#i owe this entire painting to the round mixing brush

[tailorwww]

abe sapien! (in arcane style?)

watched Hellboy (2004) yesterday and instantly got attached to this fishy guy. he reminded me of steb a lot, i wouldn't be surprised if he was directly inspired by abe

bonus steb eyes vers, i just couldn't help myself

[minaa-munch]

Writing Prompt: Minato's feelings on being abandoned by Jiraiya for the Ame orphans

The conclusion of October would usually witness the first, biting winds of winter; complete with frost-tipped promises borne of the dying breaths of autumn. Thick clouds settled against the horizon, akin to the wide strokes of an ink brush, whereas the leaves that had withdrawn into their golden-brown shells offered a most satisfying crunch against the brick laden path. 

This particular night was privy to the first ever flurries that heralded a less hostile season as opposed to the year before - or maybe that was just the idea being favored by an all too eager populace. The war had ended recently, you see, and in Konoha’s favor too. It had been the first decided victory in three years. Shinobi who had been stationed in the various outposts littering the borders of Hi no Kuni had been called back amidst cheers and laurels; and a mass funeral arranged for those that had hardly been as lucky.

Still, there was little that could damper their high spirits, as the sacrifices of their shinobi had been worth it. The taverns and tea houses were packed, as were the multiple restaurants that had managed to open their doors after years of no-service due to a lack of guests. Konoha was a shinobi village, after all, with an alarmingly low civilian population who were nothing but loyal to the cause.

Besides, it was more fun this way. The air, although crisp with cold, was alive with a different sort of energy altogether; ripe with hearty laughter and the familiar clack of sandal-clad footfalls against narrow pathways. The scent of mixed spices and ground herbs drifted tantalizingly from the open food inns - all was well, and promised nothing but well for a long time. 

Unless if you asked him, of course. 

“…what about Jiraiya sensei?”

Hazel hues met his own and he felt his stomach drop. There was no way that the Gama Sage had fallen in battle while his teammates were alive and well - Jiraiya was much stronger than that, he had contingencies for practically every sce–

“He decided to stay back to help the community.” Tsunade’s dry words cut his inner ramblings short, and he found himself blinking owlishly; almost stupidly, as if deciphering everyday language was a foreign concept.

Huh?

Cue a dismissive wave of calloused fingers, “Something about a child of destiny and how he needed to train the orphans for some prophecy a toad told him.” She added nonchalantly, before raising an eyebrow at his frozen features.

“Oi.” The kunoichi cocked her head for a brief moment. Light hues narrowed, somewhat annoyed at the lack of response and she flicked his forehead with enough strength to cause a migraine, if not a nasty bruise. 

“Did you even hear me, gaki?”

“Oh”

“What do you mean, oh?”

Tan digits curled around the tiny porcelain cup at the memory, the sake having lost its warmth a while ago. The sounds of clinking dishes and jovial conversation practically reeking of camaraderie were a mere echo caressing the fringes of the blond’s subconscious. Instead, blue hues stared at the shimmering surface of his cup; dim lamp light reflecting precariously against his fleeting thoughts which were ironically, far from Konoha.

To an onlooker, he may very well have been part of the furniture; a brooding little blond storm cloud clad in the standard chunin flak jacket, blue uniform still dirty from his time spent at the training field earlier. His hitai-ate was wrapped around his upper arm instead of his head, and only because Inoichi had been a downright pain when he had refused the peach yukata the Yamanaka had flashed his way. 

That had been a few hours ago. The Namikaze however, was still stuck on last week - Jiraiya sensei, or lack thereof, to be exact.

To be fair, he should have expected as much; his sensei had always fostered a kind heart; much more so as compared to his teammates. It should come as no surprise that he would go out on a limb to help people he owed nothing to - and they were orphans to boot, so…

…

Kami, what was wrong with him? Cue a light frown before the cup was raised and promptly downed in a single breath. 

He wasn’t jealous of war orphans, was he? Amegakure was - quite honestly - in complete ruin because of Konoha’s war strategies. Not to say that they hadn’t suffered their fair share of losses likewise, since the only ones to return had been the newly dubbed ‘Sanin’. 

