FIVE

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S E C R E T
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Autumn leaves performed a last dance in the wind together before gently kissing the browning grass. The sun harshly gleamed against the waters of the lake. Freya's head rest on her best friend's legs, and her blonde locks stretched across both Remus's lap and the rough wooden bench that sat on the dying grass of Hogwarts's grounds. Their bench, underneath their tree.

A small smile threatened to tug her lips upwards as she imagined what they must look like. Remus with his book held over him and his head tilted back uncomfortably to peer at the novel above. Though he could not place it in his lap as he normally did since Freya substituted it, it was more than alright to him. Freya's cigarette slowly met her lips before falling back down to her side along with the hand that held it. Her mind was on Sirius.

When one of the friends attempted to move slightly, they were greeted with protests made from none other than James Potter. He sat on the grass with a paintbrush wedged between his teeth, instead of his normal cigarette, and another held loosely in his fingertips. Swipes of yellow were added to the canvas shielded from her sight. His glasses began to slide down his nose as he worked, only to result in accidental paint on the tip of his nose from pushing them back up again.

This is how that past twenty minutes had gone by since James had hunted them down to be his muses. Sketching was one of the boy's favorite hobbies, an enjoyed talent that he shared with Freya, but painting was an art he had yet to perfect. He called this his practice, and whined for nearly all of breakfast the previous morning until the two halfheartedly agreed.

James moved slightly to cross his legs and Remus let out a loud groan. Apparently, he'd thought the movement signified the drawing being completed at last, but to their disappointment, he was incorrect.

"It wouldn't take me as long if Frey would just put the damned cigarette out and stop holding her stomach," he replied in an obviously fake cheerful tone. The top of his bushy black hair and spectacle covered eyes were the only things in sight from behind the white canvas.

"And anyways," he replied in a more monotone voice, "You lot were not my first choice."

They needn't ask who his original selection had been, but she repeated the name with a roll of her eyes anyways, "Yes, your precious Lily flower."

"Just imagine," James said dreamily staring at his surroundings instead of the painting he had so obsessively been focusing on moments before, "It would've turned out beautiful. Especially the leaves blending with her bloody ginger hair. Adorable, absolutely adorable."

"Anyways," Freya coughed, snapping the artist out of the daydream that he was more than likely painting permanently into his mind, "Get on with it, I'm hungry."

The boy whose lap her head rested on sneakingly peered down at her. Freya, thankfully, was not looking at him, but at James who was still adding strokes to whatever it was that he called his "masterpiece." His eyes followed the long, golden hair that trailed down his trouser covered legs. Her red stained lips formed a small pout as she impatiently wiggled her cigarette in the air. Her blue eyes watched small embers fall from it and land on the grass below.

She was a masterpiece herself. One that James, or any other artist, could never hope to accurately paint the beauty she portrayed.

Not only was she art herself, but artists seemed to use her as their muse in every picture some way or another, as far as Remus could see. Monet clearly used the same shades of blue that were trapped in her eyes, and the illuminated moon in Gogh's Starry Night was obviously depicting the way her smile lit up the room.

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