A/N: Hello readers. This is just something that popped into my mind when watching (for Merlin knows how many times) the Half Blood Prince. Initially, it was going to be a one-shot but by the time I got to the end and enjoyed writing it so much, I considered doing a seven-part series where Albus visits the Portrait once a year.

Feel free to drop a review to let me know what you think and if you've enjoyed this chapter! Even give it an alert or fav if you're feeling daring!

When Albus was younger, everybody judged him based on who his Dad was. From as long as Albus could remember, strangers would stop him in Diagon Alley, pat his father on the back and shake his hand, then look down at Albus and comment either:

"Don't you look like your Dad?""

"If you're half the Wizard he is…"

"I bet you're so proud to be named after Professor Dumbledore."

Albus knew why these people adored his father, and why he should be proud of him; he had defeated Lord Voldemort, a man Albus was lucky enough to only ever have to hear his name. But to Albus, Harry Potter was only his Dad, his embarrassing at times Dad. It was strange to Albus that the man who in summer wore stag slippers which sung Christmas songs could have beaten the Dark Lord at seventeen. Albus resented his Dad being famous sometimes, but the free sundaes in Fortescues' made it worth it.

When Professor Zabini issued Albus a detention on his third week of Hogwarts, Albus found himself wishing he was somebody different: somebody whose Dad got along with his Professors in school, or better yet, didn't go to Hogwarts at all.

"Oh come on," Rose laughed, "at least it was funny."

"It wasn't meant to be funny!" Albus defended. "I really wasn't meaning to set Finnegan's hair on hire it just… happened."

"Right," Rose laughed, "well, it was funny anyway. What class you got?"

"Potions. You ask me this every time."

"And I forget every time. See you at dinner?"

"Depends if Zabini's murdered me."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Professors won't murder you, Al."

"He might."

"Hm, you might be right. Hates Uncle Harry. Hates everyone."

"Mhm," Albus agreed, "see ya soon."

"Yep."

While his cousin Rose took the staircase to go back up towards the Transfiguration corridor, Albus skulked down the stairs towards the dungeons. It was his third week! Albus thought Hogwarts was supposed to be fun, he didn't expect it to be filled with Professors who either knew his Dad, loved his Dad or hated his Dad; Professor Zabini held a grudge, Professor Longbottom kept asking Albus how his Mum and Dad were in the middle of class in front of every body, Hagrid kept inviting him to tea and all the ghosts would try and walk Albus to his lessons, grateful that his Dad had spared from from an eternity of a Voldemortesque Hogwarts. His brother James had told him to hex them all, but Albus didn't really believe James did that, despite what he said. Albus just bit his tongue and ignored them. Seven more years. That's it! Seven more years and I'm out of here. It didn't help his only friend was his cousin Rose and her little group of Gryffindor girls becausethe other boys in his dormitory all knew each other already. The eleven-year-old didn't really care much at this point; he'd fall into a group of friends soon enough.

Albus made his way down the Potions corridor. To add to Albus's annoyance, somebody (probably Peeves) had flooded the Potions corridor meaning he would have to find another way around. It was then that Albus wished he had taken the Marauders Map and not let James take it all for himself; it would be really helpful if he could find his classroom. Merlin only knows what Professor Rossi would do to him if he was late again.

Albus took a left, then a right, then another left and another right until he reached a dead end. Aggravated with himself, Albus spun on his heel and walked back the way he came. The clock was ticking and he only had three minutes to get to class. He debated wading his way through the flooded corridor; surely wet trousers would be better than detention with Rossi. However, that would mean that Albus would be able to find the Potions corridor again, and as Albus walked deeper and deeper in the labyrinth of the dungeons, the odds were not in his favour.

After walking for a few more minutes around the dungeons, Albus accepted his fate: he was going to die down here.

Just minutes after his class had started, Albus gave up, threw his bag on the floor and sat down. At least he couldn't receive a detention if he couldn't be found. He blamed his Dad and James for this; if his Dad wasn't so famous, he wouldn't have left Zabini's late and he could have followed his dorm mates, and if James wasn't such a useless excuse of a brother, he might have told him the quickest way to the Potions classroom.

