to be too perturbed by my interruption. Instead, he obliged my questioning, "It's fine, there's just something I can't seem to get right."

I wanted to point out that he hadn't been working on the canvas for long, but I figured that he knew his work process better than I did. He was more familiar with his capabilities - although, I had sought out his paintings after realising that he was an artist - and he would know whether he was getting something right. And, for some reason, I wanted Thomas to get this portrait right - not for me. But rather, just because I didn't like seeing him frowning in that way.

Figuring that I couldn't appease that frown in any way, or smooth out the crease between his furrowed brows, I wanted to try regardless. Remembering that he'd cast a silencing charm on the room after entering it, I felt safe to ask, "Why did you decide to do muggle paintings instead of wizarding ones?"

"I mean, they're fundamentally the same," he said, not taking his eyes off the canvas. His tone was even and absentminded, all his focus on his work.

"Are they?"

He nodded before adding, "But I like the idea of capturing a single moment, a single look." Thomas peered at me from behind the canvas before murmuring so softly that I almost didn't hear him, "Of immortalising a single breath."

Left with nothing to say, I instead watched as he focused once more on the canvas. His frown, which I had succeeded in removing for a short moment, returned with a vengeance. Setting down whatever had been in his hands, he approached me with determined steps, robbing me of any words.

Stopping once more in front of me, Thomas leaned down and pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. From between parted lips, I drew in a breath at the gentle brush of his fingertips across my cheek; he hadn't seemed to realise he'd done it.

"Freckles," he murmured suddenly, straightening up. "You've got freckles."

Looking at Thomas in surprise, and unable to say anything, I just watched as he returned to stand behind the easel. He was working away once more, appearing rejuvenated and at once, more inspired.

Silently, I touched the bridge of my nose where I knew freckles kissed my skin.

**********

Meeting with Thomas had become a regular part of my week. I would spend my days pouring over various academic texts, responding to letters from various researchers before taking myself into the muggle world where my only stop would be Thomas's art studio. We had pre-arranged to meet a few times a week to allow him to work and make progress because this was, after all, his livelihood.

Over the painting sessions, we had grown a little more familiar with one another, and I grew more confident in asking him questions whilst I sat. I'd come to realise that Thomas wasn't the sort of artist who needed silence to work. He was more than obliging when it came to my endless curiosities regarding the muggle world and his decision to settle in it following leaving school.

The only downside to sitting for these portraits was that, for hours at a time, I was sat in one place and did my best to maintain my position for as long as I could. I allowed Thomas to take the lead, each time, and I waited for the telltale sign that he was done for the night. And sure enough, it came not long after the ache in my back was becoming a tad unbearable. Thomas set his paintbrush down with a deep sigh and finally stepped back from the canvas. He held his hands together, surveying the progress he had made today, the thumb of his left hand rubbing the palm of his right as if to ease the ache of holding the paintbrush.

Finally standing, I lifted my hands over my head and arched my back to release the ache. Without a word, and leaving Thomas to his assessment of his work so far, I walked towards the sofa where I'd left my things. Grabbing my outer robes, I wrapped them around me, preparing to face the cold of muggle London.

Just as I went to pick up my bag, Thomas's voice sounded from behind me, "Are you heading out?"

Turning to face the man, I watched as stood with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his trousers. "I've got a letter from the journal publishing my article waiting for me."

"Sounds interesting." I tried my best not to snort - he didn't find my work interesting, at all, rather it boggled his mind, he'd admitted it himself. Still, he tried his best, even if he was struggling not to smile at his own words. "So I don't think you want to go out and get a drink?"

"Oh." Telling him that I didn't drink, that I'd promised my friends after they'd found me grieving Lauryn inside a bottle, that I wouldn't drink anymore. Instead, I kept that to myself. After all, what relationship did I have to share that? Instead, I cleared my throat and picked up my bag. Slinging it over my shoulder I just said, "I really should get back to that letter, I've been working on the article for months now."

"That's alright, another time." Nodding at his words, I offered him a smile which Thomas returned. He rocked on his heels for just a moment, looking like he wanted to say something more before he turned back to the easel.