Regardless, their deficit in numbers was nothing compared to the number of civilian deaths and the anarchy that had taken control of the volatile little nation. At least Konoha had the opportunity to lick its wounds and build a-new, whereas Ame would probably never be the same again. 

And then there was the child of prophecy business. The thought prompted a distasteful flicker towards the ceramic bottle on his table; gaze lingering for a brief moment before calloused fingers tipped the container to his cup for a refill. He wasn’t exactly prone towards alcohol, since the mind-numbing buzz that usually followed made him feel slower than usual, but at the moment, he couldn’t care less—

—because at the moment, he couldn’t help but feel that his sensei’s ramblings about the child of prophecy were a little silly - perhaps just a tad bit irresponsible, maybe even a little illogical? 

Or maybe, at the moment, he was feeling just a little jealous that he wasn’t worth the newly dubbed sanin’s attention, now that he wasn’t the blasted child of prophecy. 

Maybe, for all his wisdom, his sensei had failed to realize just how highly his first student thought of him; almost like a father because Kami forsake it all, he had never had one. 

“I’m telling you, you’re special!”

“What makes you think that?”

“Apart from you beating the old man’s record?” Cue a hearty laugh before the man leaned closer, almost conspiratorially so, his large form enveloping the slip of a boy in its shadow, “Well there’s this prophecy, you see…”

Pause. His brow twitched at the treacherous thought; blue hues wide for a painstaking, raw moment, before faltering to a shuddering close.

Had he always been this selfish? He couldn’t - wouldn’t - hold the man responsible. Jiraiya had never asked to be put on such a pedestal; in fact, his tutelage was till the genin entrusted to him were promoted to chunin. Since Minato had done just that before Konoha had been pushed into the throes of war, he had no right to complain. 

The man had taught him all he needed to know. He was a chunin now, his duties and loyalties were owed to the village, not Jiraiya. 

No, definitely not Jiraiya. The very thought made him feel sick, and he found himself bracing his hands against the table; there was nothing jovial about the evening (for him, at least) and maybe he needed to haunt another training field because he really needed to do something about that twitch in his fingers—

“Another round, on me?” Cue a welcome interruption as a loosely clothed arm found his shoulder; Inoichi was all wide eyes and an all-too-charming-borderline-drunk smile, “Ne, chichu-e told me that your name was being circulated around the council for a Jōnin promotion” He rambled, and shook the other blond lightly as he did, nearly upsetting the pitcher on the table, “Isn’t that neat? You’ll be the first Jōnin in our entire batch!” 

“Oh.”

“What do you mean oh? This guy, I swear.” Cue an onslaught of drunken grumbling which tugged a minuscule, bitter smile from his previously emotionless facade. 

Jōnin eh?

They were soon joined by the rest of their rag-tag group of chunin, amidst a round of good cheer and generously poured sake - it was a wonder they didn’t break anything. It didn’t take long for Inoichi to grab the lone bottle of sake in front of them and climb up on the table, brandishing the ceramic like a trophy. 

“To Konoha!” Came a rousing yell from the Yamanaka, one that invited the rest of the tavern occupants to raise their cups for the toast, “May the will of fire keep burning forever!” 

This prompted another round of boisterous cheers and the occasional hooting. Minato raised his cup too, dim light painting blue orbs in an dull, amber hue, as they stared listlessly ahead. 

Here’s to you, sensei. I hope you’re well. 

P.s. I follow this timeline. 

[hyperfixation-station-1234]

Peace Talks

From Slow Burn 

More Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Sorry one took so long! I just started a second job and it’s been an adjustment. I’ll try and get the next one out soon! Thanks for all the love everyone<3

“Elain, you don’t have to come,” Feyre was looking at her like she was about to break.

Elain smiled at her sister, “I want to be there and see this through. I’ve been involved from the beginning and I won’t shrink away from my part in this.”

Of course, she didn’t have to go to the peace negotiations between Fae and Humans. Feyre, Rhys, and Nesta were the only three from the Night Court that were truly needed. Yet, Elain couldn’t shake the feeling that it was crucial she went. And it wasn’t as if she was the only other extra from the Night Court. It was a given that Mor, Cassian, and Azriel would go as well. Even if Amren wasn’t currently vacationing in the Summer Court she doubted she would’ve been accompanying the party.

