A/N For entertainment only, not profit being made. First written for the 30minutefic livejournal community.
Phineas missed many things about the life he had before he became a portrait.
Strawberries, for one. The portrait often wondered if Dumbledore left sugared strawberries sitting on the desk for the express purpose of tormenting him.
The feel of his wife's dressing gown beneath his hands for another, though he did his best not to think of that.
But sometimes he thought that he could endure all if only he had been allowed to read. The sheer weight of boredom and growing ignorance of the world outside Hogwarts was worse than any hunger.
Phineas had taken to wandering the library paintings at night. He could peruse the new titles for a hint of what he was missing. A few of the books would even read themselves aloud if one caught them in the proper mood.
During one of these midnight strolls, he noticed a soft glow coming from a corner in the Restricted Section. The prospect of catching a student in the midst of mischief tantalized his old headmaster instincts. He eased his way from landscape to seascape, stepping lightly to avoid waking sleeping dragons and raising a gloved finger to his lips to keep a startled shepherd from alerting his prey to his presence. Soon he was standing directly behind a student who appeared deeply absorbed in a text on time-delayed poisons. For a few moments, his vantage point allowed him to read over her shoulder, but when she moved her head, her bushy hair obscured his view.
Projecting his voice to echo through the quiet stacks he announced, "If you are fascinated by unique methods of bringing about someone's demise, you might care to examine Rinalix's journals on the subject."
The girl jumped, but recovered her composure quickly to scoff that, "Rinalix has not been considered a legitimate authority on potions since the turn of the century. Once his grandson published the notes that proved his results had more to do with Imperio than powered moonstone, he quickly fell out of favor."
"Ah. Well, I seem to have fallen a bit behind in my reading over the past 217 years," the portrait said in a slightly brittle tone. "You will have to excuse me. I must now go and report a wayward Gryffindor who is loose in the Restricted Section after hours."
"Wait," Hermione said, stepping closer. "Please don't tell. They'll take points and Harry is frightfully set on winning the House Cup his final year."
Phineas rolled his eyes. "It is such a comfort to hear that the future of the Wizarding World is resting on a brat more focused on defeating the Hufflepuffs than the Death Eaters."
Hermione shrugged. "It gives him something else to think about. Surely we can come to some sort of an agreement."
"What are you implying, Miss Granger?" the former headmaster asked with perfectly modulated innocence.
"I am trying to offer you a bribe," she answered, her voice hinting at impatience.
Phineas tut -tutted. "You believe Slytherins to be so easily bought? That our loyalties routinely go up on the block to the highest bidder?"
Hermione crossed her arms in front of her. "Come on, there has to be something that you want."
"I fear my current situation leaves me unable to take full advantage of either maids or money," he retorted for the pleasure of shocking her.
Hermione made an exasperated face. "I was thinking you might enjoy having someone read to you." Her voice softened, "I saw the look you've been giving the shelves behind me. I've felt the same expression on my own face, usually when Madame Pince marches me out at wand-point, declaring, 'Even if you do not require sleep, my books do!'"
"I fear spending my hours listening to a Gryffindor would not be conducive to preserving my terrible reputation," he said with forced archness.
Hermione's face stretched into a broad grin. "I won't tell if you won't."
And so Phineas settled back into his chair and let her voice wash over him, explaining several new developments in the use and treatment of poisons.
Yes, certainly this was better than strawberries.