'What do you mean, Malfoy's dead?' asked Hermione, lowering the book she'd been perusing as Harry burst through the door of her room at the Hollow inn.
'How do you know?' Ron asked, perking up from his sprawl across the sofa.
'He's here!' said Harry, rummaging through his satchel.
'Ew!' exclaimed Ron. 'I don't want to see Malfoy parts; not together, and definitely not – split up!'
Hermione hugged the book to her chest, eyes widening. 'What—?'
'Did you have to crumple me?' huffed the piece of parchment Harry pulled from his satchel.
Harry sneered at the distorted image of Malfoy. 'If I could erase your nose, I would! And I can hardly punch a piece of parchment in the face, can I?'
'Oh, do try. Maybe you'll get a papercut.'
'Don't push it!'
'Want me to pull your leg instead?'
'Want me to stomp on you?'
'Harry!' Hermione barked. 'What's going on?'
Harry scowled. 'He started it.'
Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Not that! Why would you say he's – dead?'
'He says he is.'
'And you trust him?' Ron exclaimed, jumping off the sofa. 'Can't you see the little sod is spying on us? Burn the parchment now is what I say!'
Malfoy snorted. 'You mean that's what you're shouting at an incredibly annoying pauper's pitch? Just because burning parchment is the only way you can afford to heat that dungheap you call a home, there's no call for torching your betters.'
'BETTERS?' shrieked Ron, going for the parchment as Harry surprised himself by blocking his friend's clawing attack. 'LET ME AT HIM! Rat-faced little git! I'll just rip him a little bit! Harry, come on!'
'RONALD WEASLEY, calm down!'
Hermione's hands were on firmly her hips, also known as the launching pads for painful slaps. Ron calmed down quickly, if with some blatant effort.
'For one horrible moment, I thought I heard "I'll jus' strip 'im" there,' Malfoy muttered. 'You keep that kinky kook away from me!'
'Shut up!' snapped Hermione, hands twitching.
'Now, is that any way to treat a dead person?'
'You're not DEAD! I'm talking to you, though I honestly don't know why!'
'And of course, you've never talked to a dead person before,' Malfoy drawled.
'Well, you're just a talking picture! There are any number of reasonable—'
'A talking portrait who just insulted the Weasel with no small amount of wit, wouldn't you say, hm?'
Hermione looked about to say that she wouldn't, but then her face fell and she turned white as a very blotchy sheet. Ron, focused wholly on Malfoy, didn't notice.
'I'd say you're a sneaky little bastard who likes tricking people!'
Harry nodded in agreement, though he felt it wise to keep quiet on the subject of Malfoy's general state of corporeal animation. Hermione looked as if she was just about to solve a particularly pesky puzzle, and Harry knew better than to interfere.
Malfoy's left eyebrow wavered as it rose past a crease in the parchment. 'True, in a crude sort of way, although I am a sneaky little magical portrait, and those only come to life—'
'—once the – person is – dead,' Hermione filled in.
'But,' said Harry, 'how do we know this isn't just a – an ordinary picture, like a photograph. They move.'
Ron nodded. 'Yeah!'
'But they don't talk,' said Hermione.
'Some do,' said Ron, pouting slightly.
'Only preset phrases. They don't think. They can't be—'
'Bastards?' Harry offered.
Hermione frowned, but nodded. Her eyes fell on the parchment, and her face, once again, fell with them. 'Oh, Malfoy!'
'Oh, stuff it! Being dead is depressing enough without your faked sentiments, Granger!'
Ron snorted and turned to Hermione. 'Who the hell would paint a portrait of that prat? He's lying!'
'I would,' said Draco. 'And I'm not. Though conning you wouldn't take much effort, I admit.'
'What? You expect us to believe you painted your own portrait? Yeah, right!'
Harry believed it. Just the sort of thing that prissy sod would do. But Harry wasn't one to impose his beliefs on others. Not unless he was just passing them along.
Harry's mind welcomed the interruption of this particular train of thought by Malfoy, speaking up from halfway under Harry's twitching thumb.
'I'm quite good with a brush, actually. Or,' a strange shadow passed over the parchment, 'I was good at it.'
Ron snorted, and then the past tense of that second sentence hit him, as it had already hit Harry. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Hermione, ever the knowledge-seeker, said, 'But how—'
'—did I die?' Malfoy finished. 'That is what I'm hoping to find out.'
'You don't know?' said Ron, eyes wide.
'Of course I don't, you imbecile. Last thing I remember is imprinting my – self on the canvas. That's how it works!'
Ron and Harry looked as one towards Hermione, eyebrows rising in unison.