I watched him for just a little longer as he moved around the easel. My eyes greedily searched his figure, cataloguing his broad shoulders, the lines of his exposed arms and I turned harshly away from him when he caught my eyes. Heat rushed to my features and I did my best to play it off. Leaning down to get my scarf, I pulled it out from under the satchel Thomas had set on top of it, accidentally setting the satchel clattering to the floor.

Crouching down onto the floor, I hurried to pick the satchel up, with the contents that had fallen to the floor. There were papers that I'd picked and returned to the open bag and finally, a sketchbook that had fallen open on a random page. I reached out for it, preparing to close it and return it when my eyes actually took in the sketch.

Me - it was me.

It wasn't the me that spent hours posing in front of the canvas for Thomas. Instead, it was me, sitting on the very sofa in the studio, and leafing through the pages of my article draft before I'd sent it off for peer-reviewing. I cast a quick furtive glance at Thomas who was still focusing on the easel and hurriedly glanced back to the sketchbook. Flicking between the pages, I found myself looking at multiple sketches of me, each interspersed between other sketches he'd made. Hearing footsteps behind me, I snapped the sketchbook shut and picked up the satchel.

Standing with both in my hands, I turned in time to find Thomas standing behind me. His eyes flickered curiously towards the objects in my hand and I explained, "Sorry, I accidentally knocked these over."

"It's fine," he assured me, accepting his belonging without much fuss.

I prepared to leave when Thomas himself started to flick through his sketchbook. Opening it to a sketch of me, he angled it so I could get a look at it. Wordlessly, I looked between the art and the artist.

"This has never happened to me before," he confessed, eyes lingering on his work. Briefly, his eyes lifted to meet my own before he lowered them once more.

Uncertain, I asked, "What do you mean?"

"A muse - I've never had one that's refused to leave my mind before." Closing the sketchbook with a snap, he tucked it safely into his satchel. Looping it over his shoulder, he said with a shrug, "I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't," I assured. "But - why?"

"I'm not sure, there's just something I can't quite get right."

**********

When I had last sat for Thomas, less than a week ago, the artist had finished a tad earlier than I'd expected and informed me that he had finished. At first, I'd looked at him in surprise, watching as he assessed the supposedly completed painting with a minor scowl before he nodded just once, resolute. He certainly didn't look like he was satisfied with the final product. But who was I to question any of it?

And so, when he'd thanked me for sitting for the portrait, I'd expected to hear no more from the artist. After all, what more could there be? I had sat in one place for hours, over a good few weeks now, and he'd compensated me for my time by paying me money that I'd directly funnelled into Lauryn's favoured charity. It wasn't as if I needed the money.

It was all done and left behind in the past, so I certainly hadn't expected to find an owl, waiting for me on my windowsill when I returned home from a meeting with a fellow researcher. I'd accepted the letter from the owl, nonetheless and was startled to find it from Thomas. Reading the letter for the first time, I'd been able to hear his voice reciting every word as he extended an offer for me to see the final painting. I hurried to accept - I hadn't realised just how much I missed having him be a part of my working week.

The arranged meeting had finally arrived and I stood hesitantly once more in a studio that I'd thought I had seen the last of. Clearly, I had been wrong. Thomas, who had greeted me on my arrival, remained beside me, with watchful eyes focused on me. Not that I paid him much heed. No, I was too busy looking at the covered canvas in the centre of the room.

Now that it was a few short paces in front of me, I was hesitant to actually see his work. Did I want to see how he saw me?

Gathering what little resolve I had, I finally approached the canvas, taking it one step at a time. When I finally started walking, Thomas spoke from behind me, "I thought I'd show you before it goes on show with my others."

"On show?" It was stupid to admit it, so I definitely wouldn't, but I hadn't expected him to do anything with this painting. I certainly hadn't expected him to ever want to showcase it amongst all his other work.

"In a few weeks."

Nodding, I stopped in front of the covered canvas. Still, I waited, not wanting to be the one to lift the plain coloured cover for myself. Thomas came to a still next to me. Without any more preamble, he lifted the cover from the painting and his eyes instantly returned to my face, trying to gauge my reaction.

