After dinner...

Corey had overheard a few older Hogwartians at breakfast talking about painting a "Valentines" theme mural on the sixth floor corridor walls. He had never been to that part of the foreign castle before because he didn't take Arithmancy and he didn't know what other reason one would be there.

But the Beauxbatons boy's ears always perked up at the mention of art related projects, even if he didn't consider himself to be particularly talented. He mostly enjoyed drawing nature and portraits. And he rarely worked with magical mediums, but since arriving for the Tournament, he was pleased to discover that the school had an Art Appreciation Society and artists regularly shared their interests and talents.

Corey entered the empty corridor and considered that he had been mistaken about what he had overheard. But since he had made the trek, he figured he might as well make use of it.

Heading over to a corner with shadows, he sat down and shrugged off the worn out knapsack that stored his artistic materials. He rummaged inside and pulled out some of his charcoals and began to draw, pausing every so often to blend with his fingertips.

Hearing a sound behind him, he looked up and squinted into the shadows. "Who's there?"

Evelyn Grimlish wasn't good at joining clubs. She usually only made it to about one meeting of the art club per year, if that, before recalling the reason she'd never joined up properly in the past. When she couldn't be at home throwing on her wheel, she didn't like to be at all formal about her artistic inclinations. She didn't want to have to show up to a specific place at a specific time and be creative, because she simply didn't believe creativity worked that way, and she didn't want to force it. If she wanted to draw all over her arms with ink until she was covered with two full sleeves of runny tattoos, she'd do it when she pleased. If she wanted to go outside during a rainstorm and spin in circles until her dress was heavy and saturated and she couldn't walk a straight line, she'd do that. And if she wanted to get some friends together to go wild and paint a wall in pinks and reds on the Friday before Valentine's weekend then she didn't want to do it within the confines of any club. She was a member of the renegade art club, in which everybody was the president and the only rule was that there were no rules. It was much more her style.

The dress she wore was already covered with proof of her varied artistic inclinations – a dark, spidery ink splotch near the hem, faded clay stains near the skirt, and a few threadbare spots by the knees from when she'd knelt on the ground. She was barefoot, which she preferred, her hair pulled back in a long and sloppy braid that fell down her back like a vine left to grow out of control. She had her knapsack on her back, as always, and her pots of paint in her arms. She figured they'd use magic, too, but there was something about getting paint under her fingernails that made her want to play with the real thing. It may have been hard to tell, since her affect was a stoney and stoic as ever, but Evie was absolutely purring. Even if nobody else showed up, she planned to play tonight. The slightest of skips in her step was enough to betray her expression. She was thrilled for this. She assumed she'd be the first one there, and was surprised to hear a voice coming from the shadows.

”Who's there?”

“It's Evelyn,” she responded, her soft voice sounding loud in the dank and mostly empty corridor. She had to take a few steps closer before she could see who it was that had called out. She knew it wasn't Elijah, and it definitely wasn't Avalon – which left, well... anyone, really. This little shindig had an open invitation. A few more barefoot steps on the chilly stone and she was able to see him clearly. She recognized him, but not for any good reason. He was a champion from one of the other schools, who'd participated in that wretched tournament at least once already. Normally she would have flashed him one of her too brief but genuine smiles, but she couldn't force it. She knew nothing about him except that he'd participated, and while that wasn't enough to vilify him, it definitely didn't immediately endear him to her.

“Hello,” she spoke, setting her paints and her bookbag down near the wall. “Are you going to paint with us?” He appeared to be working on something of an artistic nature, which made her think he'd probably been invited by someone else involved in this spontaneous plot. She didn't plan to turn him away.

Painting. Gracie was good at a lot of things– Quidditch and Transfiguration naming only but a few –but art - any kind of art, really - was not one of them. She didn't know if it was because of the decided lack of movement she so often thrived on, or because the media seemed to include anything but words (which, next to hexes and her fists, was the only way she had to convey anything, short of saying it flat out), but the end was still the same: Gracie Slant was probably the least artistically-inclined person one would ever meet.

