Harry's POV:
"Oh good, Harry, Hermione, Ron! You came!" Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted us as we arrived in the empty auditorium. It was only half decorated for the morrow's gathering.
Hermione, Ron, and I returned the greeting. Hermione was the first to glance at the covered canvases in the room—the point of this meeting—but then Ron saw too, and jerked his chin in that direction. I noticed then and turned to see two ridiculously large rectangles covered in white sheets on top of easels.
I let out a groan of dismay. Why did they have to be so big? Why not a little tiny one that no one would be able to see? And why were there two?
"Ah yes; the heart of the matter," Kingsley started. "I know we agreed to go with Florian Mayweather for your portrait, Harry—he is quite good and his work is tasteful and respectful and I would have been quite willing to display it at the ceremony, if I didn't receive this second one. It's genius. You have to see it. Next to it, every other portrait looks like the scribbles of a child. Come." Kingsley gestured towards one of the canvases; the smaller of the two.
"It's too big…" I groused.
"Now Harry, it's smaller than the one we ordered. We should see it," Hermione replied, a hand on my arm in a supportive gesture.
Ron stood behind us, silent, but nodding.
Then Kingsley pulled off the white covering in one big dramatic flourish and we all gasped. It was me, exactly; the representation so perfect that I felt naked. Every last nuance that was me was captured and imbibed into this work, leaving me raw and bare.
"No!" I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands in shame, because I couldn't bear to look another moment at myself.
At the same moment, Hermione whispered, "It's magnificent."
Ron muttered, "Blimey. I can't believe it."
"We have to use it," Hermione said. "It's perfection. None of that hero-worshipping biased drivel we were afraid of."
"No, no, no, no, no. We're not using this one," I objected, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.
"Why not, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah, Harry, why? What's wrong with it?" Ron asked.
"I know we said we'd use Mayweather, but this one is so much better," Kingsley said.
I lowered my hand, looked at it again, and got flustered at how the artist had bared every facet of me to the world. "Because I'm naked, that's why!" I exclaimed.
"No, you're not naked, Harry. You're wearing clothes. In all of them," Ron replied.
Hermione gaped at me for a second, then looked again at the painting, watching the entire horrible cycle that was my life.
This wasn't an ordinary painting. It was painted, as evidenced by the brushstrokes in the thick colorful oils. But it was a series of snapshots of over a dozen portraits, instead of the typical one. Instead of the one nearly sentient likeness that was expected, it flashed through a number of images of me, starting at the age of eleven and progressing through to after the war. Each one played a thirty-second loop that was so true to life that it could have been a video capture; each one with my thoughts and emotions etched on my face and in my movements; each a pivotal moment in my life.
The first portrait was of me on my Nimbus catching the snitch in my mouth. The snitch flew in and eleven-year-old me, scrawny and awkward as ever I was, practically retched it back out. Then a smile lit up my face, transforming it. The second was me walking into the Forbidden Forest for detention with Hagrid, Hermione, Neville Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and Fang, to look for injured unicorns. I looked brave and determined. Then there was me talking to that snake second year during dueling practice, followed by boarding the train home after second year, sad and melancholy over my impending return to the Dursleys. From third year, there was me flying Buckbeak and then me falling off of my broom during a Dementor attack. Fourth year was represented by the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, with me against that dragon, and with a very unflattering, but startlingly accurate rendition of me dancing horribly with Parvati during the Yule ball. In the next, during my Dumbledore's Army days, I looked good; strong, mature, and a leader. But then there was a moment of grief, obviously in the days after Sirius' death. Sixth year was represented only by Draco Malfoy's near death in the girl's bathroom, double length to show the horror as realization dawned on my face. From the war, there was our escape from Malfoy Manor and then the aftermath of the final battle, as I sat in the Great Hall, trying to process everything that had just happened. Then there was the me from the trials, proclaiming guilt or innocence of the accuseds. The last one was me returning the Hawthorn wand to Draco Malfoy.
The look on Malfoy's face was more telling than I remembered and very captivating. I didn't want to see myself laid bare, but I couldn't look away from it when it was Malfoy with that wand. It was a hopeful look. It was a look that said that even though life as he knew it had ended, things might just turn out alright after all. It was a look of closure and of relief, capturing the essence of all that was good in the world in the post-war era. It was a look I hadn't seen, my back turned as I walked away.
"You are dressed in all of them, Harry…" Hermione trailed off. "But do you mean your face?"
"Yes!" I answered.
"Harry, this one is really so much better than the other. I know we picked Mayweather because his initial piece showed more of the real you and less of the caricature of a hero that everyone else was doing, but next to this one, Mayweather's looks like a caricature of a hero," Kingsley put in.
"Can we see the other one?" Ron asked.
"Yes, I think we need to see what Mayweather did," Hermione said.
"Very well," Kingsley said. He stepped over to the other canvas and unveiled it.
It wasn't me. It was a fantasy of me as I cast the Expelliarmus that defeated Voldemort. It was better looking than I was, taller, and broader across the chest. The hair was styled the way it was that one time everyone insisted I let a professional do it. The beaming facial expression had nothing to do with the moment or my feelings in the moment. Next to the other, it looked like a giant knockoff. It was everything I had said I didn't want in my portrait; although, that probably had a lot to do with perspective. Next to the one that showed me as I was, it was clear that this one didn't capture me. But next to the others that had been submitted for pre-approval, this had seemed the best of the bunch, because the others had been even worse.
I frowned at Mayweather's painting. On the one hand, it obviously didn't compare with the other painting. On the other hand, this one didn't expose me for all that I was. This one didn't put my whole life's story out there for everyone to see. This one let me keep my secrets.