I didn't speak a word. Instead, I remained silent, staring at the painting in front of me, awed by just how lifelike it was. It was me - me with all the smile lines that littered the corners of my mouth, the freckles that were scattered over the bridge of my nose and even the small scar on my right cheek from a disastrous Care of Magical Creatures lesson whilst at school. Was that how Thomas saw me? As I was?

Slowly, I let out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Thomas asked, voice deep and steady at my side.

Truthfully, I didn't know if I agreed. The painting was beautiful, a sheer testimony to his incredible talent, made even more impressive because it had all been done by hand, with no magic to aid him. The painting was beautiful, yes, but the subject matter - that I couldn't be too sure about.

"Thank you," I said finally, turning to address Thomas who continued to watch me. Offering him a smile, I held his gaze for a little while. He would never know that I was cataloguing them, imprinting their memory onto my mind for reference at any point when I needed them to steady the rising tide of anxiety as it swarmed inside me. "I'm glad I got to see it."

I turned, preparing to leave and Thomas followed me each step. Just as I reached the doorway of his studio to head out, he reached out to catch my hand. Startled, I looked at him in surprise, expecting him to let go. He didn't.

His hold on my hand remained soft, barely there, but still there. Thomas's head was ducked a little, just enough to hold my eyes. "You never told me Zoller - why did you respond to the advert for this?"

"It was on my bucket list," I said honestly, I should have withdrawn my hand from his, but I didn't quite want to. "Well, posing for a portrait, wasn't on my bucket list. But I'd written that I wanted to do more to get out of my comfort zone and well, this was definitely out of my comfort zone."

"The entire time?"

"No," I acknowledged, watching as his smile bloomed beneath my eyes. Salazar's soul, I wanted to keep making him smile. "You made me more comfortable than I thought I would've been at the start."

"Good." His smile widened, becoming toothier and it was infectious; a small smile appeared on my face. "Listen, Zoller, I was wondering if you're in a hurry to head out?"

"In a hurry?"

"I was thinking we could get a drink?" he trailed off uncertainly, continuing to watch me as I stood in front of him. "There's a pub a couple of streets down that's supposed to be pretty good?"

A date - he was asking me on a date. And I wanted to agree in a heartbeat. I wanted to tell him that he would be able to lead me wherever he wanted me to. The words were on the tip of my tongue when his receptionist appeared suddenly, making me step quickly away from him.

"Mr Thomas!" she called out, looking a little frazzled as she approached the wizard who finally looked away from me. He turned to listen to her as she spoke hurriedly about something to do with his upcoming art show.

I slipped out of the building whilst he was busy, leaving him behind as I stepped out into the street. Walking to the nearest apparition point, I headed home.

**********

Thomas continued to surprise me. I'd honestly expected our last meeting to be our last, even if it had been cut short. I certainly hadn't expected him to owl me two tickets to his upcoming exhibition. And good Merlin, I certainly hadn't expected myself to attend the exhibition and drag Fatya along with me. Yet, here I was, walking through the crowded exhibition, slipping in and out of the group of muggles that were dotted around the room, standing to admire Thomas's works. Fatya herself had stopped further back in the room to look at one of the portraits Thomas had situated near the entrance of the large room.

I walked slowly through the room, studying the varying paintings that Thomas had worked on since his last exhibition. Each one was just as intriguing, just as beautiful and just as lifelike as the one before it. So far, I'd looked at a handful of portraits but I'd yet to see mine. Not that I wanted to see it, instead I was rather hoping I didn't see it. I didn't want to know what these strangers thought of my face reflected from the canvas.

Approaching another portrait, I tilted my head slightly, studying the way the painted man's hair fell over his forehead; just how had Thomas managed to capture such detail? The sheer amount of work that would have needed to be put into every stroke was -

"Excuse me?" the voice came from my left, startling me from my musings. I turned towards the voice, finding an elderly muggle woman looking back at me with an almost ... excited smile?

"Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry," the muggle woman had the sense to look apologetic. Still, her eyes searched my face like she was cataloguing all of my features with such an intensity that I wanted to leave her behind. "I'm sorry, I just didn't expect to see one of the subjects here - and I just wanted to know of the faces from the canvases."

Offering her a wan smile, I tried to take my leave of her, not that it was easy to do when more people realised that I was one of the 'subjects'. Slowly, more and more people approached me, wanting to know if I knew the identity of the elusive artist who had kept his identity hidden. They had all sorts of questions about my experience and continued to ask me for any clues about the artist. But I said nothing. I didn't tell them that the artist was here, in this very room, and I could spy him, standing taller than most of the other people in the room and engaged in an animated conversation with Fatya. As if feeling my eyes on him, Thomas's head turned in my direction and I could have sworn that his eyes lit up at the sight of me.

My attention returned to the muggles around me who continued to ask me questions, and becoming overwhelmed at their attention, and annoyed that I hadn't gone undetected, I murmured all sorts of apologies. Ignoring the multitude of questions that were still coming my way, I ducked through the crowd and headed straight for the exit.

Making it out into the empty street, I took in a greedy lungful of the cold night air. I repeated the action a few more times until my flight reflex settled down. Merlin, muggles were nosey people. Didn't they know the importance of personal space?

I glanced back to the building I'd just run out of, I contemplated heading back in. Fatya was still inside, and I couldn't exactly leave her alone. Just as I managed to gather the nerve to head back inside, the doors opened once more and Thomas walked out into the street. He stood near the entrance for a moment as the doors shut behind him, and he searched the area around him until his eyes settled on me, as I stood.

"You came," he called out, voice carrying in the cold air, and he closed the space between us.

"You took the effort of sending me the tickets," I said simply, watching him as he came to a stop in front of me. Thomas tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and looked over me with a gentle smile.

He rocked on his heels a little, "I'm glad you could make it, Zoller."

"Your portraits - they're all amazing." Struggling to think of the words to describe it and severely lacking them, I could only manage, "I really don't know how you manage to do it."

"Thank you." Thomas gestured behind him towards the building, "Fatya came with you."

"I had to make up for all the trouble I put her through in the beginning." Shrugging a little, I adjusted my robes around me to keep me warm from the gusts of wind. "Shouldn't you be heading back inside? You can't have an art exhibition without the artist, can you?"

He batted my words away as if they meant nothing, and pointed out, "No one knows I'm the artist - well, very few people know." Thomas stepped closer to me, the heat of his body radiating out towards me and my body, seeking out that heat, turned towards him. "They won't miss me."

Tilting my head back slightly to hold his gaze, I asked softly, "Are you sure?"

"Positive." Merlin, his eyes were wonderful in the night light. "We got cut off last time - maybe we can go for that drink now?"

"I'd like that," I agreed softly, smiling unabashedly. "Just - you should know. I don't drink alcohol, it's a promise I made."

"Fair enough." He returned my smile with a grin and reached out to take my hand again, this time holding it firm. "Come on, let's get out of here before more people come to hound you for my identity."

We started walking down the street, and without a protest, I let him lead me by the hand. Vaguely, I remembered, "Fatya - "

"She's enjoying herself," he assured me with a chuckle, "She told me to have you back by midnight."

**********

12 YEARS LATER

Every day of good weather had to be cherished, especially with how short the British summer felt. The hot days didn't last anywhere near as long as anyone wanted and we needed to take advantage of each one as it arrived. That was why, as soon as it seemed like it would be a good day, I'd enlisted my husband to write to the Finnigan's to invite them to our family home for a barbecue. Although now, as I watched Finnigan standing behind the barbecue, I wondered if we'd made the right decision. When the man had insisted he would man the grill, I hadn't given it any more thought.

But, as I looked up from watching our daughter who played with the Finnigan boy in the back garden, I was filled with memories of all the fire-related accidents he'd gotten into for as long as I'd known him. Brushing some gravel from my daughter's knee, I stood from where I'd been squatted beside her, and prepared to intervene. Looking across the garden, I spied Dean who walked out of the house with a plate of burgers and sent him a silent plea to join Finnigan. He gave me a reassuring wink, before heading straight to his best friend.

