Blaise was… peculiar. It was the best word to describe him. He was an artist - which, in a way, explained it - and kept very much to himself. He only spoke when absolutely necessary, completely self-contained and content with his sketchbook and pencils, his drawings that sometimes became paintings, his observations and quiet musings.

Draco, in spite of all that, or perhaps because of it, found himself pulled irresistibly to him. Fascinated by all that Blaise was. Drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

"What are you doing, Blaise?" He already knew, of course, but he wanted Blaise to respond, wanted to hear his voice.

"I'm painting, Draco. You're in my light, move, please." Courteous, it was the only word one could use to describe his tone. Courteous, ever courteous, that was Blaise. Absorbed in his art, he knew no other way to treat people. The ground could open and he'd still say 'please'.

"So, this is the painting you've been drawing everyone for. Am I in it? Or are all the drawings of me not good enough for your work?"

"Of course you're in it, Draco. But it isn't a work like that; no one is painted exactly as they are. But you will like it when it is finished, I promise." He continued to work, carefully dabbing paint on a small part of the canvas. It was a large canvas and Blaise was working very meticulously. At the rate he painted, it would take months to complete.

"Am I allowed to look?"

"It isn't finished yet."

Draco moved around to get a look anyway. It was lovely. A bit unusual, but Blaise's style was very much his own.

"It's… not pretty. I like it, it's nice, it's very you, but it isn't pretty." Draco was fairly certain that that statement didn't make the slightest bit of sense, but he didn't tell Blaise that.

"Pretty isn't beautiful, Draco. Pretty fades. All things are beautiful because beauty withstands change. I'm changing, you're changing, but that doesn't mean that we are any less beautiful. You watch, Draco, while I revise the world."

"You make it beautiful, Blaise," Draco whispered. "The beauty is yours."

There was a moment of silence, then, "I'm working, Draco. Why don't you go and see your friends?"

"Because I want to see you." Draco was hurt by the sudden dismissal.

"And I am very busy. We can talk later, if you like, when I am done painting." Blaise stepped back to see his work, examining it with that gaze that almost frightened Draco. The one that made you feel as though he saw you and he didn't, all at once.

Draco sighed and turned to go. "But you're never done painting, Blaise. That's the problem."

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