A/n: Finally finished the second chapter, wohoo!
This one was written for two competitions hosted on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum:
1. The Biathlon Competition for the 15km mass start, and
2. the Embrace Your Majors Competition for List 2: Humanities Based Majors' Classes
(Prompts are at the bottom.)
Circa 1508
Of all the human vices one could succumb to, the greatest of hers seemed to be her weakness towards prolonged isolation. Thus, her long years all alone beneath her Juniper tree, trapped in the cage that was the garden of her painting, had led to many a thought to pass through her mind.
Although she knew not what the subject of her painting was like, she enjoyed entertaining the possibility that they were somewhat alike in the core nature of their existence. She liked to think that their personalities might have been somewhat similar, or that they shared similar tastes or interests.
In her decades of idleness, she had even gone so far as to imagine what the everyday life of her subject was like, in the peak period of her life. Was she truly the adorned beauty that gentlemen flaunted whilst in the company of fellow gentry? Had she many a love affair with young, handsome men, leaving behind a sparkling shoe and a broken heart as she rode away in a carriage through the night after her escapades? But perhaps she was a queen, having been courted by none other than the king of the land himself, so entranced by her charms that he would beget her with many a beautiful child for her to dote and mother as she see fit.
But of course she imagined the original Lady Ginevra de' Benci of Florentia to be an exquisite beauty of both mind and character; an intellectual being well respected and received by many and scorned by few. Left to her own devices, she could craft an entire book on the many shenanigans of Lady de' Benci, but all of her self-created fantasies were naught but delusions fabricated by an idle mind wallowing in her extended periods of loneliness.
She sometimes even dared to reminisce over long-forgotten conversations back when she was still a well-remembered portrait hung in the Hospital Wing. When many a young maiden would come to sit under her Juniper tree to recount woeful tales of some trivial matter, and she would listen to them with a patient smile and a kind hand on the knee, offering condolences when needed and useful advice when asked. Those were the days she truly missed—the days when her existence meant something. When she was not a forgotten portrait.
Shaking her head, she drew herself out of the familiar void of darkness tugging at her; there were days when she gave in to the loneliness, but today was not one. Today, she would fight the beckoning darkness and remain in the dull light that spilled through the neighbouring window, the shapes and patterns the sun played across the back of the bookshelf her only source of change in her otherwise monotonous existence in the hidden alcove.
I am weak. I feel how life and my courage are slowly flowing out of my body. I am loosing myself.
Just as she focused on plucking the lone, overgrown blade of grass by her feet—why was it that plants in paintings went through the cycle of growth but the people remained eternally the same?—when she heard the familiar rustle and groan of someone having discovered her hidden abode.
She involuntarily brightened at the thought of a visitor to distract herself from her morose feelings of self-pity. But, to her surprise, what entered was not a child, but a small, round, tittering ball of fluff. It floated in, seeming listless, and it took her several moments to realise that the reason for it being afloat was its rapidly rotating wings, so fast, that the naked eye could barely catch its movement. But she had mastered the skill of identifying the smallest of details in what seemed like the most boring, simplistic things, another healthy pastime she had developed over the decades to keep her from slipping into madness.
"Spittle!" came the muffled voice of a young lad, and she could hear him struggle as he tried to squeeze in through the small gap. She reckoned that he was an older or larger boy from that and the lowness of his voice. "Spittle, come back!"
The strange bird only tilted its tiny head as it turned to stare at her. She had the urge to reach out and pet it before she was reminded of her inability to do so. After what seemed like a prolonged endeavour, the lad finally managed to squeeze through, confirming her suspicions: he did, indeed, look to be about sixteen years of age, and he was well built, with wide shoulders and firm arms.
Perhaps one that comes from a life of physical labour, she thought, her interest piqued. She was yet to meet one such student, and was more than excited to glean as much information of the outside world as possible from this seemingly ignorant boy.
"Spittle, be a good girl and come to me," he was saying as he continued in his attempts to convince his pet to obey him, but to no avail.
"A fitting name for a creature as strange as this, although I daresay she does not appreciate it very much," she said before she could stop herself.
