avery carmichael wasn't really
looking for the unexpected.
but it was just her luck that the
unexpected launched itself at
her in many variations, one of
them being in the form of
charlie weasley.
distant game
charlie weasley x oc
pre-golden t...
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chapter vii just avery & just charlie
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FROM A YOUNG AGE, AVERY CARMICHAEL HAS BEEN EXPOSED TO THE CONCEPT OF ART. Her father, Oliver Hearst— back when he was in her life — was an artist, specialising in anything from paint to pencil, and his life was dedicated to depicting the real picture that he saw. And he did a ruddy good job of it, from what Avery can see in the rare old paintings they found belonging to the man up in the dusty attic of the Carmichael residence. (Avery, however, never understood why Valerie hadn't thrown those paintings out.)
Oliver Hearst was a dedicated artist of sorts since he learnt what it meant to grip a paintbrush. His father was a wizard while his mother a muggle, and most days she was half-up on a stepladder, connecting mind to paintbrush to canvas with spirit. Oliver often attended the remarkable art shows her mother enrolled herself in in the art galleries in London, where he grew up. His mother's paintings, ranging from abstract to blended canvases of sheer artistic miracles, always inspired Oliver to tell the story — not with words — but with the flow and craft waiting to burst out of the hand, just like his mother did. It was only natural that Oliver, having grown up amongst all this craftmanship and picturesque happenings, would have a firm influence over the artistry dooming the never-ending lands he lived in.
Perhaps it was the reason he had been so drawn to Valerie Carmichael. In their Hogwarts days, something he picked up about the fiery-haired girl in his house — Ravenclaw — was her necessity to pay attention to detail. In everything. For Valerie Carmichael, any small item could be deemed art. From the curvaceous crescent running down glass bottles, to uneven scratchings on a piece of diminished wood. The mere idea of productivity and making something, was enough for it to be considered a craft to the vivid redhead. Perhaps it was this significance she put towards appreciating the nature of any materialising opportunity, towards not deeming any process fallible or barren, that made him fall in love with this truly fierce, composed woman. Any error could have been a masterpiece, in the eyes of Valerie herself.
As for Avery, the art that Valerie Carmichael always claims to have made, (because really, did anyone else but Valerie carry the child with difficulty, pain and endurance within the depths of their womb for nine months?) was always able to strike up a fire of pride in Valerie's eyes. Avery didn't have much time to become acquainted with her father's hobbies, asides from the times she'd been sat spectating to when her dad was painting the walls of their new London apartment, a plush toy rattle in hand, her rocking baby chair underneath her and gazing at her father with innocent adoration as he swiped the paintbrush back and forth along the walls with reminiscent, cascading strokes.
But Avery couldn't remember that. She was no more than three years old the day her father disappeared out of her life. The day if became Valerie, Jeremiah and Avery, in all its permanence.
