Night was by far Harry's favorite time to make use of his surprise gift. Any gifts would have made this Christmas the best of his life, but receiving an invisibility cloak had been beyond even the wildest flights of fancy that his imagination could have engineered. This night he decided to let adventure guide him. At each intersection he flipped a coin, as long as neither way seemed to be occupied.
Deeper into the maze of corridors and higher he went until Harry found himself to be tugging on a latched door at the end of a very barren corridor. The hinges seemed to be stuck, but with his whole weight leveraged, Harry managed to shift the door. His determination hadn't accounted for the resounding noise of stubborn hinges, however. As the creaking subsided, Harry's ears were assaulted with a din of disturbed screeches and hoots. Crouching in anticipation of the exodus of the perturbed parliament of owls, he found no need. There was no motion anywhere, leading him to question his assumption that he had found an inner passageway to the owlery. Without risking a bit of light, he would be left to wonder and that wasn't acceptable to his emboldened sense of adventure.
Folding the cloak, Harry lit his wand. With threadbare blankets draped over a mouse-filled mattress and a rickety shelf slowly losing the fight to keep an extensive collection of books on the upkeep and requirements of those flighty feathered messengers from piling on the floor, the room seemed both ordinary and abandoned. Harry had just turned to replace the cloak in search of anything unusual, when a voice like rolling thunder with the gravel tones of unused froze every action: "Hallo?"
Following to the source of the inquiry, Harry found himself facing the portrait of a congenial-looking wizard sporting an aubergine velvet hat whose pheasant feather curved down to brush a rather impressive set of raven mutton-chops His frame had once been a delightful sculpted piece calling to mind owls in flight. But now, the upper edges were deeply gouged from decades of owls finding it a convenient perch. Pushing his round frames back to their correct position, Harry replied, "Hello. I'm sorry to disturb your rest. I'll just be on my way and...erm.." the first-year examined his scuffed shoes before glancing back into the frame.
"By no means should you leave, young Harry, few ever come this way since the last Owl Master retired. It does get a bit lonely to own the truth. Mostly I stay near my frame in the Headmaster's office, but the nymphs two hallways east let me know that you were headed this way. Former Headmaster Meles Pennestrix, you may call me Meles. How are you this night?"
"Fine, I think." Harry cocked his head to the side, wondering whether this would become a reprimand. How did one converse with a painting? Were there guidelines that should be in play? Sure, he had to give the password to one anytime he wanted back into the Common Room, but the Fat Lady had never exactly wanted companionship, from him at least.
"Your talented female friend should be back soon. You and the younger Weasley surely showed your stripes rescuing her from the rogue troll back on Hallow's Eve. Pauline saw it all from her frame near the doorway. She's been to every wing, recounting your loyal bravery. I must say," his long broad nose twitched "Are you not glad that your faithful friendship reaped better than the demerits you deserved? It all could have ended in a much less pleasant manner."
"I guess it could have. Does everyone know what really happened?I mean, the professors and students. I never really thought about how many portraits are here or what all they see. I guess I just figured that you all didn't really care about us."
"Well of course we care. Most of the portraits here don't have anywhere else to go. Even if they did, with all the students and faculty there are so many adventures and intrigues to follow that few visit their other frames for long during the school term. As for who knows what, chances are that Headmaster Dumbledore knows at least the broad-strokes of the matter, he listens well. McGonagall probably knows the truth of the matter, as she is usually quick to suss it out. But I don't think she really minds the difference in this case. It harkens back to some of the more noble larks of your father's tour. What a band of merry mischief their lot was! "
Harry's rubbed his scar briefly, "Wait, I thought you were headmaster forever ago. You knew my father? How?"
"Your father was difficult to not take note of often. His dorm rang with laughter most days and his quick mind and puckish ways were a delightful break from the monotony that learning by rote brings. He and his dorm mates were frequent guests of the Headmaster's office. With their creative reasons for misbehavior, few of the portraits missed one of their disciplinary meetings."
The two continued in this manner. With the former headmaster pleased at the attentiveness of the much-discussed pupil and Harry thrilled to be able to learn so much so quickly without much effort, both would remember this first encounter with contentment. In fact, they set about a standing appointment twice a week at a rendering of the Cliffs of Dover in the Gryffindor boys bathroom. At one such meeting, Harry brought up his search for Nicolas Flamel and received a curt, "We have been restricted from handing out information on Mister Flamel or his accomplishments. However, it can be found in the library with a nice dose of persistence."
