Wren Woodworth lived for afternoons like these. Nearly the whole school was at the Quidditch match, and she could wander the castle without meeting another living soul, if she she was careful. The sunlight slanted in through the high windows, illuminating the portraits on the walls. She had never been down this corridor before, and she was thrumming with excitement at who she might meet.
Most everyone at Hogwarts considered the portraits on the walls amusing; two-dimensional representations of people long dead, easily dismissed and largely ignored. To Wren, they were a world unto themselves, a secret subculture hidden in plain sight. Most times the dead had more to say than the living, and they were worth listening to.
She came first upon a lovely oil painting of a young, blond girl in a white pinafore with a large blue bow. The girl stood in a sunlit garden, a gazebo behind her. She smiled at Wren.
"Hello," Wren said to her softly.
"Hello. I'm Annabel." The girl curtseyed jauntily, and Wren suppressed a giggle, returning the gesture.
"I'm Wren. It's a pleasure to meet you, Annabel."
"Say, come and meet my grandfather! He's altogether grand. Follow me!" Annabel dashed out of the frame and reappeared in the portrait next to her own. A portly man smoking an ornately carved pipe laid a doting hand on Annabel's shoulder, smiling affectionately at the girl. Annabel looked older here somehow, and somewhat sad.
"May I introduce you to my grandfather, Arthur Hemphill. Grandfather, this is Wren…"
Wren chuckled, filling in the blank. "Woodworth. Hello, sir, I'm happy to meet you." Wren inclined her head graciously. Annabel's grandfather warmed considerably at this.
"Charmed, my dear," he replied. "Lovely day. Quidditch match, is it? I can hear the Gryffindors chanting."
Wren grew silent, listening. She could hear them now, too. Go go Gryffindor. "Yes, sir. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff."
"I was a beater for dear old Slytherin myself."
"I'm in Ravenclaw, as you can see."
"Ah, well. Nobody's perfect."
"What house were you in, Annabel?"
"I died the summer before my first year."
Wren was taken aback. "I'm sorry. Still, you're part of the place, aren't you?"
"Forever. And it's always summer with me. Why aren't you at the match?"
"I'd rather explore. I want to see every portrait in the castle, and as I've only been here since term started and it's my first year, I've a daunting task ahead."
"Alister tells me you play the violin beautifully," said Mr. Hemphill.
"Alister Greeley? From the portrait by the small hall in Ravenclaw tower?"
"The very same. He's an old friend. He was a minor composer, you know."
"Yes, sir. I've played some of his concertos."
"Do come and visit us again, when the staircases allow," he answered, drawing on his pipe. Smoke curled before his face, and his features disappeared. Wren knew she was being politely dismissed, and bid them both farewell, moving on.
The hall was drafty, but not unpleasantly so on such an unseasonably warm day. Soon the skies would thicken with slate-gray rain clouds and the light in the hallways would change from honey-gold to ashen.
The next portrait was of a young man jumping a horse over a hedge; he was dressed for a foxhunt and clearly too busy to talk, though he waved at Wren in passing. Some portraits were more reticent than others, and resented her intrusions. Others were happy to see her, and she could while away the hours in conversation with them about history and muggle politics and music.
Wren's mother had told her on the train platform just before Wren departed for Howarts that there was a portrait of her own grandmother, Cecilia Woodworth, somewhere in the castle, but that Wren would have to find it on her own. Thus far none of the other portraits would tell her where it was, as if they were in on the secret. The hunt was thrilling; Wren's grandmother had died when Wren was only six, well-loved and sorely missed, and Wren longed to see her again.
After the portrait of the horseman came a stodgy bunch of magical lawyers arguing a case who had no time for curious girls, and a self-important Viscount who turned his nose up at the commoner before him, then promptly exited his frame. Wren snorted with derisive laughter and moved on.
A great cheer rose up from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Someone had won. Wren reached the end of the hall and found a small, triangular door that opened on a seldom-used curving back staircase. There was a hasp on the door, but no lock. The air was slightly fetid here, as if it had not moved for centuries, and there was a layer of undisturbed dust coating the steps. The lone window, which was all the light there was here, was covered with the grime of years. Wren began descending gingerly.
Around the first curve of stone wall, just out of sight from the top of the staircase, hung a large portrait in a gilded frame. Wren froze, her eyes still adjusting to the dim, and took in the scene with gaping eyes. A girl near Wren's age stood in profile before a wall of flame, her face downcast, her entire form in shadow. Her hair was long and slightly curly, a deep mahogany, and she wore a beautiful dress of an indeterminate color, her skirts full. She clutched something in her fingers. Wren couldn't see what it was.
With agonizing slowness, the girl lifted her eyes to meet Wren's. Wren's throat constricted painfully, fear and dust choking her, and the smell of smoke she knew was not there. Cold rose up from Wren's toes, flooding her senses, eclipsing reason. Flames licked at the girl, but she was untouched, pristine in her colorless gown. "Hear my story," she rasped.
