Um, hey. Yeah, I'm still alive. Yeah, I'm surprised too. Yeah, I'll try to start updating everything again. Um, yeah. Sorry.
Well, I found this little piece on my computer this morning (sort of. it's 3am). Hope you enjoy it! I don't exactly remember what inspired it..
And of course, I don't own Harry Potter.
The Savior's Portrait
"Oh! Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, turning back towards him in the doorway of his flat, her arm firmly linked through Ron's. "Did I mention that they put up a portrait of you at the Ministry of Magic?" She nudged Ron, who smiled in amusement.
"Yeah, mate. You're really famous now – the Ministry can go to you for advice without your permission! Besides, I'm sure that painting gets all the ladies." Ron winked surreptitiously.
Harry was speechless, watching them walk out the door. He pulled out his wand as the front door shut quietly, and with a wave the dishes from dinner vanished, leaving him with an empty room.
So they had put up a portrait, eh? Maybe it was time to pay his portrait-self a visit.
"Hello," Harry mused, standing in the main hallway of the Ministry of Magic. A large, gilded painting of a very familiar raven-haired, spectacled teenager blinked indifferently toward him, seeming not to recognize his living self.
"Bugger off," came the sharp reply, and Harry nearly choked on his coffee as he snorted in amusement.
"Well, they certainly haven't got that part right." At the annoyed look the painting gave him, he added, "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I bothering you? Or rather, am I bothering me?"
Portrait-Harry merely glared, rubbing his green eyes tiredly. "I'm quite tired of people staring at me all the time. Harry bloody Potter this. The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die-But-Still-Lived that. It's honestly sickening. You'd be annoyed too," he explained with a quiet honesty. Harry noted that the painted version of himself was much calmer than he really was.
"Aren't portraits supposed to capture the personality of the wizard? You don't act like me. And yet you do – at the very same time." Harry rubbed his eyes as well, unintentionally imitating the painting as his thin fingers pushed his glasses slightly up toward his forehead. "It's quite confusing."
At this, Portrait-Harry looked amused. He smirked back at Harry. "Would you rather I hide behind the chair and make you feel more comfortable?"
Harry grinned, and tapped the painting with a single finger. "I like you. Do you know that?"
"Well, I'm you," Portrait-Harry pointed out smugly. "So I reckon that's rather good."
Harry glared. "What are you here for? Surely not advice? You're rubbish just at being polite; I can't imagine your attempt at being helpful."
"Advice, schmadvice. If the bloody Minister of Magic came to you for everything, would you answer honestly all the time?"
Harry glared again, this time a bit more angrily. "Hey! Kingsley's a brilliant Minister; the least you can do is give him some good advice."
The smirk on Portrait-Harry's face was infuriating. "If he came to you for every little problem, what would you do?"
After a long pause, "Tell him to bugger off." His voice was quiet, sheepish. "What do you do around here?"
"Annoy people until they leave."
"Is that what you're doing now?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I swear to Merlin I'll tear you right off this wall and throw you straight in the rubbish bin," Harry growled quietly.
"That's stealing and vandalism, not to mention the destruction of a very valuable portrait," the portrait sang. "Possible jail time for you-u!"
"I'm Harry bloody Potter!" Harry blurted, tapping one foot impatiently. "No one is sending me to prison anytime soon. I saved the Wizarding World. If there's one thing that was good for, it may be this."
The portrait just smiled provokingly at him, and Harry sipped his coffee in frustration before crossing his arms tightly across his chest.
He sighed impatiently before trying again. "So they've got you here to give advice," he mused, then continued. "So give me some. What am I supposed to do now that the war is over? Style my hair differently and walk comfortably in public because at least I know bloody Voldemort isn't going to jump out at me in Diagon Alley? I don't understand."
There was a moment of tense silence before portrait-Harry responded. "When I said I gave advice, I never specified that it was particularly good or helpful advice." He paused before glancing at Harry's messy black hair with a smirk. "Although I do know a good hair gel that might help with that rat's nest."
Harry sucked in an agitated breath. "Hey! You have the same hair as I do, you git!"
"At least mine looks like a painter's mistake! Yours, well – "
The portrait was cut off abruptly as Harry splashed the remains of his coffee over the painted face and stomped off angrily.
"That doesn't hurt, you know!" portrait-Harry called after him. "I'm made of paint!"
Harry growled under his breath.
How did he put up with himself?
How did the Ministry get everything so wrong?
Harry didn't know the answer to either of those questions, but there was one thing that he knew without a doubt. He hated portraits.
Hey, let me know what you thought, please! I don't write comedy very often haha