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Traipsing about when others could not see you was a delightful and a welcome distraction for Harry. Often in his currently short life, he had wished that his family couldn't see him. Harry was absolutely certain that they often wished the same. He would discover, however, that this mode of exploration was not without its own set of hazards. One had to be very strategic about alibis for spy-time, or else gifted in excuses, to keep the concerned from stumbling upon one's true activities. Also, the cloak did have limitations. Anything with an odor was guaranteed to draw Mrs Norris' attention, visible or not, so liberating food was difficult... as was planting dung-bombs. Add sharing a dorm house with the ever-inquisitive (and suspicious) Weasley twins to the list of obstacles and Harry wondered how he even got away with the little covert traveling that he accomplished. Fred and George would send odd glances his way from time to time that worried the first year, a bit at least.
Sharing his new friendship with others never really occurred to Harry, he preferred not to have to explain it to anyone. However, over the many weeks, the number of painted friends visiting with him regularly continued to grow. None were as loyal with meetings as Meles, but there was quite a variety. Not all the portraits were willing to discuss things with a student, especially one who was neither Prefect nor Head boy, but Harry never noticed. He was getting more gossip than he really cared to know, and would zone out during most discussions of student's personal lives, romantic maneuvering of the 1770's, or fashion trends in general, but the insights about papers and spells were worth all the tittle-tattle that he wished he could forget.
Ron and Hermione had yet to notice, or at least comment on noticing that Harry took longer getting back from meals or practice than was strictly necessary. If pressed, Hermione just stated that Harry was obviously a private person and as such needed time away from others to psychologically recharge as introverts often do, according to PsyToday's Spring edition of last year.
As the school year passed and the time to head back to Privet Drive loomed inevitable, Harry realized how much he was going to miss not only his friends, but also getting to chat with others. If only he could find a portrait to keep in his closet. At least then he would have a chance to talk with someone on a regular basis who didn't actively despise him. But so far, all the portraits seemed to be permanently stuck to the walls and entirely too large to hide under a shirt, even one as baggy as Dudley's cast-offs.
After escaping Quirrell, or possibly Voldemort, and letting Wood down; being stuck in the hospital ward wasn't as bad as it could have been. Especially with all the visitors to the frame near his bed praising his quick thinking actions when saving the Philosopher's Stone. Although, there were quite a number of lecturers mixed in with the well-wishers. Unfortunately, few of the portraits that popped in bothered to introduce themselves,leaving Harry unsure as to how to address them. Many were notable figures in their own time and had a tendency to forget that illustriousness fades all too quickly, and that those raised in the Muggle community weren't given a primer with all of them listed.
A rather unique fellow in black wizarding robes covered in Runes formed from mother of pearl buttons popped up with a bright grin while Madam Pomphrey was checking for expired potions. Almost as soon as he made it firmly into the frame he started in.
"Lor' luv a duck! Harry, my dear Rob Roy. Chicken an' rice job keepin' da fancy Salford Docks aaaht ov da brass bands ove dat tea leaf. He couldna half inch in ov Albus but he went Father Ted. What a Jackanory you could spin with this one. But Thee're still young, hairy knees avoid Stewart Granger for a couple donkey ears awer you might set us to tumble down the sink." Harry blinked a couple of times and nodded, unsure of what else to do. With a "Robin Hood. Sorted Mate!" and quick tip of his hat towards Harry and another for Meles, the portrait left the frame.
"I think it was a good thing, but I'm not sure." Harry let out, his head reeling. "Is Stewart, Hermione's dad? And why should I keep away from him? Are those even the right questions to ask?" He sighed and looked to the ceiling. "Meles, please tell me what he just said."
"Much as I would wish to tell you, his portrait only arrived a few years ago from an estate in London. Communicating can be quite challenging. There is a well spoken chap in the Slytherin dorms that translates him fairly well as far as we can ascertain." Meles sighed watching as a couple of the many painted snakes left their post across the ward.
As much as he was dreading the vacation, Harry was eagerly anticipating another year in this castle that had become a home.
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JUST A NOTE: Hopefully this was as much fun to read as it has been to write. This is a severe re-edit of a fic I posted on SIYE awhile back under the title In the Palette Life Hands to Us which I will gladly extend if there is enough interest to appease the Muse.
For those curious about what the Pearl King said, it goes something like this. "Hello Harry, dear boy. Nice job keeping the fancy rock out of the hands of the thief. He couldn't pinch (steal) it from Albus without ending up dead. What a story you could spin with this one. You are still young. Please avoid danger for a couple of years or you might set us to drink." Robin Hood means good and Stewart Granger is not Hermione's dad but Cockney rhyming slang for danger. Poor Harry was lost.
Rowling's work is her own I claim none of it. If it is in my story and you don't recognize it, that insignificance is what I own.
Thanks to Pleurocoelus and Maralle for keeping the fic readable. I shamelessly delight in reviews.