For as long as Harry has known about it, Harry's selfishly, perhaps even egotistically, believed his magic was cooler than everyone else's. Harry's magic brought life to art. The first time this occurred, Harry was four and doodling with crayons in his cupboard. Tired, he rested his eyes against his new creation. When he awoke, Mr. Pips the Dragon was alive breathing fire across the paper. And when he brought it to Aunt Petunia, thrusting the paper towards her in excitement, fire expelled from the paper in an explosive cloud. Harry couldn't really blame his relatives for hating him.
"Are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?" An enchanting and airy voice broke the cloud of Harry's recollection.
Harry was stunned; struck dumb by beauty unlike any he'd ever seen. Embarrassed by his staring, he remembered to reply.
"Have it. It was quite good."
Hours later at the canvas he'd snuck into the Room of Requirement, he needed to attempt to capture even a fraction of the beauty he'd seen earlier. Closing his eyes, wand lightly touching the canvas Harry dove into his mind in search of his core. Once finding it, He gave it a mental hug. Bright light expelled through his heart traveling up and over to pass down his arm into his wand. Excited, Harry opened his eyes eager to see those azure eyes assessing his soul once more. But nothing came out. His wand had not moved from it's previous position. Not a single drop of color was on the canvas.
In which Veela cannot be magically painted and an emotionally stunted Harry must learn to confront his repressed emotions using art (not his magic creating art). Good thing Fleur Delacour is an excellent, all consuming muse.