It was because of Graysen and Lucien, that Feyre was worried for her. The fall out of her engagement with Graysen was… difficult to think about. The future she envisioned with him was a fairy tale. Her hopes had been strangled lifeless by his cold indifference to her and his harsh judgement of not only her, but her loved ones. She hadd let herself fall deep, deep, deep into a pit of nothing. She was numb, and that useless yearning for a life that could never happen had gotten her kidnapped and had put Feyre and Azriel in danger.

Lucien was an entirely different story. The possibilities of a future with Lucien were always present. Yet, even with the bond, that physical link she could feel, there was something missing. Elain couldn’t put her finger on it. It wasn’t that he repulsed her or that he wasn’t a good person. She had grown to know him, and she enjoyed his company. But her body was telling her that the bond was good while her heart and mind weren’t agreeing. She knew Rhys had told her mating bonds were supposed to be for equals. While she was just learning of her abilities and the power she had been given, in mind and in spirit she didn’t think she could give him what he needed. And she didn’t believe he could give her what she needed, either. She would have to do something about it. Something soon.

Elain, however, would not let either of these things intimidate her. She was free and she was strong. It was she who had helped save this world, she who could see the future, and she who had brought the King of Hybern to his knees. Hers would not bend to anyone’s will but her own from now on.

When Feyre continued to stare at her like she was about to fall apart she blurted out, “Where you all go, I’ll go. Who knows, maybe I’ll be of some use in the negotiations. I was human once, too. Now, will you help me find a dress?” Feyre smiled, but the worry didn’t leave her eyes. Elain knew she couldn’t convince her sister she would be fine, not until she could show her she was.

Elain still had no idea where any of her clothes came from. She suspected Cerridwen and Nuala. They were a perfect mix of the colors and softness she loved before with the daring cuts and elegance of her new life at the Night Court. Feyre helped her choose a dress of nude chiffon with sleeves ending just above her wrists. It was embroidered with detailed birds and trees in dark blue and bold black and flowers in soft blues, pinks, and yellows. Her hair was left loose and free, save the small portion Nesta had braided earlier and pinned in a small crown a top her head. Feyre approved, dressed in her own gown of glittering blue black and a crown of sparkling diamonds in the form of stars and moons.

They descended the stairs to the first floor. Rhys was the first she saw. His eyes glued only to his High Lady, his love. Elain could only feel happiness warm her body when she saw such love for her sister. Love she deserved and had fought for. No words were exchanged and she knew they were having a conversation the rest of them couldn’t hear. Feeling like a voyeur she moved her attention to the others.

Like always, Azriel was the first she sought out. His face was unreadable while his shadows swirled furiously. His eyes trailed her while she walked towards him, settling by his side. She let her eyes trail him right back. He was dressed in his Illyrian leathers as usual, with Truthteller ever present at his side. His hair just brushing his collar, his eyes blazing more gold than hazel.

As she reached his side, she teased, “Why did I have to wear something so nice while you get to go in standard attire?”

He smiled knowingly. It wasn't a secret from anyone that Elain loved to wear pretty dresses.

He looked down at her and smiled, “You look,” she blushed when his eyes roamed over her again, “… very beautiful, Elain.”

Just as she was about to say thank you, Rhys called to Azriel, who was to arrive first. Even in times of peace, Azriel had explained to her once, it was still necessary to take precautions. She felt his hand settle once the small of her back, before he started moving away from her. Quickly, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly, a silent reminder to be careful. She had gotten into the habit of doing so when she knew he was leaving for a mission. He smiled at her over his shoulder before he vanished into shadows.

Not even a minute later, Rhys pulled Elain into his side with Feyre on his other. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again she was stepping onto her family’s estate in the human realm. She felt Rhys give her shoulder a quick squeeze and stepped out from his side, letting her sister and her mate to be the first to walk into the meeting. Mor followed closely behind. She took in the replica of her their old mansion before her. She felt Azriel sidle up to her side. Without looking, she knew his arm was out and ready, so she took it.