And yet… Talentless though she was, annoying curiosity persisted still, which was why, after dinner (and she had kissed some cheeks and hugged some necks in a deliberately irritating manner), she was here, an overly large, faded shirt tugged over her uniform and a knapsack full of hastily bought materials in hand. (And Roth would be there, wouldn’t he?) Her footsteps light and quiet, Gracie drew close to what sounded like Evelyn Grimlish and… someone else?

Huh. Whatever.

Casting the… Beauxbatons guy a curious look – and her brows rising slightly in recognition, she’d recognize the Shirtless Champ anywhere – Gracie approached the Ravenclaw, hitching her bag’s strap even higher. “Grimlish, hey. Am I late?” Her gaze darted toward Corey again, before firmly settling on Evelyn with a small, friendly grin.

Corey peered through the shadows as a Hogwart's student approached and he smirked as he took in her attire. She certainly seemed to fit the part of an artist, complete with her own set of quirks. He had come to realize that he liked the people who had all sorts of quirks. There weren't so many of them among the student body of Beauxbatons. If you stood out or were different, that was seen as a bad thing.

Corey held up his hand that held one of his charcoles and gave a half wave to the girl named Evelyn. "C'est jolie." Then he quickly translated it into English, as he often did when realizing his impulsive comments about various things were often incoherent to someone who might not speak his language.

That done, he also introduced himself. "I'm Corey. And I don't paint much, but I draw well enough. Maybe I can sketch and you can paint over them with what you have?" Corey pointed to his own meager supplies consisting primarily of chalk pastels and charcoles. Her items seemed much more intense.

Corey looked up when someone else joined them. Another dark haired Hogwart's student. He caught her curious glances and was pretty sure that she was aware of who he was. He had seen those looks plenty of times since the first task -- the ones from female students that suggested they were seeing him as visions in their minds without his shirt on.

Feeling suddenly self conscious (and desperately hoping for other male students to arrive to hopefully absorb some of that particular kind of attention), the Beauxbatons boy looked away as the two other girls conversed. He turned his attention to what he was drawing on the wall, an intricately detailed rose from memory. With it drawn, he picked up a the red and pink chalk pastels and began to create some definition on the petals.

Back when she was quite small, Evelyn had gone through a phase during which she insisted, again and again, that she wasn't an artist. It had been quite baffling, seeing as she loved drawing clever pictures with her crayons and her felts, and had never had any reservations about shoving her hands into some clay and spending entire afternoons working it. She was absolutely adamant that she wasn't an artist, however, no matter how many rocks from the garden she decorated or how many little handmade clay figures she sculpted for her little imaginary games. It turned out that, before she'd come to live in England, there had been a boy in her class at school who was an artist. She knew that he was an artist because the teacher said so, over and over again. The boy was certainly skilled for a child, but his very existence seemed to outshine everyone else's when it came to drawings or art projects. Every time he was called an artist and his work was held up as a shining example, Evelyn became firmer in her belief that she wasn't an artist herself. Even now, years and years later, she tended to resist the title. Artists were special. Evelyn, on the other hand, just loved making things, and tended to dirty every dress she owned in the process. She had no idea that the first thing foreign strangers thought when they looked at her was 'she must be an artist.' Perhaps she looked like one, but she didn't feel like one.

”C'est jolie.” 

She knew what he'd said before he'd translated it, and the sweet remark had earned him one of her quick-as-a-wink smiles, which lasted only long enough for him to see it before every trace of it was gone. ”Merci,” she responded softly, the word emerging quite crisply considering she didn't have the opportunity to speak French very often while at school. Having originally grown up in Canada, and then having been raised and educated in England by her French grandmother and language loving grandfather, it had been one of the first foreign tongues she'd picked up, and one of the few languages other than English that she spoke with truly decent fluency. It was comforting, in a way, being around so many others who spoke and understood French. Sometimes it felt like a private language, spoken exclusively by people who loved her. Strangely, being surrounded by so many French speakers this school year hadn't made the language any less special – it just made her feel a bit warmer and fuzzier on a regular basis. ”Je peux aussi parler français,” she admitted, ”Mais l'anglais serait preferable.”

