In Horace Slughorn's defence, he couldn't have known that all this would happen. All he had wanted to do was play match-maker between his two favourite students, Tom Riddle and Artemis Potter.
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--------------------> ARTEMIS POTTER'S ROOM INSIDE THE RAVENCLAW TOWER WAS A CHAOTIC MESS and very much resembled an art studio with a bed cornered between two walls with books littering it. The walls told stories that she had painted with care, because who said stories could only be either told or written?
Artemis used her bed as a dumping ground for books and schoolwork and so, ever since her first year, had been sleeping beside Gen in her room.
The state of her room at Hogwarts and Potter Manor were both near-identical and provided a clear picture of inside her mind. And whoever had had the audacity to enter her happy place would be initially surprised at the chaotic-ness and then at how her art studio of a room was the opposite of liminal space.
It had something to do with the paint masterfully designed on the walls, the splatters of paint accidentally fallen on the white, marble floors looking very much like confetti, the cans and buckets of paint with their labels torn off and sitting in the sink, full of paint-coloured water; the pencil doodles on what was supposed to be her study table that got erased and changed constantly; the way everything was arranged slightly differently every time they went in; the half-finished projects of canvases, backed up and leaning against the walls, laying on drying racks, hanging on the walls or propped up on an easel and even the mountain of used sketchbooks, each filled with ideas and thoughts and emotions.
Everything about her room suggested continuous use even when it was empty. It all brought to mind continuity, returning and belonging.
Upon entering her room, the person felt timeless and free, as if they had been transported into a different, creatively imaginative yet chaotic world.
Artemis loved art, and not just because it made up the first half of her name.
Her parents would proudly tell anybody who would listen about how wonderfully talented and passionate their daughter was about art and how even her youthful finger-painting still looked worthy of being a beautiful masterpiece.
In fact, Artemis' earliest memory was a trip to the beach that they had taken when she was a tiny toddler. There, when she had seen the view, in her mind, Artemis was seeing it as a watercolour instead of the moving sea and beached fishing boats that it was. Where her brothers had seen a place to play, she had seen a view to paint.
Even now, after all these years, she saw the world as it was: a beautiful array of colours and shapes, ideas and formulas, abstracts and defined, voids and space, love and fear, chaotic and beautiful. To her, it was all a canvas that left just enough space for everyone to paint their own story, their own lives in the whites of the world.
Some painted out and off the canvas onto the walls if they dared and others painted in a smaller area than provided. And then there were those who ran their strokes over and into the lives of many others either ruining their work or creating something simultaneously beautiful.
