Hi everyone, so it's been a while since I last published on this site but I thought, hey what better way to get back into Fanfiction than a long-haul Harry Potter story? This is a story which has been in the works for a long time and it's only now I've felt confident enough to sit and write it all out. Updates will be every Wednesday and I plan to follow the characters all the way through their seven years at Hogwarts. As you probably realised in the summary, this story does focus on an original character with many more being introduced along the way. Please don't let this put you off and give the story a go as it includes all of the favourites too! As I said before, this is going to be a long story and I hope you will all stick with me until the end, but for now, sit back and enjoy.
970 Days After, 23/01/2001
We stop in front of a painting and I struggle to believe what I'm seeing. It's an oil painting of seven figures of varying ages, from a man in his mid-twenties to a boy just a few years shy of ten. Each of their faces are focused away from the painter, either looking at one another or at an object too far out of frame. They are dressed in old fashioned robes and dresses, making them each appear elegant, yet small imperfections in their dress hint at a rebellious nature. My gaze drifts away from the faces and the clothes and the near identical designs on the pendant around the oldest girl's neck and the pocket watch held by the older man and down to the bottom left corner where an unintelligible signature has been placed.
"It was donated by a gentleman a few years ago following his death." I overhear a nearby audio tour guide inform the group of tourists who had stopped just behind us. "The artist remains unknown, but critics have praised the skill and emotional undertones which burden this painting."
I can't bear to hear the rest. Instead I step forwards and brush my hand across the face of the dark haired, dark eyed young man with the barest hint of a crooked grin.
An attendant rushes over to ask me not to touch the painting as 'it dates back to the early 19th century'. I nearly smile. The painting is less than ten years old and there is little chance that anything less than a nuclear bomb could destroy it.
A gentle hand presses against the small of my back. I lean into the growingly familiar touch.
"You ok?" The owner of the hand asks.
"I painted this," I say, my voice is barely above a whisper. I turn back to look at him. His eyes draw together slightly in confusion, an open yet unspoken invitation for me to speak to him.
My eyes are once more drawn to the painting and to the seven faces of the people it has immortalised. It would be so easy to shake my head and to persuade him that it was time to move on to the next piece of art. He would let me persuade him. He wouldn't push me. He wouldn't make me talk to him. I had an easy way out, an easy excuse to continue not talking.
"They were my friends," I say. "We thought that we would change the world. That we were untouchable. That because we thought that what we did was right, it was the right thing to do. The best thing to do. We were wrong. More wrong than I ever thought you could be. And because we were wrong we lost."