“I don't draw very well, but I enjoy it very much, so I do it anyway,” she explained to the French wizard as she eyed his box of chalks. They were far more enticing to her than her own supplies were. She liked painting, of course, but she was handier at painting objects than she was at painting or drawing images of objects, preferring color and texture and glazes to the rendering of images. Something about those chalks was intrinsically enticing to her, however – the texture, maybe, or the way she could have blended them with her fingertips. She could imagine having powder trapped beneath her finger nails, or covering her frock with a layer of rainbow colored dust as she worked with them. She stared at them longingly, the way a child might look upon a box of chocolates that wasn't theirs to eat.

”Grimlish, hey. Am I late?”

“You aren't late,” she spoke, pulling her eyes away from Corey's supplies as she turned to face Gracie. “I don't believe we ever decided on a meeting time, so nobody can be late, or early,” she explained, her attention once again diverted by the delicious sound of those chalks gliding over stone – just how she'd imagined it might sound. She turned her head to see the boy's rose, which was lovely, and had sprung up so quickly that its presence surprised her, even having heard his pastels grinding away against the textured walls. ”C'est jolie,” she said, borrowing his words from earlier, another ephemeral smile appearing and then vanishing from her lips.

“I suppose that means we can begin, and we can come and go as we please,” she said, turning back to Gracie. This may have been her idea, but she had no illusions about being “in charge”. She was a participant, just like everybody else, and they could make of this evening whatever they wished. Sprightly, she walked to sit on the floor by Corey. “Could you do a butterfly?” she asked as she took a seat upon her knees, watching as he filled in his rose.

For simple folk, Avalon's parents spoiled him, and as an only child it came with the territory. He appreciated them, unlike some spoiled brats Theo Witman, and cherished their affection. Yet, he couldn't help but feel sometime they went overboard with the art supplies as every month or so a new package arrived from his father. It was his way of expressing himself, and sometimes his parents reminded him of that a bit too much. His father an iron worker, his mother a hippy, being an artist wasn't something he could avoid even if he did try, but when it came to traditional methods Avalon couldn't say he was interest to say the least. Often he melted the wax colors, used their texture to create depth to his paintings, he scribbled his anger out in red splotches, or his sadness in bits of rain; but they never made any sense, his bits of canvas, at least to anyone else other than his own internal voice.

Avalon left his robes behind, dressed in what he pleased it looked right out of the streets of London, the muggle world that may hardly had the chance to know. His hair fell over his brow, his bag crossed over his shoulder, and his hands were buried deep in his pockets as he came upon the group as silent as ever. It was a strange collection, Evelyn, Slant, and that Beauxbaton boy. Evelyn, he knew would be here, Corey as well, but upon second though he furrowed his brow in wonderment at what in the world Gracie was doing with a a bunch of artists. The way she seemed to smile at Evelyn made his defenses go up. He knew that Evelyn didn't have the best reputation around their class, and he wouldn't put it past the Slytherin girl to play into that to gain herself a few laughs at Evie's expense. However, upon further inspection and Gracie's oversized shirt over her uniform (that was hot as hell on her) Avalon retracted his early damnation.

The Ravenclaw Chaser did his best to appear simply as part of the stone, quiet yet unyielding, he came around the backside of the group to put out his cigarette, and exhaled the smoke while it burned in his lungs. Avalon put his bag down by the window and turned back come up behind Evelyn in an excuse to get a better look at Ole' Gracie Slant and her stained self. Undone. Even her hair? Ah. He could use this sudden spur of desire to break through to his artists block, and actually paint something worth a damn for once.

She didn’t do art. 

But, there had been talk about some kind of Valentine’s Day thing happening on the sixth floor, and she couldn’t miss out.  She’d try to covertly mention it to others at the lunch tables, but everyone seemed to be keeping some kind of big secret around it. 

The desire to not be out past curfew and break rules was neck-and-neck with her desire to know what was going on.  After all, Jordyn had always been a fan of secrets, and knowledge.  Of course, as of a couple of months ago,  she would have been heading to the sixth floor in order to get a few unknowing students into detention. 