"Do you mind," began a slow voice behind him, "you're messing up my canvas." Albus leapt forward, stumbling over his gangly legs on the way up. Albus looked around clutching his satchel. "Oh, it's you, Potter."

"H-How do you know who I am?" Albus panicked, looking around him. Remembering what the voice said, Albus relaxed a little. "Oh. You're just a painting."

"Just a painting… I was alive once, you know."

"How can you be alive and then be a painting? Wouldn't you turn into a ghost?"

"I explained this to you last year, Potter."

Albus frowned. "I wasn't here last year."

"Turn your wand on so I can see you. What have you done, Potter? Put on your invisibility cloak?"

"Invisi – no. I'm not James. I'm Albus – his brother."

The painting snorted. "Your father had the nerve to name you after Albus Dumbledore, did he? While I'm not surprised he named your brother after the arrogant, swine of a man James Potter, but now shame to the name of Albus Dumbledore. I thought he'd have more reverence for him than that."

Albus – who was already running late - threw his bag down. "I didn't ask for you to start talking to me. If you thought I was James why didn't you go off to another painting? Isn't that all paintings do?"

"All you Potter's all the same. Arrogant, lazy, rude… What are you doing down here, boy?"

"Looking for my classroom."

"You're certainly looking in the wrong place. That's what one of the Weasley boys told me: 'I'm looking for my classroom,' only to turn my old frame bright orange and curse me to sing some incessant Muggle song for three days. That's what you get, apparently, for opening old wounds. Now why don't you return to your common room, Potter, or I'll tell the Fat Lady there's been an intruder in Hogwarts and she'll change the password, without your knowledge."

"Well it's a good thing I'm not in Gryffindor."

The portrait laughed. "A Potter, not in Gryffindor. Blessed be the day. If only your intolerable Grandfather were here to see the day."

"You're being rather mean for a dead person."

The portrait laughed. "I've been dead for eighteen years, boy; I have to do something to pass the time."

"Well, I – I… Can you help me find my classroom or not?"

"Not."

Albus picked up his bag. "Fine. But if you're only not telling me because of my Dad or my brother, then – then that's very mean."

"Bully for me."

"I hope you fall off the wall."

"How charming you Potter men are."
"So you are not telling me because of them."

"Possibly."

"Please. I'm already late to Professor Rossi's lesson. I already have detention with Professor Zabini 'cause my brother hexed him yesterday and turned his cloak bright pink and to smell like garlic so e's taking it out on me. Just… If I go along here," Albus pointed to the opposite direction he came, "will I be close?"

"No."

"Well, which way is it?"

"I cannot see, Potter; the torches are out. If you light up your wand, I might be able to see what direction you are pointing in."

"How?"

"Get out your wand," the painting began, "and say Lumos."

"Lumos," Albus muttered, rummaging around in his cloak pocket for his wand, "do I need to wave it?"

Tiresomely: "No."

"Lumos," Albus said and nothing happened, "are you tricking me?"

"No." Albus tried again, and again, and again. Finally, a small flicker of light emitted from his wand and he held it up to the painting. Albus attempted three more times before his wand actually emitted some proper light. Both Albus and the figure in the painting squinted. "Which way did you point?" Albus pointed again, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness. "At the end you'll see a door to your right. Take it and you are there."

Albus lowered his wand with exhaustion. "That was it? I was nearly there and I've spent the last five minutes begging you for directions and being five minutes later for class."

"Apparently so."

Albus groaned. "What's the spell to turn this off?"

"Nox," the portrait replied, "just… Wait… Come closer."

Albus eyed the painting: the silhouette of a man began to emerge. "What?"

"I cannot see you boy, come closer." Albus shuffled closer to the portrait. "You have your father's eyes."

Albus instinctively closed his eyes. "Yes. So does my sister, Lily. Did you know my father?"

The painting paused. "No."

"You've spoken about him – and James, and my Grandad. You obviously knew him. Did you used to teach them?"

"Your father, yes," the painting yawned."But not my Grandad."

"No."

"Oh, so you're not like, really old then."

"No."

"Would my Dad know you?"

"No."