It was decided that the Archeron property would be the meeting location of all further negotiations between the Fae and the Humans. Nesta had seen to the rebuilding of the home. She and Cassian had worked tirelessly to restore the marbled black and white floors, the hearths, the walls. As they entered the house her eyes soaked in the mural of Prythian that Feyre had painted on the wall. They had converted from the dining room into a larger area to accommodate meetings such as these. It was the first time she’d seen the building finished.

Only now it didn’t quite feel like home anymore. It didn’t hold the same weight in her heart it once did. Instead of making her sad, it made her yearn for the townhouse, the open gardens, and the salty breeze wafting from the Sidra.

Around the large, round table constructed in the middle sat Kallias, Vivian, and Thesan. Apparently, it was habit for them to always be the early arrivals. When the other lords and their entourage started to enter the room one after another, doubt started to creep into her mind. Maybe coming wasn’t such a good idea. What good could she really provide for this meeting? She hadn’t realized that she had been gripping Azriel’s arm so hard until his other hand smoothed over hers clutching onto his arm bracer. She felt Azriel lean toward her and whisper, “You belong here, if not more than most the people in this room, El. Don’t let them intimidate you.” Slowly the tension started to leave her shoulders. When she looked up at his face, his hazel eyes were filled with certainty and his shadows only a wisp around his ear, she drew the confidence he shared with her into her soul. She wondered if that was what he always told himself when he was forced to be around the Illyrian camps as Azriel pulled a chair out for her next to Nesta.

In the door way, she saw a familiar flash of red hair and the russet gold eye of Lucien. A lot had happened since he found out he was Helion's son. He had left to learn what he could of his unknown talents. Apparently curse breaking was in his blood as well as fire. And instead of coming back to the Night Court, he left for Vassa’s court. He had told Feyre before he left that he owed it to her to try and help free her from her curse. He looked good. And happy. He inclined his head toward her, giving a soft smile, which she returned.

Even though she was starting to embrace her life as High Fae, there were still members of the Prythian Courts that she would avoid given the chance. All of whom were currently in this room. Tamlin, and any male from the Autumn Court made her wary, until she had the mind to remember the male standing directly behind her, not to mention any of the members of the Night Court were there with her. And even she could hold her own in a sparring match. She wasn’t as good as the rest of them yet, but she had time. She knew she was improving.

When the humans arrived, she found it wasn’t entirely too difficult to see Graysen among them, dressed in a full suit of armor like he was going to war instead of a peace talk. Elain had never been one for displays of disapproval, yet she had the extreme urge to roll her eyes. She looked back at Azriel and saw him smirking, like he knew she thought the extreme measures Graysen and his father took weren’t only ridiculous, but showed a blatant lack of effort to put forward into trusting the Fae. He didn’t even look at any of them. Peace talks, indeed.

Graysen appeared different than when we last saw him at the end of the Battle against the King of Hybern. That warm spark she remembered in his eyes wasn’t there. She tried to see him as a man she once loved and found it difficult. It had been weeks since she had taken off the ring he had given her. She had tossed it in a drawer, not quite sure what to do with it. She certainly wasn't giving it back to him.

She felt rather than heard Azriel moving closer to the back of her chair. The eyes of her sisters were trained on her and she smiled at them both. She was okay. With her family surrounding her, she could only be okay.

The meeting started by speaking of the threat of not only the human kingdoms on the continent, but of the Fae kingdoms across the sea. The death of the King of Hybern had left his kingdom open for siege. Azriel had spoken quietly in the meeting with the inner circle of their movement. They were getting ready for something big. Most likely, they were going to attempt to take Hybern. The only thing separating these kingdoms from Hybern was Prythian. And Prythian needed a chance to stand on solid ground if they were to oppose what was coming.

The next discussion was on the topic of the human refugees that were still staying in the Courts. Would they stay if they wished? Would they be forced out of the kingdoms that they had been staying in for months, only to go back to a desolated village they once called home? Surprisingly, Tamlin was the first to announce his borders would be open for the humans to cross into and live. Of course, the Summer and the Night Court were also willing to open their borders.