The thought was sad: she missed that power. 

Biting her lip, she continued upward, and finally reached the floor.  She’d decided on flat shoes, fortunately, and ones that made little noise.  She didn’t really plan on adding to any artistic ventures, but she could still go.  After all, she was pristine and clean and paint and anything else would muss everything up. 

She approached slowly, taking in the few students who were already present – including one of the Beauxbaton’s boys (she hadn’t anticipated any foreign students), two Ravenclaws, and… she squinted her eyes as she got closer – was that, Gracie?! 

Trotting up a little faster, Jordyn’s breathing hadn’t quite stopped being so labored and she stopped, huffing and puffing just a little bit.   She glanced at the wall – it appeared they’d already started painting, and it made her stomach twist a little bit.

This was a bad idea.  If they got caught: goodbye, Head Girl.  Jordyn licked her lips and finally, her breathing started to slow.  “So, it really was art people were talking about,” she commented with a half-smile (mostly nerves forcing her muscles to twitch).  “I wasn’t sure – it seemed so hush-hush…”   

She blinked though, and her eyes went wide, “Don’t worry though – I won’t tell, I swear” she raised her hand, as though she was swearing at a government hearing, and looked from person to person, and then the wall.  She figured her reputation from her former life wouldn’t have gone away completely and she didn’t really need one of her only opportunities for socialization in quite some time ruined on its account. 

When Walton had heard about the mural plans, he'd been wary. Though they weren't hurting anything, he wasn't sure- as Head Boy- whether he should try to put a stop to it or not. But Corey assured Walton that the headmistress had approved the plan, and Walton had double checked for himself, so he let his worries go by the wayside.[1] Doing a painting wasn't hurting anyone, after all, and with magic almost anything could be easily cleaned up.

After dinner, he'd changed into something comfortable- old, worn out bluejeans and a comfortable t-shirt, stuff he didn't mind getting dirty- and headed up to the sixth floor. Walton hoped his presence wouldn't ruin anybody's fun. He had noticed since becoming Head Boy that people tended to get quiet or be less inclined to have fun around him. He didn't quite understand why. He wasn't out to get people into trouble for trivial things. That's not what being Head Boy was about, and he understood that. But then again, he'd never been a prefect, so maybe that was why people couldn't grasp that fact. They hadn't really encountered him as an authority figure yet.

When Walt finally found the group, he tossed them a bright smile and nodded his head in greeting. Hopefully they wouldn't scatter at the site of him. "Gaubert," he greeted the Beauxbatons boy, then took in the group around him. Evelyn, Gracie, Avalon, Jordyn... Hm. Nobody from his house, or from Hufflepuff, which surprised him a little. This seemed like something they would like... Then again, Ravenclaw did tend to be more artistic in his experiences.

He grinned when Jordyn, wide eyed, assured she wouldn't tattle on anyone. Walton nudged her, and gave a friendly wink. "No worries, Dimbleby, McGonagall already gave the okay for it..." Then he turned his attentions back to the Beauxbatons boy. "Those are non-permanent, paints, right? Can be washed or removed by magic?" Walton had to double check. His reputation and position as head boy were at stake here, after all.

1.	Double checked this with Erika & Michael

Alex's interest in art was for the most part in admiring, or more likely in criticising, the work of others. But in order to properly belittle someone else's work, you needed a proper grasp of the processes, and the only way to gain that was through practice. And anyway, Alex liked drawing well enough, even if her interest was more technical than artistic.

Fortunately, there was yet hope for Ravenclaw house as a producer of delinquents, because although this particular brand of misbehaviour was extremely staid, and even worse had been granted official permission, it was on a relatively large scale and would be slightly more tasteful than was typical. Obviously it wasn’t exclusively Ravenclaws, but for once they were the ringleaders, and she’d heard them discussing it in the Hall and decided that she couldn’t miss the opportunity to paint the walls red.

And, since she was, Theo was going to accompany her.[1] He owed her after the incident with Bevans, and charming though her fellow Ravenclaws were, their conversation paled in comparison to Theo’s. “If it’s awful, we can leave,” she promised as they rounded the final corner, taking in the gaggle of students with surprise. They numbered higher than she’d thought, and she hadn’t expected to see either Jordyn or Gracie there, much less their esteemed head boy. Huzzah.