"So you don't know each other," Albus teased, "but you did know each other."

"You're speaking nonsense."

"And you're lying to me. Who are you?"

"A man, a name, a face, a painting."

"I think you're lying again."

"I'm dead, boy; I care little for what an eleven-year-old thinks."

"So why are you still talking to me?"

"You're witty like her."

"My Mum?"

"Yes, and your Grandmother Lily."

"So you knew her too?"

"Yes."

"Did she know you?"

There was a pause. "She thought she did."

"What was she like?"

"Your mother?"

"No," Albus shook his head, "my Grandmother: Lily."

There was another pause. "She was a kind girl: brave, smart, married a fool."

"I won't ask what my Grandfather was like."

"I wouldn't."

"What about my Dad? Has he always been a glorious hero?"

The painting laughed derisively. "Harry Potter… a hero… Is that what they're calling Albus Dumbledore's puppet now?"

"He beat the Dark Lord."

"He had a lot of help."

"I've heard the story. My Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron went on the hunt for Horcruxes after Dumbledore died to defeat the Dark Lord. They broke into the Ministry, escaped Gringotts on a dragon, returned to Hogwarts to fight Death Eaters and then the Dark Lord killed Dad and then Dad killed the Dark Lord."

"And then you all lived happily ever after," the painting finished.

"Not everyone. My friend Teddy's parents died, Sirius Black died, Uncle Fred died, Dumbledore died and Severus Snape died. Dad said Severus Snape worked for the Dark Lord and Dumbledore."

"Did he?"

"That's what I'm told. I'm named after him, too. Albus Severus Potter. Dad said he was really mean when he was younger, but he gave Dad the sword of Gryffindor and killed Albus Dumbledore to become a double agent. Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"It depends on who you ask."

"Yeah, my Uncle Ron isn't too keen, but my Dad dotes on him. Don't think Mum was too keen on the name choice."

"Why's that?"

"Dunno, but she always says James and Lily's middle names when they're in trouble but never mine. Maybe because I'm not in trouble much anymore – well, not since James came to Hogwarts."

"I see."

"Yeah," Albus shifted awkwardly as the silence passed. "Well, um, thanks for the directions. I'll tell my Dad I spoke to you. What's your name?"

"Tell him it's the Half Blood Prince."

Confused: "Right. Okay… See ya later."

Albus stowed his wand away in his cloak pocket and proceeded to find his classroom. Now getting closer to being fifteen minutes late, Albus sprinted to the classroom door, his mind rattling with the thoughts of the conversation.

"I had the weirdest conversation earlier."

At dinner, Albus joined the Gryffindor table and sat with his cousin, Rose. Rose was halfway through a mouthful of chicken pie, but her eagerness to find out Albus's conversation matched Albus's excitement to tell it. She took a large sip of water to wash down the remainders of her food and asked Albus more.

"So who is it?"

"Dunno, but he said he was the Half Blood Prince."

"Weird," Rose noted, "didn't know your Dad was friends with royalty."

"Neither did I. He didn't seem to like Grandad James very much."

"Bit like the second James, then."

"Mhm," Albus agreed, "is the pie good?"

"Brilliant," Rose said as Albus cut himself off a slice, "you don't think it was one of his friends from school, do you?"

"What, like Remus or Sirius?"

"Nah, they were friends with Grandad. What if it's Peter Pettigrew?"

"He wouldn't have a painting at school."

"True," Albus conceded.

"It wouldn't be the Severus Snape though, would it?"

"Severus Snape?" Rose nodded. "I didn't think of that."

"Makes sense; he has a portrait in the dungeons, he doesn't like your Grandad."

"Why didn't he tell me? He know who I was."

"Dunno. Try and find him again."

Albus considered it; his Dad made Severus Snape out to be the bravest man he ever knew. Albus had always been keen to find out more about his namesake and his Dad had supplied him with plenty of information about how he had protected him over the years, fought with the Order of the Phoenix while still being undercover for the Dark Lord. But why, if it was Severus Snape, wouldn't he reveal himself to Albus?

"Yeah," Albus said distractedly, "I think I will."

As Albus stood up from the table, Rose looked at him with surprise. "Now?"

