HA 3b: Portrait

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 3: He's Gone - Portrait

Minerva kicked the duvet round and turned over yet again. Above her, the darkness of the four-poster hangings served as a background for her thoughts, which were busy chasing each other in circles. Trying to lie still and not seek a warmth that had long left that bed, she forced herself to go over the meeting with the school governors for the twentieth time. She concentrated on the rise and fall of one governor’s voice as he questioned her about the cost of various extra-curricular activities inside Hogwarts. She remembered how one, a droopy-looking woman with soulful eyes, pressed a cup of tea into her hand as if she couldn’t possibly survive without it. She deliberately recalled the feel of the cup in her hands, and how the warmth of the liquid inside radiated outwards into her bones.

Night, Minerva knew, was a dangerous time. The mind was prone to chewing over things. Whilst attempting to sleep, the brain worried at itself, pulling up memories. Night time was Minerva’s least favourite time of day - perhaps because it wasn’t day.

The bed didn’t help. She’d tried, after getting the position of Headmistress, to remain in her old rooms and force the new Transfiguration teacher to sleep in the Head’s rooms, but she’d gotten such odd looks and questions which she couldn’t coherently answer that she’d given up. She still hadn’t got over the feeling of being in someone else’s bed.

Yes, she thought, that was what made her toss and turn. Simple displacement of habit. Her Animagus was a cat - a creature of habit - so of course it would take longer than usual to get used to new ‘territory.’ That was it. There were no extra dimensions to it at all.

Going over the day’s events tended to help. If she could keep on concentrating until she dropped off, then hopefully there wouldn’t be any… unwelcome thoughts. Self discipline was the key.

Quidditch does indeed consume a lot of resources, she recalled admitting to the governors. She focussed on the way one of the governors kept on fiddling with the skin in between his fingers. But it encourages the spirit of friendly competition in amongst the students. Even now, the angry bubbling of self-righteous indignation settled in her chest. What kind of idiot would even consider halting Quidditch matches?

Indeed, came the governor’s languid voice in her head. And the clubs?

Gobstones, chess, her inner voice began to echo. And other clubs related to specific subjects.

Wasn’t there another? came that question. That question. Oh no - but she couldn’t stop herself remembering-

Dumbledore’s Army.

Her hands clenched at her pillow as she moved to lie on her front. Coldness shot down her body. His name! She’d said - and thought - His name! Mistake.

An official club now?

Indeed. I believe I told you so last year, Robert. Now excuse me, I have to-

Run, she thought bitterly. Run back to her school to sit by the lake and drown in melancholy. Idiots! Why had they made her answer that question…

“Headmistress?”

The whisper had her sitting up in bed, wand seized from the bedside table. Fumbling for her glasses, she pushed them on and looked wildly around, drawing back the curtains with desperate force.

“Begging your pardon, Headmistress-”

She caught site of the picture of grazing deer on the wall opposite. The deer had fled to one side of the picture, the other side having been invaded by a frail-looking, elderly wizard: one Armando Dippet. She scowled at him and he quailed before her glare.

“My apologies, Headmistress - I agree, this is most improper-”

“What?” she snapped, too exhausted to even pretend some semblance of politeness.

“Ah… Well, you see, my dear-”

“What?” repeated Minerva harshly. She felt an irrational anger - the phrase ‘my dear’ was not Armando’s phrase; oh no, he was merely copying from someone else-

Dippet twiddled his thumbs nervously. “His - uh - portrait - um, it’s, well, gone.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “What portrait?”

“Dumbledore’s portrait. The frame’s still there but-”

Minerva was out of bed so fast that Dippet was left talking to empty space. Heart beating madly, she dashed out of the bedroom, seizing the tartan dressing gown hanging on the door as she did, and into the small hallway, hand already outstretched for the door-handle. Her mind was whirling. Gone - gone? His picture gone? But did that - oh could that mean..? Was he awake - had he…?

The concealed door swung open, the tapestry hiding it mercilessly torn aside. The office was darkened - but the portraits were all awake and buzzing with excitement. Bright, curious eyes watched her as she turned to face the desk - and the empty frame beyond.

On the wall, hung an ornate golden frame. It was heavily patterned (though Minerva could have drawn all the elegant swirls in her sleep as they were all engraved on her brain) and the words ‘Albus Dumbledore’ were inscribed on the bottom. Yet where a snoring figure usually sat, there was nothing. Instead, there was just the purple chair the painted Him had dozed in and the small painted window showing a view of the Forbidden Forest. The subject of the picture was conspicuously absent.

Minerva felt herself go cold again. Seeing that empty scene… It was almost as bad as the feeling she’d had when she’d walked into the office after He’d died, and seen the empty chair and cluttered desk, on which lay the last paper He’d been working at… It enforced His absence.

Then hope rose in her again. Had He finally woken up and gone for a stroll around the castle? Did that mean she could finally talk to Him..?

“What happened?” she asked, without turning round.

A cacophony of voices broke out.

“Well, I woke up to see him gone-”

“Didn’t see him wake up-”

“-Nobody did-”

“-And Armando went and got you as soon as we realised-”

“I say,” wheezed Dippet as he arrived back in his picture. “Isn’t this exciting? I do believe he’s woken up and gone for a stroll-”

“I hope so,” announced the fat, red-faced wizard who had once spoken to Harry. “He shall make things interesting again. I look forward to a good old chin-wag with the fellow-”

Phineas Nigellus sniffed. “Perhaps he’ll bring some dignity back into the proceedings,” he drawled. “I can’t say we saw eye to eye when he was alive but-”

“We will have to search the castle,” cut across Minerva sharply. “Armando, if you go and check the first floor and Phineas, if you take the second-”

“What?” said Dippet, blinking. “Now?”

Minerva glared at him. “Yes!”

“But, my dear, there’s no rush-”

“-When I first woke up, I recall wanting some quiet time to myself-”

“-He’ll be back soon; there are only a few interesting portraits worth visiting in this irritating place-”

Minerva’s glare switched to Phineas. She opened her mouth to demand to know why the portraits weren’t following orders when Phineas spoke again, in his lazy, sarcastic voice.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? Dumbledore’s obviously taken his time already - seven years. Personally, I don’t think there’s any excuse for staying asleep for that long - shows an appalling laziness in my opinion-”

“Well,” said Minerva weakly. “He’ll probably want to catch up on events-”

“Can’t he be told in the morning?”

“That man’s been trying our patience for seven years; he deserves to be kept waiting-”

Minerva sighed and turned away. With that, the Headmistress exited the office, lit wand held aloft. Her exhaustion had been swept away by hope. If it took all night, she would find His portrait herself and speak to Him.