DISCLAIMER: This is a muggle AU in which Harry and Draco have never met.
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"Harry!" I hear an exasperated voice call up the spiral staircase. "Come on! How can it possibly take you this long to get ready?!"
I roll my eyes and turn off my loud stereo before responding. "I'm coming!" Grabbing my jacket, I hustle down the steps to the location of an annoyed Hermione. "It's not like we're on a time punch," I remind her. "It's a skatepark. It's literally always open."
She huffs in frustration. "Yeah, but I'm really looking forward to showing all the art to you and Ron."
"We know, 'Mione. You've been talking about it for weeks," Ron adds, entering the living room where Hermione and I stood. "We just have different schedules and never have time."
"Exactly. But tonight, we do have the time, so it needs to be tonight," the fair-skinned girl states.
I walk to the front door and grab my dirty converse. "We will do it tonight. We can go right now. You guys both ready?"
My friends both confirm that they are, indeed, ready and had been "waiting on me." Oops, I think to myself as we walk out the front door.
My skin is suddenly being nicked and bitten by the frigid, crisp air of Wisconsin's mid-fall as I step onto the creaky porch. I gaze around at the colorless landscape known as my neighboorhood. The grass, once a flourishing green, is now dull and lifeless, plastered to its chilled ground. The trees' leaves have departed their homes and now lay, decomposed, on the earth's frozen crust.
"Are we taking your car, 'Mione?" my red-headed friend asks, gesturing to said vehicle.
"Sure, why not," the inquired replies with a shrug.
Eventually, we arrive at the skatepark that Hermione has been going to for months. The night sky above is drowned in midnight blues and blacks, its colors only being interrupted by the brilliant moon and stars. Every inch of the ramps is covered in graffiti. Some pieces are simply indecipherable squiggles, while others are exquisitely beautiful works of art. All of them together could either be perceived as a cluttered mess or, as I see it, wonderfully jumbled pieces that belong to hundreds of individual's imaginations.
I realize I've been staring when I hear my friends calling my name. "Over here!" Ron calls, waving me to the very back wall/ramp combination of the skatepark.
"Thought you were right behind us," he says once I catch up to them.
I shrug. "Yeah, I was just looking at all this," I clarify, gesturing to our surroundings.
After many failed attempts, Hermione finally scales the ramp and perches herself at the very top of the artistry. Ron and I, despite also making several failed attempts, eventually make it to the top as well.
I gaze down at all of the people below us. There's a younger girl, maybe 15, with long black hair that's covering a torn up jean jacket. She wears a grey knit beanie and isn't around anyone else, simply seeming focused on her work.
My eyes land on another person. This time, it's a man. He looks like he could be 18 or so, maybe a bit older. He is surrounded by a group of people who I assume to be his friends. He's clothed with a black leather jacket, dark, dirty blue jeans, and tattered combat boots. His head holds touseled brown hair, not unlike mine.
The last person my eyes find is by far the most out of place in a crowd full of outcasts: a tall figure wearing a black suit, black undershirt, and black dress shoes. He stands out from the crowd not only because of his attire but also because of his physical appearance. His skin is pale and his hair is bleach-blonde, shining like a beacon in the crowd of mostly dark or dirty-haired individuals.
I stare at this figure for a moment longer. The picture he's painting isn't with spray paint but rather actual paint with a brush. It depicts a woman in a white, flowy dress. She's floating on her back in what appears to be the ocean, but it seems to be swallowing her, engulfing her in a blue abyss.
I'm snapped out of my entrancement on the crowd when Hermione starts to speak. "You know," she begins, "I've never actually touched a can of spray paint. Not because it's illegal to be doing this," she gestures to the 20 some people below, most of whom are expressing their feelings through the art, "but because I find it so much more interesting to watch." As she speaks, her eyes never leave the crowd below.
"What d'you mean?" Ron inquires, gazing at her quizzically.