"Now," Albus confirmed.

Rose shrugged. "You gonna eat that?" She jabbed her fork towards the pie.

"Nah. It's all yours."

Smiling: "Thanks. Good luck."

Albus made a swift exit from the Great Hall and headed back towards the dungeons. Albus didn't know if the man who May-Or-May-Not-Be Severus Snape would still be there. Being an ex-Headmaster of Hogwarts meant he should have a portrait in the Headmaster's Office, too. Maybe he was there – or maybe it was just some portrait who was around at the time of his Grandparents. If Albus at least didn't try to find out, he would never know.

It was a lot easier to find the corridor than it had been stumbling around in the dark before. Silently, Albus crept through the now well-lit corridor. The portrait was directly in the middle of the long corridor, either side of two gargoyle statues whose wings flapped and growled at Albus when he got closer. Albus deducted that was probably why May-Or-May-Not-Be Severus Snape chose that portrait as a second home; the gargoyles were creepy and would put off potential troublemakers. Albus held up his hands and edged round to the portrait where he had a direct view of the man in the portrait.

"So it is you," Albus smiled.

The man in the portrait looked up. May-Or-May-Not-Be Severus Snape was, in fact, Severus Snape. He was sat behind a desk reading a book and looked very smart in emerald green robes, very unlike the shabby ones his Dad described him to wear when he was alive. Severus Snape looked up Albus with a sardonic smile.

"It took you longer than your brother to figure it out."

Albus frowned. "James never said he saw you here."

"In your defence: the first time he saw me it was in the Headmaster's Office."

"Why didn't you tell me who you were when we spoke earlier?"

"It wasn't relevant."

"Yes it was," Albus persisted, "I asked you three times."

"Correction: twice."

"Twice," Albus rectified, "I asked you twice and you never told me."

"I like being cryptic. How did you figure it out? You don't strike me as a particularly bright boy."

"Rose helped me."

"Your cousin?"

"Yes, my cousin. How did you know that?"

"Your brother."

"So James has spoken to you before?"

"A lot of students do," Severus Snape sighed, "it gets tiresome."

"Why?"

"I've never particularly liked children."

"No, I mean, why does James talk to you?"

"He says your Dad told him to 'stop by'."

"He never told me to."

"Charming."

"No – I mean – I don't think he knows you're here. Otherwise he would've said something."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"I am not."

"Why not?"

"Some people and happenings are best left in the past. People die and people move on, it's the course of nature."

Albus frowned. "He named me after you."

"Correction: he named you after Albus Dumbledore, or are you so dim you'd forget your own name?"

"No. Albus Severus Potter, and you're Severus Snape."

"And the sky is blue and the grass is green."

Albus studied the man in the portrait. "I'm in Slytherin, did you know that?"

"No," Portrait Severus admitted.

"Do you want to know why?"

"Enlighten me."

Albus smirked. "Because of you."

"I'm flattered."

"I'm being serious. The Sorting Hat said I'm ambitious and brave. So are you."

"Were."

"Are. You're still here, aren't you?"

Portrait Severus looked around the frame of his painting. "With the power of magic, yes."

"You told me I had my Dad's eyes, is that how you knew who I was?"

"Yes."

"James doesn't, but Lily and I do."

"Your power to change the conversation bewilders me, Potter."

"I have a lot to say."

"So it appears."

"Do you get a lot of people visit you?"

"A few - mostly for History of Magic essays to interview me."

"I bet you tell them to go away."

"In want of a better word, yes."

"Can I come and visit you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I dislike small talk."

"Well, if I come often, it won't be small talk."

Severus Snape frowned. "I don't suppose I'll be able to stop you, will I?"

Beaming: "Nope."

The Portrait sighed. "If you wish." Albus grinned and sat down on the floor crossing his legs. "What are you doing, Potter?"

"Visiting you."

"Visiting me?"

"Yep. I thought you were supposed to be intelligent: being a Professor and double agent."

"I am intelligent."

"Well, then you'll see I'm visiting you, and as I've already told you, I have a lot to say." Severus pulled a face of annoyance, which only made Albus more eager. "So, what's it like to be dead?"