Title: The Day the Earth Stood Still
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A look into the future through Snape's portrait
Pairings: Implied Harry/Ginny
I was not an overly sentimental wizard.
In fact, if anyone ventured to inquire wizards who knew me personally in life, they would most definitely come across a variety of answers, but many of them would be sure to include greasy and git.
But it seems as if I have become some what of a miserable old bat in my portrait age; I found my self sniffling at a scene the other day that would have made bile rise from my throat in life. Thankfully, my over active nostrils went unnoticed; sniffling included.
If anyone would have told me I would be hanging in the hallway of a Potter house, I would have felt no guilt in executing the Avada Kadava; especially, hanging in the hallway of Harry Potter’s house.
Imagine my surprise when instead of being moved into my dingy house, I was moved into the home of the boy I spent much of my life trying to despise (and succeeding if I might add). He just made it more difficult by his bloody genetics. Because no matter how hard I tried to hate him, to loathe his entire being, I could not. No matter how much he looks like James Potter, he looks just as much like my Lily.
So, I did not protest as much as my human self would have when I was hung in the hallway of his home, instead in my old home. I still had my frame in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, although I must admit, I will never feel as if I earned my term there. Surprisingly, I was the first portrait in the hallway. I always use it against Albus when he gets cheeky, which I must say, gets more often in portraitdom. Not that he was hung much later than I, the next day to be exact, but it is enough of a difference to show that at least the arrogant brat knew where his dues went.
And so the months crept on and although the Headmaster’s office is an informative place to be, especially on the state of the world and the general education of the next generation, the Potter home steadily became where I resided the most. I have no idea why I would want to spend any more of my time with that boy than I spent my life devoted (and plagued) by his existence.
Not six months after I was hung he married the Weasley girl. She’s not bad but I think if I were him I would have gone a little less plain. At least she has glorious hair but honestly it’s the only thing I can possibly understand Potter wanting anything to do with.
The wedding preparations were by far the worst period of my portrait life so far, even worse then before Potter learned how to put a silencing spell on his bedroom; Weasley’s a screamer… disgusting. Every person I had any moment to loathe in my lifetime was bustling about the house and shooting me fond smiles and weepy thanks. It was unbearable. Even the twin who didn’t die stopped by to tell me I wasn’t “half bad”.
I almost set myself on fire.
But life bustled on and even my witty protests couldn’t stop the two from becoming happy. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that Potter actually finds humor in my remarks. Smug bastard.
Anyway, then the child came. He was ugly and loud and looked exactly like the Weasley girl. One would think wizard kind would have enough sense to weed the Weasley genes out but no. They keep coupling like rabbits.
Repulsive.
I didn’t have peace. Not one moment of peace. It was crying and shitting and all the damn cooing was just unnatural. I never thought I’d see Potter sink that low… really, cooing? And then he started to talk, first it was just babbling but soon it was words.
Believe it or not, the child’s first word was ‘kitty’. If that doesn’t say something about the boy, I’m not really sure what does.
Then came the day my memory was soiled. I couldn’t believe Potter was that fertile but the product of his second successful sperm had arrived. But the first born was restless and the two spent most of their time trying to integrate their first and their second offspring.
On the seventh day, I found out his name.
I set myself a flame.
Unfortunately, flammable proof charms had been placed on my canvas. And Potter held my namesake up for inspection after I had stopped glaring so harshly. If portraits had bile, mine would have risen. The tuft of messy, black hair had mocked me and I almost screamed in the injustice of the world. But then he opened his eyes.
His vibrant, green eyes.
So, on the same day that I attempted portrait suicide; I also met the boy would ruin my reputation.
Lily was born only a year later, but she was not as near as beautiful as her namesake and I quickly became bored with the success of finally birthing a female. But my eye was quickly drawn to the middle child. Albus Severuswas walking now, but not as loud as his older miscreant of a brother. Portrait Albus wouldn’t shut up about how lovely the child was, but he was always too pliable for his own good which was exactly why he died before me.
Looking back, I could not help myself. It was the fault of genetics! And I watched him shift under the shadow of his annoying, pitiful older brother. He really was an alright child. Albus Severus was quiet but very intelligent, always finding a way to outwit his simple minded brother. I watched him and found myself helping him.
Oh, I know. Disgraceful.
But by the time he was nine he was reading Gogol’s Dead Souls and how was I not supposed to think Albus Severus was slightly impressive? But he needed guidance. His twit of a brother was going on about Quidditch and ponies and an equally insignificant Teddy Lupin while his useless sister was obsessed with using accidental magic to transfigure garden gnomes into dragons and his parents weren’t using his perfectly malleable mind to their advantage.
So I did.
First it was just hints at what the next answer was in the crossword, then it was ways to outwit his brother or get his sister’s bastard creatures to disappear and then it was spells and long talks and apprenticeship.
The more he talked to me, the more I realized just how much he was like his grandmother. His eyes would light up when he was learning something new, just like I remembered hers had. By the time the older waste of space had left for Hogwarts he would unconsciously let his hands fray the edge of his jumper and the way his wit and insecurity played off each other was something I had seen so many times in my younger years.
Things I can never forget.
Of course now I’ve arrived at the point of my unraveling. Yesterday the boy came to me, dressed in pressed robes and his trunk levitating behind him to tell me he was off to Hogwarts. I didn’t let myself smile with anything that resembled pride or fondness but I did hint where a couple of hidden passage ways were.
But Albus Severus was full of surprises. He looked at me; those eyes were bright and hopeful, and then told me he was a Slytherin in more ways than he could think of just like Lily Evans, even if he didn’t end up sorted there. He winked and trotted down the stairs.
From that point on, my reputation was tarnished with my weak tears. Even though Portrait Albus swore he wouldn’t say a word; we both know it’s true. I’m nothing but a portrait with feelings.
The only comfort I have now is that Albus Severus was indeed sorted into Slytherin yesterday and made sure his father told me, James is a pouf who will mostly definitively run away with Teddy Lupin and Lily will most likely spend the rest of her life with tattoos, smelling like dragon dung, marrying a Romanian or joining her uncle in solitude.
It might not be as bad as I had once thought.