The trouble came when the issue of progress of reconstruction in the Human Realm.

Nesta, being the emissary from the Night Court to the human realm, was justified in asking just how much progress had been made.

Sir Nolan was not forthcoming. Instead he sneered, “Why do you want to know? If you deem us weak, will you take our land as well?”

Nesta didn’t even react, but the air in the room buzzed Elain saw a flicker of red and turned to see Cassian’s hand tighten on the back of Nesta’s chair.

Straightening her back and lifting her chin. Elain lifted her voice, trying to placate him, “She was only asking because we can help. There are plenty of people, Human and Fae, willing to be put to work. More hands are better than less. Working together can only be a positive thing for us all, especially with what the future holds.”

Feyre, sitting on her opposite side reached down and squeezed her knee. Elain couldn’t tell if it was in approval or pity. Because the next words that were spoken to her weren’t nice. They were vicious.

It wasn’t Lord Nolan who said them, but Graysen.

“How are you going to do that? Sleep with and promise yourself to a male from every Court and Realm in Prythian? You’ve a good start with a Lord’s son as a mate and a male from the Night Court.”

To her credit, Elain knew her face was just as pleasant as before the comment. Even though it was embarrassing and humiliating, she kept her head high. She didn’t cower like she would have previously. In the next second, she heard Lucien growl from across the table, then she felt utter darkness leaking into the air around the room. Enormous pressure built. She didn’t have to turn around to know Azriel’s eyes were blazing gold and his syphons were shining boldly. Even as the room darkened, Elain didn’t feel uncomfortable or scared. No, as the blood drained from Graysen and his father’s faces, she only felt the shadows support and give her strength. Quietly, dangerously Azriel said, “Speak to her like that again and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out and nail it to the table.”

Those words were so at odd with anything she’d ever heard him say. Azriel had always been kind and steadfast, she’d rarely seen him lose his temper. This version of him was terrifying, but not to her. It made her stomach flutter, not drop with fear. The wooden chair behind her groaned under the pressure of his tightening hands. She was always comfortable in his darkness and to show him she reached her hand back and touched his leg. The muscles of his thigh clenched and stretched out under her fingers. Then, in the next heartbeat his shadows receded. The room was clear again and the pressure had subsided. Azriel’s fingers interlaced with her own, his fingertips felt icy where hers felt warm and the heat from her hand quickly transferred to his.

Graysen voice quaked, “You can’t do that. There’s a treaty that protects anyone in this room.”

Instead of responding, Azriel’s gaze locked onto Graysen across the table. She heard a throat clear and pulled her head toward the man standing in the corner behind Vassa. Jurian scowled at Graysen, “Boy, he doesn’t give a shit about the treaty. Frankly none of us do. I certainly wouldn’t stop him.”

Lucien’s smile had turned wicked, “He’ll take your tongue, but I’ll find something else to take from you.” Elain hoped he was saying that out of fondness and not because he felt he had to.

Her hand was no longer holding Azriel’s but wisps of his shadows lingered, intertwined with her fingers. Elain softly spoke, keeping her voice from shaking, “The war may be over for now, but there are still people hurting, who need to restore their lives. The quickest way to getting Prythian to prosper is restoration, and the quickest way to restore is to help one another. One doesn’t have to see the future to know the outcome if we don’t come to each other’s aid.”

An elderly human lord, who she did not recognize, nodded his head, “My people could very well use the help of the famous Archeron sisters. We would be in your debt.”

Smiling softly, Elain inclined her head to the lord, as did Nesta and Feyre. The Night Court may be the farthest from the human realm, but Elain knew that no effort would be spared on their part to restore Prythian again. And just so, two more lords accepted the invitation to share in the restoration. Kallias, Tarquin, Rhysand, and even Tamlin had all agreed to the exchanging help with human lords. Thesan and Helion didn’t have much damage so the exchange wasn’t necessary on their parts. Elain figured Beron didn’t agree based on principal of needing to be difficult.