"I don't know…maybe we should go with this one," I said, unsure what to do, but preferring the anonymity afforded me by Mayweather's.
"Harry, mate, this one's awful. Even I can see that," Ron said.
"It's like having a Picasso or a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh next to some no-name hack," Kingsley said.
"The other one has the artistic merit and really captures you, Harry," Hermione agreed, turning back to the first painting.
We all turned too.
I shut my eyes against the truth, the snippet of the bathroom on display. "But I can't let everyone see that!" I protested.
"How did they get that one of you almost killing Malfoy? I wasn't even there for that. Snape was, but he's dead," Ron said.
"Snape wasn't there until that moment was over," I put in. It had been just me, Malfoy, and Myrtle.
"Where did this painting come from, Kingsley?" Hermione asked.
"It was sent in as a volunteer piece. It came with a note," Kingsley said, pulling a short scroll out of his pocket and holding it out.
Hermione moved to take it, but I grabbed it first.
Dear Minister for Magic Shacklebolt,
I read of your plans to unveil a portrait of Auror Potter in the Daily Prophet. I happen to have my own collection of portraits I have painted of Potter over the years, starting with one I did when we were eleven. Since I have hefty reparations to pay, I have decided to sell reprints of my paintings. As advertisement for my work, I have put together this collage. I hope you will deem it worthy to show along with the one you have commissioned during the gala to commemorate the end of the war and honor all of the heroes, living and dead.
-Sincerely, Draco Malfoy
"What?" I asked in disbelief, taking in the name at the bottom.
Hermione, reading over my shoulder, asked, "Draco Malfoy?"
"Let me see," Ron said, taking the note out of my hands. "I can't believe the nerve of that git!"
"I can't believe he painted all of these," Hermione said.
"He's trying to make money off of Harry to repay his debts! He's supposed to be handing over the galleons in his family vault!" Ron proclaimed.
"But he saw Harry. He painted Harry as he is, not how everyone sees him. I can't believe they aren't tinted to show Malfoy's perception of him," Hermione said.
"He must've painted them knowing they would never sell if he showed Harry in a bad light. But he can't be allowed to profit off of Harry," Ron insisted.
"He did paint me in a bad light. Those are some of my worst days!" I proclaimed. The bathroom, the Dementors, Sirius' death, the Yule ball, and after the final battle; all bad days.
"But those images are exactly how you looked on those days; they're not biased to make you look one way or another. They are just you," Hermione replied.
"I don't like it," I admitted.
"We should confiscate all of Malfoy's paintings of Harry," Ron said.
"We have no right to seize his artwork. It's his and he is free to sell it to repay his debts, if that is what he wants to do. The court ordered reparations in galleons, not paintings," Kingsley reasoned.
"It's a masterpiece. I didn't know he could paint like this, but it doesn't matter who he is or what he's done: he's created a work of art deserving of praise; multiple works of art, by the sound of this letter. If he is this talented, then the work should be allowed to stand on its own. Forget about who made it. Judge it for its beauty and the truth it shows. It's better than the best. It makes the one we thought was the best look cheap and false in comparison. It deserves to be the one we use. The best painting should be the one we put on display. Any other decision is unfair," Hermione reasoned.
"I don't know…I don't like it; especially not the bathroom," I insisted.
"He's the one dying in it; you'd think he wouldn't want to share that," Ron said.
"It is his death, not yours. He is the one with the right to privacy," Kingsley said.
"Think about it, Harry: this is his way of owning up to what he did. He's not just showing you as you are, he is showing himself as he is too. It's a confession," Hermione said.
"What's he confessing to? He's not the one killing me," I replied.
"Weakness. He nearly died," Hermione answered.
"That's a big deal, for his sort," Ron admitted.
"It doesn't exactly paint him in a good light. Why in the forest, you can see nothing but fear on his face," Kingsley put in.
"That's right: it's his journey too. He shows himself at eleven and himself now. The bathroom is his changing point in between, just as it is yours, Harry," Hermione said.
"He goes from a coward, to weak, to getting his wand back at the end there. Whatever that's supposed to mean," Ron said.
"It's hope. It shows that there is hope to mend the rift between our two sides. It's brilliant!" Hermione proclaimed.
"I've never seen something like it. It belongs with the paintings in our wizarding museum," Kingsley said.
"Yeah, but…" I said, getting worn down.
"Harry, you yourself said that Draco Malfoy needs to be given another a chance. A real chance this time. If he can paint like this, then he can get past all of this and move on. He can have a life and contribute masterpieces on canvas to our society. We need paintings like this one, Harry," Hermione insisted.
"Dumbledore said to give him a chance," I conceded. With parents like his, Malfoy really never had one before the war.
"Exactly. So let him do his part to make this world brighter. Let him undo some of the wrong he did," Hermione said.
"This is a really excellent way of making amends. He is sharing something so wonderful with all of the wizarding world. Everyone will want to see this," Kingsley said.
"I just don't want them to," I replied, knowing they were right, but having difficulty with the idea that everyone would see me as I was.
"Your story is too big to keep it to yourself, Harry. We talked about this," Hermione replied.
"Yeah, mate. We have to tell the world what happened, so that there isn't another war," Ron seconded.
I shrugged, knowing I had lost.
A gleam lit up Kingsley's eye as he realized he had won. "Excellent! Then it's settled: we'll use Draco Malfoy's painting," he concluded.
I nodded in defeat. I still didn't like it, but who was I to stop Draco from sharing something that was quite personal for him too.