Lost Memories

Chapter 7

"We thought, well Sirius thought you should have a bit of your past, because he knew you felt like you were missing something," his father said softly. He could tell Harry was upset, even if he was just a painting. The real Sirius had talked for hours to the painting, letting everything be known, how much he hated Peter, how much he loved Harry; how he wished he would've given his life to save Harry, because he deserved so much more than a convicted criminal for a godfather.

Harry looked at the painting of his father, wondering how real they were. Did they think on their own? Did they have the traits of his father, of the real Lupin and Sirius?

Starring back at him was Sirius, who wanted to tell the boy everything, of how his real godfather had loved him like a son, how he had used paint remover to clear Peter Pettigrew from the painting, how he wanted to teach the boy everything he knew, but he'd never have that chance.

"Fine, but I'm not you," Harry said before correcting himself, "him." He starred at the painting of his father. Their hair was exactly the same, but their eyes so different. His father bore no scar upon his head, he had died. He was the man that died while his son was the boy who lived.

A tear fell from Harry's eye, he couldn't keep his emotions bottled up and he knew it. He wiped away the tear but couldn't help it when more continued to fall. He was angry and sad at the same time. Harry turned his back on the painting.

"He cried too," Harry heard a voice from the painting say. He turned around to see only Sirius starring back at him.

"Who?" Harry said as he wiped another tear away. "My father?" he asked wondering if the painting was going to look at him as his father as much as Sirius did.

"No, oh no, your father never had to cry," the painting replied. Harry was unsure if he wanted to listen to the painting, what could it know? It was just a painting and Harry didn't want to think of it any other way.

"This painting used to hang in your living room, where your mother set your pram to catch the morning light," the painting said. Harry took a step back. This painting, these people had seen him. They had watched him as a baby; they knew something of his past, even if they were just paintings. "You were a rambunctious child, walking at just nine months. Your father wanted to set you on a broom right away; he did once, when your mother was away. You got it to rise a good meter before Remus convinced him to take you off."

Another tear fell from his eye. He was unsure how to feel. He had only spent one year with his parents, one year. But here was a memory he'd never know, a memory if it wasn't for Sirius, he'd have never known. Harry sat down and leaned against the bed, listening to the painting.

"Not so angry now? Ready to listen to the stories we know?" the man said. He had a smile on his face and he looked happy, as if he too loved the boy. "Bet you'd like to hear one about your mother. Hm… let me think."

Harry looked at the painting waiting for it to tell him a story, how many did it know? How many could it tell him before he had heard them all? He would hear them again; he'd never tire of them.

"Yes, I know that you have a picture of her and your father, that picture was in his parents' house. I reckon they can tell you of your grandparents," the painting said, still thinking. "Ah, yes, how could I forget? Your mother, you're beautiful mother, her green eyes and those beautiful locks, reminds me of Ginny Weasley."

Harry took in a sharp breath, "Yes, I know her, painted my hand back on after Sirius removed Peter," the painting said as it shook his right hand then admired it as if it were a diamond.

"Well, your mother, always sang you to sleep, we could hear it in the living room, put us to sleep too. She was sick for an entire week, couldn't sing, or talk for that matter, made your father sing to you. Didn't help much, you just cried and looked at your mother with those emerald green. She had to rock you for an hour before you fell asleep those nights," the painting smiled at Harry.

He was imagining his mother rocking in a chair with a small baby with jet black hair and a smooth forehead. The tears fell quickly now, growing heavier until they couldn't any bigger and were giant and fell heavily to his robes.

"Back to the tears again," the painting said, his words soft and soothing, "Just like Sirius."

Harry wiped a tear away, "Like Sirius?" he asked wanting to know why his godfather had cried. He seemed like a strong man, the kind that didn't have any emotion except anger and happiness. Sirius was not like Harry; or rather Harry was not like Sirius. He could never be as strong as Sirius had been, he could never be the man Sirius was.

"Don't believe it?" the painting asked as Harry ran his hand through his already messy hair. "Yes, tears don't show weakness, boy. They show pain yes, emptiness, loss, not weakness."