When all topics were exhausted at the end of the meeting, few things were truly solved. Yet, there was progress in some areas. Centuries of mistrust and prejudices cannot be undone in a day. But Elain had hope for what was to come for Prythian. Even in the face of possible danger, they could all bring real peace to their world.

When the meeting was over, Elain walked out of the room arm and arm with Feyre. Sometimes it was strange to imagine that she was older than her sister. Feyre had always been an old soul. Elain had certainly never acted like it she was older. But now they had time to mend what had been strained between all three of them. She felt Rhys’ long arm drape around them both and settle over her head.

“Well done, Elain,” he told her. She saw Feyre’s lips tip up in a smirk. In the next second Rhys took her arm and spun her away and into Azriel’s side standing off to the right. Her hands landed on his chest and his hands came up to hold her elbows.

Azriel spoke quietly so that only she could hear, “It a good thing you’re naturally graceful.”

“I know, isn’t it?” Most people would have guessed she was just responding, but she knew Azriel could hear the dry sass in the voice of her response. He was the only one who could recognize it.

“And very humble,” he nodded to her solemnly, yet his eyes twinkled with humor.

And then standing in the foyer of her old home she saw it.

The vision came so abruptly, she froze. She was lying on a chaise in the garden, but she wasn’t alone. Tan and toned arms were wrapped around her waist. Those arms could have belonged to many people. But not those hands. They were scarred and they were beautiful, holding her tightly against the body attached to them. Large wings were shading her from the midday sun. His voice whispered into her hair, “Go back to sleep, Sunshine. I’ve got you.” In the vision, she turned to stare into the eyes of the male laying behind her.

Instead she found herself in the present moment, with the same man. And Elain wasn’t scared. She had known for some time what her heart yearned for. Who it yearned for. But it wasn’t the right time. Not when she hadn’t talked to Lucien. And certainly, not when she didn’t know if his feelings were the same as hers yet.

Azriel eyes darted to and fro between hers, “A vision?”

She could only breathe, “Yes.”

Azriel’s gaze turned inquisitive, “Is it something I should know?”

“No, not yet.”

His face softened and he nodded. She loved that he trusted her. She knew her visions could provide a useful boon to the Spymaster of the Night Court, but she knew he asked because he also cared. He knew what it was like to hear voices, to see strange things that weren’t there.

She must have been staring at him in a weird way because he quirked an eyebrow at her, “What’s wrong with my face?’

Elain laughed, and patted his cheek, “Absolutely nothing. It’s perfectly handsome. Rhys has a contender for best looking.

Of in the distance, I heard that, was shouted by their most illustrious High Lord.

Chuckling he extended his arm to her, yet again. Ever chivalrous.

There were many things needed to be done. Many important discussions needed to be had. Not today, but soon.

Elain clasped his arm between her hands as they disappeared.

[amphxtrite]

hi! i am obsessed with your writing and you’re so insanely talented. may i please request a golden era male harry potter ship?

my name is autumn, i’m a sagittarius, a proud hufflepuff with a few slytherin traits, i am 5’0, mainly asian, and wear glasses. i also have dark brown shoulder length layered hair with curtain bangs, and dark brown eyes. my hobbies include shopping for clothes/accessories both in person and online, playing intense rounds of board or card games with friends/family, listening to music, (my fav artists are arctic monkeys, the neighborhood, ari, billie, clairo, melanie martinez, & mother mother) watching random tik toks/movies, drawing/painting, and sometimes, baking. (mainly those cute aesthetic cakes on pinterest) however, i mainly do have a love for fashion, makeup, (i absolutely love wearing eyeliner, it makes me 10x more attractive/confident) and photography, and would describe my style as a mix of y2k and indie. i like to think i’m a very thoughtful/caring person, and i love making people laugh with my lowkey weird or sometimes satcastic/dark sense of humor. i’d also describe myself as quite reserved/introverted as i usually find myself in my room each day not really doing much expect for watching tik toks, reading wattpad/tumblr, and mentally crying about how men these days aren’t like my fictional character crushes, but that might also be because of my lack of friends. oops. some of my downfalls include always keeping my feelings to myself, having an endless amount of insecurities, and having social anxiety. if i were to ever choose a dream date i’d def pick either a super cute picnic at the park or a classic drive in movie. i really am a sucker for soft boys or just any man that will basically do anything if it means being my side for life.

anyways i hope that’s enough info for you, love. i’m really just your average lowkey depressed teen who wants to marry robert pattinson, but thank you so much for doing this and congratulations on 200 followers. your imagines and detailed writings have literally brightened my entire year. i mean seriously, i find myself rereading your fics on the daily because they’re just that good. <3

First off, thank you so much! It means a lot to me that you like my writing🥺🤍

I ship you with...