As always was the reaction of her rare visitors, the boy whipped around to stare at her wide-eyed, and she took the opportunity to scrutinise him some more. He had skin the colour of caramel and wild, windswept hair that seemed rough to the touch; he was rather good-looking, for a boy his age, with no blemishes on his face and a sharp, chiselled jaw to add to his well-defined features.
"My apologies," he said with a slight bow. "Forgive me, my lady, for I did not notice you in my haste."
She smiled, nodding appreciatively at his well-mannered speech. "Fear not, child. I do not blame you, for you stumbled into my abode whilst in search of your pet. But, do enlighten me on the manner of creature that it is? I am rather ignorant when it comes to creatures from beyond the realm of this alcove."
"Spittle, you mean? She is called a Snidget, my lady. A rather common wild bird found in the western forests."
"It is rather odd that it would be here, then, do you not think?"
The lad seemed troubled as he bowed his head, his mouth down-turning in a brooding frown. "The truth, if I may burden my lady with it, is that I kidnapped this young 'un from the Quidditch storehouses on the grounds." He clenched his fists angrily. "Those merciless goons have begun to use Snidgets in their games as the grand prize that awards the Seeker victory if he manages to catch it. Although they are small and fast by nature, Snidgets are vulnerable, and their wings often get crushed during the games, leading to their deaths."
She raised her eyebrows, unamused by this casual display of cruelty. What was the world coming to, while she remained stowed away? "And you deem yourself a worthy Knight who shall rescue these poor creatures from their unfortunate deaths? Have you the means or the power to do so?"
"Someday!" he exclaimed, and the little bird tittered by his ear, "Someday, I swear that I will find a way to stop this madness! Powerless creatures do not have to pay the price for man's entertainment. It is our duty as the superior species to make sure of that. That is what I believe."
She smiled at his steadfastness. Even if it seemed rather idealistic and unrealistic for their day and age, his colourful dreams were rather suited to a youth of his age. "The path you walk on is a difficult one, but may you see success, child. All I can give you are my prayers of luck so you may prevail."
He bowed, a smile finally gracing his handsome features. "I am grateful for your kindness, my lady. If I may request the name of your personage, I shall be truly humbled."
"This Lady Ginevra de' Benci is impressed by your resolve, young knight. May you find glory at the end of the road. But, I must ask you for your own name, so I may remember you by when the time comes, and recount this meeting as a fated encounter."
"By all means, it would be my honour, my lady. I am known as Bowman Wright, a descendant of the great Godric Gyffindor by heart and soul, and I shall honour your words by keeping alight my blazing spirit till such time I succeed."
The bird, perhaps moved by her master's resolution, came to perch atop his shoulder, and he stroked her feathery back affectionately.
"I shall take my leave here, my lady, but fear not, for I shall persevere in my goal to rescue the powerless innocents that suffer great injustice in this world."
"Blessed be," she responded, bowing her head in the slightest, and watched with amusement as he struggled to exit the gap, the Snidget chirruping in encouragement above him.
She did not know if it was his timely arrival or his revolutionary declaration that spurred the dimly burning fire within her, but when she thought back to the days when she would listen to the troubles of many a young one in similar fashion, she could only feel nostalgia instead of the usual resentment and self-pity. Perhaps, perhaps, she was yet to fall prey to the cruel games of the universe. Perhaps, she, too, had the will to let blaze the fire of her own making.
(It was several years later that news of a new invention, the Golden Snitch, became the talk of the school. She could barely contain her smug satisfaction when all any passer-by could boast about was how their supposedly dear friend, Bowman Wright, had invented the Snitch as a replacement to the hundreds of Snidgets that were murdered in cold-blood during Quidditch games all year 'round, and how the Irish National Quidditch Team fully supported their teammate's creation, allowing him to revolutionise the Quidditch world.)
Circa 1614
She had expected it. She had expected it, and yet, now that the bitter truth of her unremembered existence was further enunciated by the arrival of her successor, the beautiful, talented, remarkably lovely Mona Lisa, she could not quell the anger that burned within her. If she could use magic, not only this dreaded alcove, but the entire castle would be rendered a flaming mess of warped beams and shattered rubble.