Harry hadn't been brought up to think that. He had always believed that to cry was weakness. If he shed a tear while Dudley used him as a punching bag, he was weak and useless, and it often caused the boy to hit him harder. He fought to keep tears back, even when he was around Ron he fought them back, not wanting to seem weak in front of his friend, even though on the rare occasion they let their defenses down.

"Fawkes saved your life with his tears," the painting said as it leaned its elbows on the frame of the painting. "Your godfather cried, he didn't want anyone to know, but he did. He would shut the curtains and we knew tears were falling."

Harry was unsure if he wanted to hear the story the painting was telling him. Did he want to hear about the times Sirius had cried? Did he want to intrude on the pain his godfather had? No, he wanted it kept secret, and I won't listen to it.

"Stop, I don't want to hear this," he said as he stood with power. He always seemed to hold great power when he felt something was wrong. It seemed as if the wind was blowing his robes and hair back, making his scar visible.

"Well, I'm glad you've finally joined us," the painting said confusing the boy. "Knew you were in there some where."

Harry wanted to storm out of the room, to leave the painting, which he was thinking was slightly senile. He didn't want to hear a story about Sirius crying or some odd story about who he really was, but he didn't move. He stood there, his feet planted and his eyes fixed on the painting.

"Sirius is gone, I'm gone," the painting said forcefully, "I'm not coming back, neither is James, or Lily."

Harry hated the way the painting was talking to him, as if he didn't know these things already. Harry new quite well his parents were gone forever and were never coming back and he knew his godfather was also gone forever.

"I know this," he said his voice slightly angry.

"You're wrong," the painting said. "Sirius, I, we always hated clichés. Over done we always say, but this one maybe is new to your ears. They're in you. They'll always be in your heart and when you forget that they're, we're in these paintings.

"I know you don't want to get attached to us, to think that we really are your family, we're not. We're their voices; they told us everything, knowing one day something bad could happen."

Harry was unsure what was happening to him. Was he to believe this painting? Did they know everything about him and his parents? Maybe, but maybe he was just holding onto a false hope. He wanted so bad for these paintings to be something they weren't, to be his parents and his godfather.

"No, Harry, we aren't the real thing," the painting said solemnly. It seemed as if it wished it were real, it seemed so much like his godfather. "But we love you as much as they do."

Harry looked away from the painting, as the closed doors. He wanted to run again, to get away from his problems, away from the paintings that wouldn't leave him alone, but he stayed. He was done running.

"You're not real, none of the paintings are. My parents are gone and so is Sirius," Harry said angrily to the painting.

"No, Harry," the painting replied. It was determined for him to understand, "They're in your heart, you're mum always said that saying was the most common muggle saying when someone died. They're always be alive in you're heart. You grew up with muggles," the painting pleaded, wanting Harry to stop feeling so much pain.

"I grew up with muggles because my parents are dead," Harry said forcefully, "and because that rat, Wormtail, betrayed my parents and Sirius."

"Fine, take the easy way out, just like that rat," the painting spat at the boy, turning to the last option he had. He had to get him angry so he could realize what he had. "Run away from it Harry, it will be perfect, you can have another weight on your shoulders."

"I'm nothing like Wormtail," Harry said angrily as he took a step toward the painting.

The painting fought back a smile, Harry had taken the bait, "Good, then don't run away."

Harry didn't say anything he just stood their firmly waiting for the painting to say something else. He waited but it didn't reply.

"Are you done then?" he asked thinking he had finally won, but he didn't realize they weren't fighting each other, but a common enemy, that hole in his heart.

"Done, I won't be done until you realize that you made the hole in your heart, that emptiness is because of you, not the deaths of your parents and Sirius."

Harry wanted to run again, there was no winning against a painting; it was a painting, and a painting of Sirius at that. Sirius was a strong man, physically, magically, and emotionally, he would hold strong and defeat Harry, no matter how hard Harry tried, he would fail.

"I'm not James and I'm not Sirius, I'm not that strong," Harry finally admitted, hoping he would finally be able to be rid of the argument.

"Harry, you are stronger, you're the boy who lived. You have the power to defeat Voldemort, they didn't. You're stronger because they love you."

A/N: You've taken the time to read... so please review!