Portrait

"Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter's soul."

Vincent Van Gogh

It is said, by some people, that the eyes are the windows to the soul, the only way to trust emotion. They say that in the eyes one will find the truths of love, hate, and everything in between. In the eyes you will find the greatest detail of personality, they say.

Those people are idiots.

How do I know? Quite simply, I am a portrait, and I do know these things. Eyes are not to be trusted, you see, such as when someone uses "puppy dog eyes". They are lies created by the brain and transferred to the eyes to convey innocence, desperation, and many emotions that are, quite truly, false.

As a portrait, I know. The only way to truly know a person's personality is for them to paint a portrait. It is like the making of a horcrux. A little bit of ones self always goes into it, whether they are the subject of the painting or no. My model was a crotchety old woman with a love for pearls and pink, and she was obese. I can't help who I was painted for, but I know who I was painted by, and she was a lovely young woman, a bit nosy, and I am her. A portrait is the artist, not the model.

I am three hundred years old now, and I'll most likely be swapped for a contemporary portrait in the next few. They always swap us out at a hundred years, and that's how long I've been guarding Gryffindor. Watching young witches and wizards grow, and hardly any stop to chat. It's rather lonely being a portrait, and I do like this life. I meet so many people, see so many happy faces. I'm here good through bad, a constant in the ever changing wizarding world.

Of course, that isn't what I'm here to talk to you about. I'm here to speak of the day that turned the tides in a wizarding war. The day when Sirius Black came.

He was a good lad at Hogwarts. At the start of all his years, aside from his first and seventh, he would start out wan, thin, and a bit battered. I remember him well, he was always very polite. He was the only boy that ever spoke to me. On occasion I would comfort girls, but Sirius spoke to me in confidence, knowing I wouldn't blab to his friends that his home life was so bad. Sirius was always my favorite, and nothing can ever change that. Not really.

It began at seven o'clock, pm. I was sitting in my frame, speaking with a portrait that had been made after I came to be the guardian of Gryffindor, some time in the forties, by the name of Tom, while the students were at dinner. Tom was telling me the news of the dungeons, as he had a portrait in the seventh year Slytherins boys' dormitory.

"I found out from the keeper in the team that Sirius Black is after Harry Potter," He said rather casually. I just rolled my eyes.

"Oh yes, I know all about that," I sighed, fixing my dress. I was slipping a bit. The woman I was painted after had absolutely no taste! "I don't believe a word of it really. Sirius was incredibly loyal you know, I doubt he actually killed those muggles. Now Pettigrew, I can see him doing those awful things, leaving poor Harry an orphan. He was sneaking about all the time, and let Slytherins into the dorms here once. They were trounced, I recall, but it was highly against the rules."

"Ah yes, I remember that. Severus was rather angry at that point you know. He was fuming for a week after. No one could figure out how to get those tentacles off of his face until school was nearly out," a crafty smile was on Tom's face. "I believe it was a combined jelly legs jinx and a boil curse from Messrs Potter and Black?"

"If I recall from the ruckus it was actually James and Lily who did that one," I nodded. "Very powerful, that couple, a shame You-Know-Who got them."

I noticed Tom's eye twitch. Rather odd for a boy of hardly 17 years to twitch, even if he really was a portrait.

"Yes, a shame," He murmured, his voice seemed rather dry. He always did this when we spoke of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Many would consider it odd for even portraits to call him such, but it was true. Even we portraits and the ghosts feared him.

"What's a shame?" Tom and I jumped from in my portrait. Just outside was Sirius Black! He wasn't looking as handsome as I remembered, but he was... in a more rugged, hobo sort of way I mean.

"Hello Sirius!" I said happily. "I was just telling Tom about how I think you're innocent."

Sirius' jaw dropped at this point. He still had rather nice teeth, if a bit yellow. "You... you think I'm...?" His face lit up. "Either I'm insane, or you rock. I was wondering if you could let me in. I have to kill Peter, and he lives in Harry's dormitory."

"So it was him?" Tom seemed generally curious. "Hm. Well, this is certainly news. Maybe I should tell Severus. He may hate you, and I mean he hates you, but he wasn't very fond of Pettigrew either. I'm sure he'd be glad to lock up the one responsible for Evans's death."

The conversation followed this strain for a while. Nothing really happened, he just told us about Pettigrew's betrayal. I cried a bit, smudging the paint around my eyes. Tom, however, was looking quite unpleased.

"My, that is an unfortunate development..." He murmured. "I always thought Death Eaters were supposed to be good at covering their tracks too."

"Tom?" I blinked at him. "You aren't making any sense. Who cares if he can cover his tracks or not? I'm going to let Sirius in so he can turn that rat in to Albus!" I hit the switch in my portrait that would open the door. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. "Damn, the door got itself jammed again!"

As I was pressing the button, trying to un-jam the door, a great ripping sound tore through the air of my portrait (not that there is any air, there are just places that do and do not have paint). I halted, turning. A knife was buried in Tom's face, having been dragged from below. Sirius was standing there, an angry gleam in his eyes. I screamed and ran, hiding on another floor.

"He killed Tom." I kept muttering it over and over. "Sirius Black... he killed Tom."

I was off duty for a long time, shocked. Sirius, who had been my favorite, had destroyed Tom. The paint that made him up was on the floor of my old portrait, I saw when they carried it away to get me a new one. I didn't find out the truth for years, not until Harry killed Voldemort.

Tom was Voldemort, and Sirius had killed him because Tom was a fragment of Voldemort's soul. It was always said that Portrait's were like horcruxes... and yet, no one really knew how true that was until then. Everyone except Sirius. If I hadn't been talking with Tom, Sirius would still be alive, I think. If I hadn't panicked...

Well, I really can't regret much. I'm just paint and soul. But I can't help but wonder, am I really just a painting with personality, or am I like Tom? Am I a piece of a person torn away just because I exist? I don't think I'll ever know, but I wish I did.

Author's Note: I dunno, I just thought of that. I don't know if it makes any sense, but that's my take on what happened that night.