Was her existence of no import whatsoever in this wretched world? Would she forever remain a forgotten portrait whose continued survival was nothing more than a trifling matter that nobody, not even her own self, could be bothered by? How many times had she tried to call out to passers-by in an attempt for someone to acknowledge her existence but failed? Had she not her pride from years prior, she would have long succumbed to the loneliness and isolation that shrouded the alcove in the form of delicate cobwebs and blankets of dust.
It was an insult not only to her, but the great Maestro Leonardo da Vinci himself, who had poured sweat and blood into painting the masterpiece that she was. As though acknowledging the anger she felt for the injustice wrought upon her, the thunder bellowed outside, the heavy droplets of rain and the whistling wind rattling the beams above the lone window beside her, forcing itself into the small alcove and drenching the growing pile of discarded rubbish in its icy, uncaring fury.
Her heart was like the raging storm: cold, uncontained, and wanting to wreak havoc onto the world.
As though in answer to her need to take her anger out on someone, a young child stumbled into the alcove, arms wrapped around his skinny form, hair clinging to his pointed face. He was white as a sheet, the only colour on him came from the maroon and gold scarf wrapped around his throat, dark eyes wide and frightened, and she could not for the life of her understand why a child so afraid of the storm would leave the warm confines of Gryffindor Tower to wander about in the desolate Rear Hall. Even during the day it was so quiet and eerie, albeit for the infrequent group who rushed by with the intention of reaching their classes as quickly as possible, or the stray student that enjoyed the solitude it offered. She could only assume that he had ended up there by some ill fate.
There was a loud clap of thunder from outside, and a streak of lightning brightened his pallid features for a moment as he crumpled to the floor, hands clutching his head as he trembled in terror. Another time, she may have felt sympathy for this child, but now, her stone-cold fury knew no kindness. She watched him writhe in a heap on the floor, his soft whimpers falling on uncaring ears as she simply leaned back against her tree and listened to the crashing sound of the rain.
A frightened and whimpering child held nothing against the yawning emptiness expanding within her. He had chosen the worst of times to discover her hidden alcove, and she was not the least bit amused by his pathetic state. And so, the two remained as they were: she, stewing in her anger while listening to the waning storm, and he, in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room.
Dawn came before either realised it, and it was only when they cracked their eyes open as the morning rays of the sun poured in through the window that each realised they had fallen asleep. They boy looked up, finally having seen her, and somehow his reaction was much milder than she was used to. Having seen his pitiful form the previous night, she would have anticipated an alarmed exclamation, some scrambling about, and perhaps he would have even run out, leaving her to continue as though he had never been there.
But he simply stared at her wide-eyed before mumbling a quiet, "I apologise for having imposed on you last night. Thank you for your kindness."
She wanted to shout at him and tell him that he had mistaken her lack of concern for kindness, but, like the rain, her anger seemed to have seeped deep into the ground beneath her, leaving her feeling oddly empty and hollow.
"Do not think you can just waltz in here as you please and get away with an undignified apology and a half-hearted show of gratitude," she finally said, but even her voice did not hold the sharp edge she would have expected to hear.
"My apologies," he said, bowing his head. "I shall take my leave." He rose to his feet slowly, as though his limbs had frozen together overnight. But perhaps they had; although she could not feel the heat or the cold, she was certain the alcove was not the most comfortable place to fall asleep in.
"Do not let me catch you out of bed and stumbling in here on a stormy night once again," she said bitterly as she watched him dust his rather thin night robe. "Behaving in such a cowardly manner, your family should be disgraced."
"I am grateful for your concern," he responded with a small smile, his eyes heavily lidded, as though he was still half asleep. Perhaps he was.
He shuffled out, barely seeming like he was able to stand upright, and she wondered if the boy may have been sleepwalking. What a strange child, she thought to herself, feeling rather conflicted that she may have judged his personality wrongly due to the withdrawn state he had been in the previous night. Sleepwalking, in her day, was believed to be the act of a mischievous fairy, trapping simplistic souls in the land of their dreams for entertainment, so perhaps there was more to the boy than what she had witnessed.
Curiosity overpowering her need for vengeance, she now wanted the boy to return so that she could gauge his character better, and as though hearing her wishes, he reappeared a few weeks later, bright-eyed, with a large welt on his chin.