'Really, Potter, you and the Weasel should look into whether Granger here is some sort of cerebral vampire, sucking your last remaining braincells out so that she can use you both as mindless sex toys.'
As Ron produced an inarticulate sound of outrage somewhere deep in his throat, Harry purposely ignored the worrying look of interest underlying Hermione's impressive blush of utter mortification.
'Ehm. I. Well. Yes. That's how it – works,' Hermione stuttered, recovering rather too quickly for Harry's liking. 'Usually, the witch or wizard imprints new memories – or brain configurations, really – at regular intervals. But unless he was killed when making the new imprint, the memory of his death would never be copied. It's not a ghost, just a – very complex portrait.'
'So,' said Harry, 'it's not really him, then?'
'Not really, no.'
At this, Ron perked up a bit. 'So he's not even a person? Just a picture?'
'Well,' Hermione hesitated, 'technically.'
'Oh, great set of values there, Granger. You fight for house elves who just think you're crazy for bothering, but you tell me I'm not a person. Thank you very much.'
Ron, utterly unmoved, sniggered. 'And you call me stupid. You haven't even got a brain! Besides, you've always been a loser. Just look at the mess you made of your first little Death Eater job—'
'I was clever enough to outsmart the lot of you,' snapped Malfoy. 'Even with Potter's bloodhound act. I swear, he's like that bloody Black reborn.'
Harry's fingers dug into the parchment. 'Watch it, Malfoy! Parchment's easily ripped!'
'See? Like a rabid, homicidal dog! And this is your Chosen One? Maybe I should shift allegiances again.'
'Maybe you should go to hell in an origami basket.'
'Harry!' cried Hermione, pushed into full pity-the-dead-guy mode by Malfoy's pointed house elf comment.
But Harry wasn't listening. 'Wait a minute. What do you mean, shift allegiances again?'
Malfoy sniffed. 'I hardly expect you to help me out of the goodness of your little Gryffindor hearts, you know. Or, actually,' he frowned, 'I do. But I suppose some sentimental part of me hoped there would be a little Slytherin in you after all.'
Harry leaned closer to the parchment, sneering. 'Wish granted.' His thumb twisted the parchment further. Hermione glared. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
'I offer you – information.'
'About how it feels to watch paint dry?'
'It's riveting, but no. If you help me find out what happened to me, I'll help you find a way to Voldemort's heart, in the non-figurative sense. Which really, for me, is a win-win situation. I get closure and, through you, revenge.'
Harry blinked. 'Voldemort killed you?'
'Much as I hate to admit it, I think he delegated. But in principle, yes.'
'But,' said Hermione, 'why?'
'As the Weasel so eloquently put it, I made a bit of a mess of things,' drawled Malfoy, and there was a peculiar firmness to the closing of his mouth. There would be no more said on this subject. At least not by him. Harry sighed.
'So you want to help us?'
'Want is such a strong word.'
'What an extraordinary likeness! It's that pointy-faced Malfoy runt! I say!' exclaimed Horace Slughorn when Harry held up the Malfoy parchment for inspection.
'You say too much,' snapped Malfoy. 'I'm as tall as Potter and my face is chiselled!'
Slughorn bobbed backwards. 'I say! It speaks!'
'And thinks before it does so,' muttered Malfoy.
'It's a magical painting,' Hermione filled in, moving up beside Harry. She'd been the one to insist they head for Hogwarts without delay to verify Malfoy's story. Harry and Ron had both agreed, eventually, to brave long-distance Disapparating, the latter to verify Malfoy's death for entirely selfish reasons and the former to prove Malfoy a liar. Harry knew that Malfoy always lied, and tricked, and cheated. This death thing would be no different.
'But,' said Slughorn, squinting at Malfoy, 'that would mean…'
'I've kicked it, yes. And now I can't kick much of anything. I'm not even sure I have any legs.'
'Indeed? How extraordinary!'
'I can see you're all torn up about it.'
Harry turned the parchment around and glared. 'You'll be all torn up if you don't keep quiet!'
'Well, well,' Slughorn rubbed his hands together and turned around, ignoring the sniping behind him, 'this must be researched, examined, thoroughly looked into! You've come to the right man, Harry my boy, the right man!'
'It took my dying to make him notice me,' sniffed Malfoy as Slughorn bounced from shelf to shelf, browsing the massive collection of books that took up most of his Hogwarts workroom. 'How very Slytherin.'
'You never stopped taking notice of us,' said Ron, being charged with keeping an eye on Malfoy while Hermione and Slughorn researched and Harry was busy scowling. 'What does that make you? An insane Hufflepuff in Slytherin clothing?'