Cedric Diggory.

how you meet

Cedric was taking a walk through the fields when he notices a short girl with dark hair crouched by a tree taking photos with a muggle camera. He pauses for a moment as you stand up and gaze at your camera with a smile. He finds himself wandering closer as you continue to flip through your photographs. Cedric notices your glasses begin to slide down the bridge of your nose and without thinking he rushes over the meter between you and gently pushes your glasses up again.

Your face snaps up and you meet eye to eye with a pair of silver orbs.

“Sorry, where are my manners. I’m Cedric Diggory.” The hufflepuff quickly takes a step back and runs his fingers through his hair, a habit he’d acquired when he was nervous.

“Oh it’s no trouble, I’m Autumn.” You smile.

Cedric finds himself at a loss for words being this close to you. Your smile was so warm and your eyes were so bright and beautiful.

“Cedric? Are you alright?” You smirk, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

“Yes, of course! Could I see your pictures?” He questions, taking a step closer to you.

“Sure, they’re not that good though.” You sigh as you nervously extend you camera to Cedric.

The hufflepuff’s face lights up when he sees the photos, each one had a strange light to it that Cedric adored. “These are beautiful! How do you take shots like this?”

You smile and spend the rest of the afternoon helping Cedric with his shots, learning more about the brunette and giggling at his adorable excitement with every photo he took.

“C-can we do this again sometime?” He stammers as your eyes lift to meet his.

“Of course Ced, I’ll bring some other stuff we can do too!” You respond happily.

Cedric falls in love with photography after that and adores taking pictures of you.

He spends his evening with you in the hufflepuff common room playing board and card games.

“I win again Diggory.”

“Wait just one more round, please I wasn’t ready!”

He loves brushing your curtain bangs out of your face, and sometimes he’ll twirl them around his finger like a kid.

He finds your eyeliner stunning.

“Autumn?”

“Yeah Ced, what’s up?”

“Can you do that eyeliner thing on me?”

You practically jump for joy and rush to Cedric, pulling him onto a chair before bolting off to grab your makeup.

Cedric looks at himself in the mirror for a long time after that, before leaning over and hugging you.

He tries his best to help you feel confident. Reminding you everyday how gorgeous you are and telling you how perfect you are.

He loves your humour and finds himself hopping onto the dark humour train, though he’s not that good at it.

He first asks you on a date by asking you to dress him in your style and then taking you on a shopping spree at Hogsmeade. You have a blast picking out pieces for Cedric and yourself before stopping at The Three Broomsticks for some rest and a drink.

After your first date Cedric builds up the courage to finally ask you to be his so he sets up a picnic in the spot on the field where he first met you. Bringing out food, drinks and little lights. He ties a blindfold around your head and leads you out.

He holds your glasses in his hands and when you finally get there he removes the blindfold and pushes your glasses back up your face just like he did when you first met.

You enjoy the picnic and towards the end he pulls a deck of card from his pocket. He hands them to you and you immediately open them to find he’s drawn over the first few.

‘Autumn you’re the most amazing girl i’ve ever met.’ was scrawled on the first

‘You make me so happy and everyday is so much fun with you.’ on the second

‘I never would have found my love for photography and trying new things if it wasn’t for you.’ on the third

‘be my girlfriend?’

Cedric looks to you with butterflies swarming his stomach as you look to him with tears in your eyes.

“You owe me another deck of cards.” You state with a laugh before engulfing the brunette in a hug and whispering yes over and over again.

Cedric chuckles at your comment, and presses kisses on your temple as you cuddle closer to him.

You spend the rest of the evening in each other’s arms as you talk about your favourite music artist in the muggle world.