"I am hiding from my nemesis," he announced with a grin. "I despise him, so I conked him atop the head with my goblet. Gave him a nasty bruise, too."
She blinked at the triumphant expression on her face, completely put off by the change in his personality, as though he was not the same whimpering child from before, and when he proceeded to re-enact the fight, she burst out laughing, feeling her empty, withering soul slowly but surely piece itself back together.
Somehow, it seemed as though the rain had washed away both his and her misery, leaving room for their hearts to blossom and shine warmly like the spring day outside.
"My name is Almerick Sawbridge," he informed her after he had finished narrating his tale. "And I tend to sleepwalk on stormy nights. I don't know why I do it, but Mother told me it has something to do with when I was a child."
"What an odd little boy you are," she mused out loud, and then continued to ask him more about the world on the outside.
"Such a strange place for a portrait," the boy said as he sneezed from the accumulated dust. "Do you like it in here?"
She pursed her lips, unwilling to touch on that subject and said, "I have no choice but to do so."
"Why not?" asked he.
"This is the place I have been given, and it is the place I shall remain till such time that I am removed from this alcove."
Almerick pursed his lips, seemingly unable to understand her complicated reasoning. "But if you hate it so, have you tried asking someone to move you out?"
"Do you think I have not tried?" she snapped, irked by his bright-eyed curiosity and need to pry into her lonely life. "The fopdoodle who put me here used a Permanent Sticking Charm and then went and forgot all about me."
"But surely there is some way to—"
"That is enough out of you," she interrupted, cutting him off. "Do you not have more productive things to do than bother me and get yourself into fights?"
The boy seemed dismayed by her cold treatment, but he was intelligent enough to know not to pursue the subject any further. "If I leave now," said he, "Walden is sure to find me and give me a sound thrashing."
"Perhaps you deserve it," she said unsympathetically.
"Perhaps I do," the boy agreed. "But that does not mean I have to stand back and take the beating."
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, finding his line of reasoning incomprehensible. "Well, off with you! I do not want your friend finding this place and the two of you rolling around here and upsetting the dust."
"Oh, he will not ever find this place," Almerick assured her as he got to his feet. "I shall make sure of that."
She watched him walk towards the gap, but before he left, she said, "Tell me, lad, have you perchance come across a portrait by the name of Mona Lisa?"
The boy looked over his shoulder, a thoughtful expression adorning his slight features. "Do you refer to the one in the Hospital Wing?"
Feeling a knot form in her stomach at the reference to her former home, she said, "The very same."
He made a face. "I do, and I do not particularly like her. She's rather haughty and boastful. The last time I was sent there to heal a nasty bruise, she went on and on about how she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world—even though she is naught but a silly portrait."
The corners of her lips twitched into a smile at that. "Perhaps you should stay for a bit longer and tell me more. Who knows, Walden may be outside, waiting for you."
At that, the boy grinned and sat himself down on the ground before her, beginning the tale of how he had earned the bruise that had sent him to the Hospital Wing.
(He continued to visit her often till the day he left Hogwarts, both while asleep and while awake, always having a new tale of another fight or argument he had gotten into, but it was not very many years later when she heard rumours of a certain Almerick Sawbridge having defeated the largest known river troll, which had threatened people crossing the River Wye for the longest time.)
Circa 1720
Of all the strange children that had stumbled upon her alcove in all the years she had been there, the one seated cross-legged before her, tinkering some sort of peculiar device that looked like a flowerpot, was by far the most mysterious one of them all.
He had arrived through the gap a little after the Christmas feast, pulled out a magically compressed box from the pocket of his robes, expanded it, and had immediately begun fiddling with odd little pieces of junk that he pulled out of the box. He had been so engrossed in whatever it was that he was doing that he had not even noticed her existence till such time that her curiosity had worn off and she had cleared her throat to make her presence known.
His reaction had been much the same as his predecessor: just wide-eyed surprise and a startled grunt before he had asked, "Have you been here all this while?"
But even after that, he had barely paid her any heed, the warped pieces of metal, little springs and other rubbish being the focus of his attention. After that, he had left the box in the alcove and returned everyday for the rest of Christmas vacation, casting a rather skilful barrier charm every time to keep away unwanted visitors from hearing the curious sounds originating from behind a bookshelf.