I waited a little longer, watching as Dean set the plate of burgers down and patted Finnigan on the shoulder, joining him at the grill. Relieved, I returned my attention to the children who had run off together, chasing after a ball. Distantly, I heard Finnigan's wife call for him to be careful and the man responded with assurances that he was fine.

Heading into our home, I levitated some glasses and picked a stack of plates and headed into the garden, the glasses trailing after me. Slowly, I set the table, bringing out the potato salad, the buns and the corn on the cob, I finished setting the spread just in time.

Finnigan returned to the table with plates piled high with the barbecued burgers and sausages. He put the plate down, leaning around his wife and dropping a kiss on her shoulder as they both sat down at the table. Dean, who had abandoned the barbecue now it was done, had scooped up the children, one tucked under each arm, and carried their giggling and squirming bodies up to the patio. He released them by the table and the children sat down beside each other, instantly murmuring and talking between themselves.

Coming to my side, Dean pulled out my chair and kissed the top of my head when I sat down. He settled beside me, turning towards me as I prepared a burger for our daughter, cutting it in half so it would be easier for her to eat.

"I don't like it," Dean grumbled under his breath as I spooned some potato salad onto his plate.

"Of course you do, you like my potato salad." Frowning, I looked at Dean who wasn't looking at me, but rather was looking at our daughter who was laughing at something the youngest Finnigan had said.

"I'm not talking about the potato salad." He continued to watch the children as they talked, too busy focusing on each other to pay any heed to their plates that were being assembled for them. I elbowed him so sharply that Dean finally looked away from them and rubbed his side. "What?"

Rolling my eyes for him to see, I told him, "Get a grip, Thomas, they're children."

"I don't like the way he looks at her." He continued to grumble but finally assembled his own burger.

Trying not to scoff and insist that I thought they were cute, I poured myself a glass of lemonade. "So what if they have crushes on each other? It's completely natural, besides they're only little kids."

Taking a bite of his burger, a far too aggressive bite, if you asked me - Dean mumbled with his mouthful, "They're too young."

I made a face and just shook my head. I should have taken his mother's words to heed - Dean was used to looking after his younger siblings and was extremely overprotective. I could only imagine the way he would act when our daughter started dating, not that we'd have to worry about that for some time.

"Hey," Finnigan said with a laugh, knowing exactly where Dean's thoughts were. He reached out a hand to affectionately rubbing his son's hair. His son, who had been trying to eat his chicken wings in peace, gave his dad a weird look. "I'd love to have her as a daughter-in-law if that's how things turn out."

Dean gave his best friend a narrow-eyed glare, and I couldn't help but laugh. Shaking my head, I patted Dean on the knee under the table. "Relax, Dean."

"She's growing up too quickly," he complained under his breath, falling silent when I shot him a look.

"You're the one making her grow up too quickly. Now calm down and eat before I shove that burger into your mouth."

"Yes ma'am." Dean shot another look towards our daughter who was laughing at something her best friend had said to her.

Briefly, I contemplated distracting Dean by asking him about how his newest paintings were coming on, but I decided against it. He was the one to come up with the decision that on days like this, family days, we left our work behind us and didn't carry it with us. This way at least, we'd be better able to achieve the elusive work-life balance we were striving for.

Silently, I put my head on Dean's shoulder and he set his head on top of mine. He reached out a hand, grabbing a bun and assembling another burger. This one, he set apologetically onto my plate. Of course, the man knew that food was my weakness and exploited it whenever he needed to..

"Sorry, my love."

"You can make it up to me by doing all the washing."

"I thought I did the washing every day, anyway."

____________________

So, what did you think?

The next one shot should be up on the 2nd. Here are the hints:

* has worked internationally - outside of the UK

* has an older brother 

* awarded an Order of Merlin 

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Also ... I'm bored out of my mind - feel free to post any and all random questions and I'll answer when I can't focus on assignments anymore