She sighs and pauses for a moment, seeming to choose her words wisely. "Well, I've never been one for making art. I love learning about art history and such but what really fascinates me is the artists themselves." The girl's eyes seem to light up, brilliantly gleaming like the luminous stars above.
"I mean, look at them. Some are focused and alone, others are laughing and with their friends. Every artist here, though, seems to be so inspired. They know that they could get in trouble for what they're doing but—" She chuckles a light, soft laugh before continuing. "—they do it anyway. They want to send a message or be heard or listened to. They—" She looks at me, and then at Ron who's sitting on her other side. A sheepish look develops on her features as a blush creeps up her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I must be boring you two."
Ron sits up, putting an arm on her back. "No, trust me, you're not boring us. I mean, at least not me." He looks over to me, signaling that I should pipe up as well.
"What? No, no, no," I say, quickly shaking my head. "Honestly, the way that you talk about them and describe them, especially without even knowing them, is amazing."
The now shy girl looks between the two of us once more. "You sure?"
After Ron and I reassure Hermione, she lets it go and continues the conversation where it had left off. We keep up the idle chatter for a while until I decide to go to the nearby vending machines for a soda.
"I'll be right back," I announce, sliding down the ramp so I can make my way over to the bathroom area where the machines are homed.
I pass various crowds. Some of them feel threatening, others feel calm and welcoming. I try to steer clear of all of them, though, to avoid bothering anyone.
I get a Coke from the machine and start to return to our spot on the wall. This requires me to walk past the strange, bleach-blonde, suited individual that I had been gazing upon earlier.
"I really like your painting," I say, approaching his work area and hoping he won't punch me.
As he turns around, he seems to look surprised that someone is talking to him. I assume not many people do, anyway, because he doesn't seem very approachable. At least not compared to this crowd.
"Oh. Well, thank you," he says, lowering his paint-splattered hand.
There's a short, awkward silence in which I don't know what to say and regret starting a conversation in the first place. "Is it of anyone in particular? A girlfriend?" I question, finally thinking of something to say.
He shakes his head, a light chuckle emitting from his lips as he gazes at his work. "No, no. Nothing like that. I don't paint or draw people from the real world," the man explains. "Not usually, at least," he adds.
"Well, based on this," I gesture to what I personally perceive as a masterpiece. "I'd say that whatever you make, whether it's based off a real person or not, will look stunning."
"Thank you," he accepts my compliment as his cheeks flourish in a soft blush.
I smile at him. Blindingly bright blue lights strain my eyes, but I brush them off as strobe lights. "Yeah, no problem. By the way, I'm—"
"COPS!" I hear someone scream. Their voice echoes over the neighborhood, harmonized by others' yells and the loud sound of police car sirens. Red lights join the strobe as I realize that there never were strobe lights—only police cars. Several police cars.
I hear yells and running footsteps and I find myself frozen. I've never been in trouble with the law. I've never even broken the law except for some J-Walking and forgetting to buckle my seatbelt. And I hate confrontation. Oh my god. Fuck this is bad.
"Hey!" the blonde man calls, "We need to go!"
I snap out of my panicked trance and realize that I need to find my friends. Looking over to where we'd been sat, and the area around it, I see no sign of Ron or Hermione. Well, shit, I think to myself.
The man I'd been talking to is now furiously gathering his paints, brushes, and palettes. "You need to get out of here!" By now, most of the people have cleared out. Although I can't see past the bright blue and red lights, I know that the two of us are one of the few people left for the police to arrest.
I look down at the figure before me. He looks panicked and scared and keeps looking over his shoulder. If he's sticking around for some paint, it must be important for some reason. I realize that they must be expensive and bend down to help him gather them, stuffing everything into a black duffle bag. "Go!" he yells at me again.
"No!" The police sirens turn off, so I continue in a normal but rushed voice. "My friends are already gone. I may as well help."
"Put your hands in the air, now!" I hear a deep voice call. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm so fucked, is all that's running through my mind as I look up at the very intimidating police officer standing before me.
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So I think my FBI man might be concerned cause I was googling some shady shit for this chapter lmao