Sometimes, though, he would spare her some of his attention to explain what exactly he was doing. Not that she necessarily understood the perplexing 'inventions' of his, but she still preferred it over the lonesome days of having nothing to do and no one to talk with.
On one dreary evening, he had announced that he was called Edgar Stroulger, a seventh year student from Ravenclaw House, and he was in the process of making a breakthrough in some 'experiment' or the other, hence she must refrain from speaking to him as it would distract him and shatter his concentration.
She had simply rolled her eyes at that and turned back to flattening a piece of bark from her Juniper tree—she had begun the process of making paper as she had decided that writing a book would be a good use of the abundant amount of time she had on her hands—and had left him to his own devices.
But, after several weeks of prolonged silence from her side and obvious disinterest from him towards anything other than the ridiculous garbage he claimed would revolutionise the wizarding world, she was at the end of her patience. Deciding that she would play a little trick on him—it was rather mean, even by her standards, but she told herself that he deserved it for constantly ignoring an incredibly interesting portrait such as her—she put aside the thick sheets she had weaved and rose to her feet as quietly as possible.
Holding her skirts above her ankles so they would not rustle against the grass, she tiptoed as close to the barrier that separated her from the real world as she could. She then cupped her hands around her lips, leaned forwards, and shrieked loudly, startling Edgar so much that he dropped the little diamond-shaped device in his hand with an exclamation of surprise.
She had expected him to turn towards her angrily and yell insults at her so that they could engage in a silly argument, but the blond boy only eyed his broken creation with an aghast expression on his face. He reached forwards and gingerly picked it up, looking at it from every angle to see if it was damaged beyond repair. She waited patiently with her arms crossed, ready to scream again if she had to, but the rust-coloured object began to whirr in his hands and emit sparks.
He dropped it, cradling his hands to his chest, and the object fell on its tip and started to spin, making screeching sounds. Drawing his wand from within his robes, he poked the spinning top-like device, and it spluttered, emitting little shooting stars from its base as it teetered and fell on its side.
"Serves you right," she said haughtily, raising her chin high, but, yet again, Edgar was not paying any attention to her.
"I have done it!" he exclaimed as he picked up the broken top and held it out for her to see. "I have finally created my masterpiece!"
She clucked her tongue, unimpressed, but her lack of enthusiasm barely dampened his spirits as he did a little dance around the small space singing "I have done it!" over and over again.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she snapped, stomping her foot childishly. "If you are quite finished with your antics, would you kindly leave? I am at the end of my patience, here, and no longer wish to associate myself with you."
"I will leave," he promised as he drew closer to her. "But, first, allow me to tell you about my first successful invention!"
She pursed her lips but nodded nonetheless; listening to him excitedly explain something she could not really understand was far better than him leaving her alone.
"This," said he, holding up the rusted top, "from henceforth, shall be known as the Sneakoscope."
"The what, now?" she asked as she returned to her paper weaves, listening with interest as he went on to explain what the peculiar device was meant to do.
(It was several years later when she found out that Edgar Stroulger's Sneakoscope had become something of a phenomenon in the toy industry, and had, indeed, revolutionised the wizarding world, but perhaps not in the way the creator had intended.)
Prompts:
1. The Biathlon Competition:
15 km Mass Start
All athletes start at the same time, in 3 rows with each 10 athletes. Four shootings have to be completed (2 standing, 2 prone), thereby 20 targets need to be hit. 150 metres penalty round per missed target are to be skied.
1. 1500 words minimum (3 penalties: minimum 1,950)
2. 20 prompts
3. 150 words extra per penalty
Prompts:
fairy
(Choose one): The Irish National Quidditch Team
shooting star
mess
thunder
India (not used)
tower
judge
tide (not used)
duty
price
"I am weak. I feel how life and my courage are slowly flowing out of my body. I am loosing myself."
garden
waltz
reason
shape
insult
flowerpot
Chocolate Frog Card (not used)
Carriage
2. Embrace the Majors Competition
List 2: Humanities based majors' classes: Fine Arts: painting, drawing, sculpting...for those artistically gifted :)
write about: a portrait in some way