Taking a moment's pause to assess the situation, she came to a stop just outside the reach of Gracie, whose limbs were sometimes  more like the tentacles of the giant squid than mere arms, flashing her a smile. “Do we just attack the wall?” Alex asked, pulling a case out of her bag, “Or is there method in the mural painting?" Ah, and something dull about the importance of removable paint, which meant, "and unfortunately, I will need to borrow paint."

1.	Done with the permission of Sly, who is the bestest <3

“I suppose that means we can begin, and we can come and go as we please.”


When Evelyn proceeded to do just that– her attention suddenly directed onto Corey –Gracie relaxed, watching the Ravenclaw go, a faint, bemused smile tugging at her lips. Weirdo, she thought without any actual heat, and turned around.

Spotting Avalon, she brightened, holding a hand up in silent greeting. When Jordyn, Gracie darted straight for her, stopping only when her fellow Slytherin's anxiety peeked through. Her features twisted into an understanding grimace; even now, it was still odd to remember that her friend wasn’t a prefect anymore. The title had been a part of her as much as any title could be. “You’re totally the most trustworthy one here,” she said, patting Jordyn’s shoulder reassuringly. It was true.

And if the Head Boy’s reassurances went a lot further than hers did… well. Gracie wasn’t about to begrudge him.

Hearing Alex’s voice, the girl spun around, the movement so habitual it’d become reflex– and instantly deflated. “You brought Whitman?” Gracie groaned, utterly dismayed—and sighed, because of course she would. “Ugh,” she muttered, and  tromped over to the pair anyway.

Pulling her ever-(un)willing Co-President into a hug, the Slytherin shot Theo a quick glare before letting go, features smoothing back into a faint scowl as she did. 

“What, no hug for me?” Theo’s stupid voice said, his stupid mouth tugged into a smirk, and Gracie graced him with her middle finger.

Of course, he only laughed, the jerk.

Theo watched her go, amusement lining the curve of his grin. He was still grinning when he looked back to Alex, although the expression relaxed, oozing a slightly different kind of satisfaction. “You could,” he murmured innocently, as his gaze traveled from face to face again. Roth, Grimlish, Gaubert… His hand slipped into a pocket. “But I did bring some,” and he pulled out two discreet vials, each one containing a vibrant liquid just flushed with hue.

Closer inspection would reveal they were not just one single shade of color, but an almost pulsating mix of several, their differences nearly too subtle for the naked eye. “Open air will help it thicken into usable paint; one drop should last an hour,” he quietly explained, passing one over. As slight fingers curled around the bottle, he tucked his own back into his pocket. In a slightly louder voice, he added, “they’re washable,” flashing the Head Boy a little smile.

Going over to the wall– the one opposite of where the mural would be –Theo rested his bag against it and began peeling off his sweater. “You have the brushes, yes?” he asked her, his voice muffled by it until dark blonde curls sprung free. He began loosening his tie.

Corey's eyes brightened at Evelyn's display of mastery of his native tongue. He nodded with appreciation and he responded just as quietly, "Either language works for me. But I often speak without thinking where I am. So the French just..." He paused and made a motion with his hand of something falling from his lips. "Flows out like...toute l'eau dans le monde."

Grinning, he turned to their art project and he caught her glances at his chalks. He could tell that she wanted to use them and Corey was hardly the type to be possessive of his belongings, especially since he had gone so many years with so very little. But there was also something thrilling in seeing someone showcasing a childlike excitement about something.

But Evelyn turned away to interact with the new arrival and Corey did not glance their way again until Evelyn spoke again in French, using his words from before. When she sat by him and asked if he could draw a butterfly, he nodded and eagerly passed off the colored chalk he was using to her, urging her to continue his work on the roses while he picked up his black and white drawing charcoles, quickly setting to the task of sketching the outline of the requested butterfly.

After a moment, he paused and said, "Oui?"

