portrait - implied jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 473 - cw canon compliant
Cleaning out Grimmauld Place was a cruel and unusual form of torture. It was tedious and disgusting, not to mention slightly terrifying. But on this particular day, it was also confusing. Confusing, because Harry found himself alone in a room on the fourth floor, going through stacks of bellowing portraits of Sirius’s ancestors, wondering how Sirius had turned out to be so decent.
Still, it was better than working with Hermione, Ron and Mrs. Weasley to get rid of the multiple boggarts in the drawing room a floor below.
Coughing, he pulled back another portrait, trying to find the one he was searching for: a painting of Alphard Black, which Sirius had wanted to look at. But instead, he next revealed a short, thin boy not much older than himself. The boy’s black, curly hair was pristine, his ice-gray eyes shocked at having been awoken after what must have been ages. He looked troubled, aloof, a bit annoyed, but so, so sad.
“James?” he gasped, his soft voice full of longing and deep, desperate surprise. “James, I–it can’t be–” He cut himself off, a million emotions behind his cold, now-watery eyes.
Harry’s voice shook as he regarded the boy, his heart clenching and hammering. “No, I–I’m his son.”
Whatever longing and softness had lived on the boy’s face a moment ago vanished. Sighing, he leaned back in the fancy chair he was perched upon, and looked Harry up and down, no expression marring his porcelain skin at all. “I see,” he said flatly. “Yes. Of course, he–you have her eyes.”
So many people had pointed it out before–with reverence or disgust or mourning–but the way this boy said it, it was like he’d known. Like he’d predicted it would be true, but he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The tone caught Harry off-guard and made him a little mad.
For a long while, they both stared at each other–Harry, uneasy and irritated; the boy, impossible to read. But as Harry shifted from foot to foot, trying to think of an excuse to put the portrait down and continue his search, the boy again spoke. “Tell me he’s happy.” It was a soft, murmured order, but the raw desperation was still discernible beneath.
Harry wasn’t sure what to say. “He’s dead,” he whispered, shrugging, because how else was he to say it?
The emotions that had been living behind the boy’s eyes broke free, and a pathetic huh of air burst from his lips as he blinked rapidly. “No,” he muttered, fury flashing across his handsome, now-twisted face, his voice crackling. “No, he’s–no, I made sure–”
All at once, he stood and stormed from the frame.
For the first time, Harry looked down at the name etched in gold at the bottom, and gasped.
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