'He's really just paying attention to me as Potter's tag-along though,' said Malfoy, contemplating the ceiling.
'He does that,' Ron muttered.
'Shut up. I refuse to have anything in common with you … you commoner.'
'Feeling's mutual.'
'Now what did I just say? No 'mutual', no 'in common', no 'shared hate'! No abstract nor physical thing shall ever touch the both of us! Get it?'
Ron appeared deep in thought, then said, 'Not if you've got it.'
'There's a good Weasel.'
'Ferret.'
'Same family of small, nasty animals. Too close. You will henceforth refer to me as—'
'Doodle?'
'I hate you.'
'You're definitely dead,' said Slughorn, sitting in an oversized armchair with Malfoy propped up against a three heavy tomes opposite him. 'There has been no recorded case of a magical painting being animated before the death of its subject.'
Hermione shifted uneasily on the couch next to Harry whose stomach churned with disappointment that Malfoy hadn't told a lie, because that clearly mattered more than his being actually dead and gone forever save one enervating, perfectly crappy painting.
'You don't say,' drawled Malfoy, and his bored glance was met with steely glares from both Harry and Ron. Slughorn cleared his throat.
'But there was also the matter of your turning up in this particular piece of parchment. Magical paintings of your type can usually only move between paintings featuring the same subject plus, in some cases, others that have been magically linked together. I would certainly love to hear how you managed to find Potter.'
Malfoy blinked. 'I . . . was stuck, for a long while. And then there was an . . . opening. Something else. I went there and found Saint Potter staring down at me. Thought I'd come to Hell at first.'
'Then,' said Slughorn as Harry snorted behind him, 'there's only one explanation.' Hermione leaned forward. 'Your image was already on the parchment.'
'What?' exclaimed Hermione. 'That's not possible! How could Harry have wound up with one of Malfoy's discarded sketches?'
'It would have been a sketch, yes,' said Slughorn, turning to Hermione, 'but anyone could have done it.' His gaze slid over to Harry who couldn't stop the redness creeping up his cheeks.
'I was . . . working out my aggression. I . . . use them for target practice.'
'Them?' cried Ron, horrified. 'More than one?'
'Well,' mumbled Harry, his eyes accusing the floor of most terrible misdoings.
'You sketch me?'
'Aggression.'
'More like insanity, you Potty pervert.'
'Still,' said Hermione, more loudly than strictly necessary, 'the important thing is that we can be fairly sure this isn't some trick. And however vile Malfoy is, he can help us.'
Harry and Ron felt moved to protest but were stopped by Hermione suddenly towering over them. 'And we can't waste time bickering!' she concluded.
As the boys prepared to follow the formidable Hermione into Hell and back, Professor Slughorn called Harry to him.
'May we speak in private?' Slughorn whispered, casting a glance over Harry's shoulder.
Harry looked down at Malfoy who narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. 'Granger's already established me as a non-entity. Just keep pretending as if I'm not here and have no feelings or rights whatsoever—' The rest was muffled by crumpling parchment, the swishing of air, and the rather pathetic thud Malfoy made as he hit the back of Ron's head.
'Take him outside and … iron him.'
'Rabid dog!' rang loud and clear through folds of parchment.
'Yes?' said Harry, turning back to Slughorn. He heard the door close behind him.
Slughorn was quiet for a long moment, studying Harry's face in a most disquieting fashion. His forehead wrinkled. Harry squirmed from the waist down, hoping Slughorn would stay focused on his face.
'What are your feelings for the Malfoy boy?' Slughorn asked at long last.
'What? I have no feelings for him! What do you mean?' Harry took two steps back, shoulders hunched, brow creasing.
'You're a powerful wizard, my boy, no questioning that, but to make a magical painting, much less a magical sketch, takes . . . passion.'
'I hate him with a fiery passion.'
Slughorn nodded. 'Funny,' he murmured, 'his features were more chiselled than I remember. Not as pointedly lifelike, or indeed deadlike, as one might have . . . expected. Hm?'
Harry didn't care one bit for the look on Slughorn's bloated face, turned on his heel and stormed out.
tbc
A/N: I work as a teacher these days, so I have little time to spend on fanfic. However, I can tell the story if I don't bother too much about editing etc. The (short) chapter above is an example of something written rather quickly and not edited beyond what happens during the writing of draft 0/1. Also, there's a distinct case of 'talking heads syndrome', partly because I'm currently writing a play for one of my English classes (see my Author page if you want to read it).
What I would like to know is: Do you think this is good enough, or should I simply cancel the story? Would you keep reading if this is the kind of material I post?