He nodded again and looked around to see more arrivals. Already the event was already a success by his standards. Every new addition was bonus.

With the Ravenclaw male's approach, Corey stood and indicated that he take his place. The Beauxbatons lad had spotted a new arrival who looked too concerned for her own good and he wanted to make her feel welcomed into the fold.

Standing straight, he moved towards her in quick, graceful strides. With no care for her boundaries, he took hold of her hand and attempted to tug her towards the wall. "Come. The colors won't bite," he gently teased. Though on second glance to some of the artists there, maybe they did.

Corey gazed over top of her at the Head Boy's arrival He recognized him from some of his classes and got on well. Corey was glad he had showed up and offered an easy going wave with his free hand.

To the question about paints, Corey announced, "My materials are chalks." He flashed a cheeky grin. "And I may have some erasers in my bag.  Among other things."

Corey did not pay much mind to the next two arrivals, as he returned to his attempt at pulling the overly reluctant Slytherin girl over to the wall with the intent of seeing her get her hands dirty. Giving her a reassuring nod, he said, "This will be fun. You'll see."

Oh, those chalks. She didn't know why she loved them so much, but that was often the way with Evie. She fell in love suddenly and completely with the oddest things, which explained why her skin was still covered in fading, violent looking cuts, her pale forearms torn to ribbons by that feral kneazle she loved too much to give up on. These delicious looking pastels fit into the same box inside of her heart as needy, ornery wildcats. They weren't new in the box. They were clearly used, clearly loved. Some were cracked in two, others bore dark spots, or splotches of different colors. Some were short and stubby, some chipped. She would have traded all of her paints for just one – maybe a pale blue. She could imagine how it would stand out against the dark stone, but not offensively. When she settled down to join the owner of the chalks, and he passed off the one he was using to her, she could feel her chest swelling with excitement and she smiled again, if only briefly, accepting it.

“Comment dites-vous, ah, "chalks" en français?” she asked him quietly as she pushed herself up onto her knees, not wasting any time adding to Corey's drawing. Her untrained style was different than his, and it was easy to see where his work stopped and hers began. She wasn't used to these pastels. She was heavy-handed at first, her lines a bit uncertain – but there wasn't a trace of hesitation in the way she committed to each form. They may have been crazy and imperfect, but they were certainly confident – without a doubt drawn by the girl who wore the stained dresses and the fairies in her hair. She reached out a few fingers to try smudging it, to see what that might accomplish, and laughed softly as she looked down at her pretty stained fingertips. She only looked up occasionally to acknowledge that someone else had arrived, but didn't do much beyond that. The amount of times she had to look up just kept increasing, though, stopping her in her tracks.

Nothing about Evie Grimlish could be described as 'popular.' Girls had never flocked to her begging for friendship, boys had never expressed any particular interest in her, and there were plenty of rumors, many started by people who'd never spoken a word to her, that she was deceptive, or snooty, or a freak (depending on who you heard it from). When Evie Grimlish came up with the idea to track paint through the corridors for a lark, she didn't expect to draw a crowd. Honestly, she didn't expect anything. She would have been surprised if any of her friends even showed up, let alone a gaggle of mostly inoffensive but well-liked students who she really didn't have anything to do with. It was interesting, watching them all arrive on the scene, never having said a word to her about it. She felt a sinking feeling in her gut each time, similar to Avalon's – the thought that maybe these people were just coming around to gawk at her, or to make comments. She had no intentions of standing around and entertaining them. She wanted to play. That was all.

She went back to the chalks, putting down the red and taking up that tempting light blue. Why not? She was going to do what she was going to do – work on her dark, wonky pale blue roses, no matter who had come to watch.

If there was anything besides art that Jordyn didn't do, it was physical contact with people.  She wasn't a touchy person by nature, she hadn't grown up in a home where touching was part of interaction.  Hugs and kisses were rare in the Dimbleby home, so Jordyn had grown used to the absence of touch as a person. 

When Gracie touched her shoulder in reassurance, that wasn't so bad.  It was simple, and meant to be soft, reassuring.  She smiled at her friend, thankful for her words and the blush on her cheeks had JUST started to die...

