Nude Ink

First Picture: The Nude

Hello my dearest readers! I present to you my second reader-insert; this story is a shorter one, but juicy nonetheless, and I hope you enjoy every piece of it, just like I enjoyed writing it!
Please share your opinion with me in the comments, your kind words give me life and inspiration! Love you all!

The story cover and the header image belongs to the lovely Alena KP.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HARRY POTTER WORLD OR ITS CHARACTERS, this is written purely for fun.

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I remember my first painting like it was yesterday. We just buried my mom and came home from the funeral with somber faces, our chests numbed from all the pain we went through in the last week. Mom was a witch, and she worked at the ministry as an Auror, but due to unfortunate circumstances, she was a target for an Avada Kedavra, and the Death Eater hit bullseye. I was five.

As I went to my bedroom, with my eyes simply unable to produce any kind of liquid anymore, I took mom's old ink holder, and dropped a few splotches on the white parchment from the tip of the quill. I proceeded to smear them and trace lines with said writing tool, not knowing exactly what I was doing, I just had an overwhelming drive to put my pain on paper. I wasn't thinking, I didn't have an exact image in my head, I just let my hand drift over my canvas, and after two hours of relentless work, I stopped to take in my piece. Death. I managed to draw Death, as I saw it through my eyes, the very phenomenon that took away my mother only a few days ago.

Noticing my chest being a bit lighter after I poured my suffering on paper, gave me the brilliant idea to use this as my coping mechanism. So, the following weeks the ink and paper were constantly by my side, and whenever I felt the pain rising up, I just drew an image of what I felt, and it was over. I got by with this technique successfully.

Dad was a simple muggle carpenter, after his wife's tragic death his speech became more and more rare, until he just barely spoke a few words, always buried nose-deep in his orders and clients. But he always made time for me. He had a smaller atelier in our house, where he often brought the work home, trying to make as much extra money as he could. The man did everything in his power to help me and raise me well, even though his own heart was bleeding every single day.

As the seasons passed, we gradually made peace with the idea that mom was no longer there, and somehow we managed to create a quiet, cozy home consisting of just the two of us.

I was nine when the autumn wind brought something different to me, a change, an inexplicable shift under my skin. A constant pleasant buzz appeared inside; I became fascinated by the small details around me in everyday life. It was like my whole perspective shifted to something else, I started observing the tiniest things around me, and of course, putting them on paper. Nothing held my interest better than painting and drawing, my daily routine consisted of art, eating and sleeping. Another curious change was that I became obsessed with the human body. More specifically, the male human body. I made a habit of nestling myself in dad's armchair, with a brush and parchment, silently watching him work on the wood, or piece of furniture, observing every detail about him. His precise and elegant movements, and gentle, caring way he handled the wood filled my heart with warmth and soothed me at the same time. I found peace in watching and painting my father. I did studies on his hands, I drew every single detail of his torso, his jawline, his short, brown hair. The veins on his strong hands awakened a weird fascination inside me, they told a story of a powerful, able man, the drops of sweat on his forehead reminding me of his sacrifices made for my sake. I loved my father with every inch of my being.

Sometimes he invited a few friends over, they played cards and had mundane conversations, but I was always there in the corner, curled up on a pillow, drawing. The fingers of a smoker and the lips dragging the cigarette held my stare, as I put my father's friends on paper, each friend representing a new version of masculine charm, and me, the cute little quiet girl sitting spellbound near them, with a tingle in my stomach. Dad soon observed my obsession with male anatomy, and he kindly sat down, with me on his knee, opening a medical book, explaining some drawing techniques to improve my style. He saw great potential in me, and from that point on, he focused on helping bettering my art. I found out later, that I inherited my artistic inclines from him, because he actually went to art school, but dropped out because carpentry promised a better paycheck. So whatever knowledge he had, he passed it down to me, and I continued to paint and draw to my heart's content.