“So you’ve never heard of Melanie Martinez before? Billie Eilish? Arctic Monkeys? Seriously Ced when we get back I have to show you them.

“Yes, yes of course darling.” He sighs with a smile as you continue to go on about how much Cedric was missing.

He finds himself entranced by your lips, how they moved and how beautiful they were. He unconsciously leans forwards and captures them in a kiss, smiling into your lips as he holds you there in his arms.

Hope you liked this love! Thank you again for your love and support it means the world to me<3

[readbookywooks]

As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s “Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming.”

“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”

“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”

“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.”

“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, stepping forward and shaking him by the hand. “My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.”

“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian, with a funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to her club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together,–three duets, I believe. I don’t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”

“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people.”

“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian, laughing.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth’s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. He was made to be worshipped.

“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray,–far too charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case.

Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last [13] remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”

Lord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he asked.

“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods; and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy.”

“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. But I certainly will not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.”

Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”

Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.–Good-by, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”

“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry goes I shall go too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.”

“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”

“But what about my man at the Orleans?”

Hallward laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry.–And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the exception of myself.”

Dorian stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Hallward. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral,–immoral from the scientific point of view.”

“Why?”

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly,–that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s [14] self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,–these are the two things that govern us. And yet–”

“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,” said Hallward, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.

“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,–I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,– to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame–”

“Stop!” murmured Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think.”

For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to him–words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them–had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [15] They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?

Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.

“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. “I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted,–the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he says.”

“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason I don’t think I believe anything he has told me.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is horridly hot in the studio.–Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.”

“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”

Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured. “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.

[16] “Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of life,– to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.

“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself become sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you.”

“What does it matter?” cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.

“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”

“Why?”

“Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.”

“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”

“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so?

“You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius,–is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t smile.

“People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

“Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which really to live. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left [17] for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.

“Realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar, which are the aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.

“A new hedonism,–that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.

“The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, what you really might be. There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last,–such a little time.

“The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.

Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled.

“I am waiting,” cried Hallward. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”

They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and- white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing.

“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.

“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”

[18] “Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour, Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and smiling. “It is quite finished,” he cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said.–"Mr. Gray, come and look at yourself.”

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. “Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

“Quite finished,” said Hallward. “And you have sat splendidly to- day. I am awfully obliged to you.”

“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless, and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth.

[19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad’s silence, and not understanding what it meant.

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.”

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“Whose property is it?”

“Dorian’s, of course.”

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this–for this–I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!”

“You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on you.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry.”

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”

Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I will kill myself.”

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it was only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day,–mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as if he was praying.

“This is your doing, Harry,” said Hallward, bitterly.

[20] “My doing?”

“Yes, yours, and you know it.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray,– that is all,” he answered.

“It is not.”

“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”

“You should have gone away when I asked you.”

“I stayed when you asked me.”

“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and color? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob he leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said Hallward, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you would.”

“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself, I feel that.”

“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Tea is the only simple pleasure left to us.”

“I don’t like simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “And I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I do.”

“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray. “And I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.”

“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don’t really mind being called a boy.”

“I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry.”

“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”

There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea- tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.

“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor.”

“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward. “And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”

“Yes,” answered Lord Henry, dreamily, “the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color- element left in modern life.”

“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”

“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”

“Before either.”

“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the lad.

“Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won’t you?”

“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”

“I should like that awfully.”

Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. “I will stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.

“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. “Am I really like that?”

“Yes; you are just like that.”

“How wonderful, Basil!”

“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," said Hallward. “That is something.”

“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” murmured Lord Henry.

“And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”

“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and dine with me.”

“I can’t, really.”

“Why?”

“Because I have promised Lord Henry to go with him.”

“He won’t like you better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”

Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.

“I entreat you.”

The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.

[22] “I must go, Basil,” he answered.

“Very well,” said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.”

“Certainly.”

“You won’t forget?”

“No, of course not.”

“And . . . Harry!”

“Yes, Basil?”

“Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning.”

“I have forgotten it.”

“I trust you.”

“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing.–"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.– Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”

As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.