When the Head Boy, Walton, arrived, Jordyn had already had a minor panic attack.  Somoene with power, and sway, over next year's decision was going to see her - but rather than tell them all to scram, he nudged her - nudged her shoulder and winked.  She felt so flustered by the action that it was as though she were a bird and her feathers had been distinctly ruffled by the entire experience. 

She pressed her hands over the folds of her skirt and tried not to look as crazy as she actually felt.  It was her own good fortune that others seemed to be arriving and could distract from the fact that she was so supremely uncomfortable - she didn't know why she had even thought that mural could possibly mean something different that what it actually was.  All of the supplies (paint, chalk, pencils, whatever it was) could get her a mess, and Jordyn didn't even have talent to warrant ruining the things she did have. 

She was thankful when others arrived and did not feel the need to touch her.  The moment she let her shoulders relax, a suitable and safe distance away from the actual artistic action going on (she noticed Grimlish's hands covered in whatever she was using and instantly felt her stomach seize up in horror), it happened. 

Corey Gaubert had grabbed her and told her the colors wouldn't bite.  She felt her stomach dropping again and her skin turned to gooseflesh.  She didn't like being touched, much less forced to do anything and her disjointed and reluctant steps forward should have been enough to signal that.

She awkwardly laughed, not wanting to be upsetting or rude, but also trying to get out of it, probably didn't do much to hide the fear she felt.  Everything looked so messy, and really, she hadn't come here for that - she was now entirely unsure of why she had come at all!  "I - I'd rather watch," she squirmed in her skin, standing in front of the wall, with a boy (a fairly cute one), standing next to her, telling her to do something she knew she was bad at.  "I'm not good at all," she admitted, "I'll ruin everyone's hard work." 

She looked down at the girl on the floor, and then back at the others.  "We wouldn't want that, would we?" she smiled, hoping it was enough of an excuse to get out of it.

Walton inclined his head in the direction of Theo as he arrived. As Head Boy, he'd had some interaction with Theo. He was a respectful individual, and as far as Slytherins wet, really wasn't half bad. Walton might even venture far enough to say he liked him. He did his duties well and without complaint- which was all he could really ask for out of his prefects. Walt was still adjusting to his position as Head Boy and learning how to handle himself with authority... Which wasn't easy. Walton wasn't generally an authoritative person unless necessary. But the position was teaching him a lot about being a leader, and because of the title his grades had even improved. He felt the need to be a good example now that he was put in a position where other students would be looking up to him.

He watched as people began to put colors on the walls, hanging back much like Jordyn was. He wasn't sure how great his artistic talent was, and he also worried much like she was that she might ruin the mural. But art was supposed to be collective, and the idea of staining the walls in paint or chalk was an alluring one- even if he didn't have much talent. "I'm not a good artist, either," he said to Jordyn. "We could just pick a small corner. C'mon, no fun in just watching and not participating. Nobody cares if we're amateurs. Everyone starts somewhere, and art isn't all about being talented."

Walton picked up a white piece of chalk and moved over to the edge of the wall, taking a small corner for himself. Using the white chalk, he began to draw a very pitiful rendition of a griffin. It was mostly recognizable, but lacked the finesse and talent of many of the other artists gathered around. It was obvious he didn't do a lot of drawing in his spare time. He enjoyed the arts, but Walt was much more of a writer than anything else. He especially liked poetry. Speaking of which...

"There's a great Herman Melville poem about art that is pretty appropriate for this task. I've always heard that it's an accurate description for artists." Gripping the chalk in his hand, Walton cleared his throat a little. (He'd memorized the poem because it was one of his mother's favorites.) Standing back from the wall, he projected, in his best voice- "In placid hours well pleased we dream- of many a brave unbodied scheme. But form to lend, pulsed life create, what unlike things must meet and mate: A flame to melt- a wind to freeze; sad patience- joyous energies; humility- yet pride and scorn; instinct and study; love and hate; audacity-reverence. These must mate, and fuse with Jacob's mystic heart, to wrestle with the angel- Art."[1]

1.	Link to Poem