The cork slips out of the bottle with a satisfying pop. It truly is the best noise in the world, signalling times of friendship and my favourite hobby in the world aside from drinking: gossiping.
Deep burgundies, tart fruits and…perhaps chocolate would fill my nostrils could I smell, but I'm a portrait, so I can't. Nonetheless, I can still imbibe, and the gossip session with Violet, the lady who lives in the painting next to mine, has become a regular thing since we first met up all those years ago. Once, twice, sometimes even three times a week we get together, sharing a bottle of merlot as we spill the tea about what the students of Hogwarts are up to.
Living in a castle full of raging hormones can be entertaining.
After pouring myself a glass, I settle into one of the chairs at the small round table I added to my portrait a few weeks ago and close my eyes, drinking in the peace and quiet. Most of the kids are away for the holidays, meaning I'm not getting bothered as often as usual. Which is nice. Teenagers give me a headache. Or perhaps that's the horrific hangovers?
"Sorry I'm late, Gertie," Violet says as she hurries in, almost barging straight into my chair.
So much for a quiet moment. Sitting upright, I reply, "Where've you been? I checked your portrait but it's been empty most of the afternoon."
"I've been over in the Headmistress's Tower."
"What were you doing all the way over there?"
"It was right…what the Monkey said, I mean."
Frowning, I hurry to fill Violet's glass with the deep red liquid. My friend's face is set in an unusual look—dark circles take the place of the usual pink patches over her cheeks and her usually smooth curls are full of frizz. Even her chest is flushed, I hope with excitement and not annoyance. It seems she has a lot of gossip to dish out.
But she doesn't share the news straight away. Instead, she straightens her dress and picks up the glass, her nails and jewellery clattering against the side as she lifts it to her mouth and takes a long swig. Just as it looks like she's going to drain the whole thing in one go, she slams it back on the table and gestures for me to top it up.
Still, she doesn't speak.
"So, what's this about what the Monkey was saying?" I probe, my skin crawling with the need to hear the latest. The Monkey portrait is in a prime position—on the wall outside the Headmistress's office—and he listens in to all of the conversations taking place between Professor McGonagall and her visitors. Sometimes if he thinks the situation is important, he takes notes for us, although I have no idea who taught him how to write.
Violet unfolds a piece of parchment and my heart races. If I had a mirror in my portrait, I'm sure my reflection would show my eyes sparkling with joy, too. Leaning forward, I ignore my wine as I wait with bated breath for Violet to speak.
"The Monkey had a lot to say this afternoon. I sat for hours with him as he oohed and aahed and scratched his head. It was worth us spending all that time working out how to interpret his mono-syllabic grunts and non-sensical gestures, because I have got the biggest cup of tea we've ever drunk."
Great, now what about the gossip? Her delays are infuriating, and I resist the urge to snap at my friend to get on with it. Despite the castle walls being full of paintings, I don't have many pals who enjoy spending the time gossiping with me, and if I were to lose Violet, my days would be a whole lot gloomier.
But that doesn't stop me from wishing she'd hurry the heck on.
Digging my fingernails into the table cloth so hard tiny crescent moons appear in the linen, I bite my tongue and keep my gaze fixed on Violet.
She takes another drink of the wine, this time a dainty sip, before clearing her throat and reading, "It was the Yule Ball last night, right? McGonagall retired to her living quarters earlier than expected. And it just so happens that young Mister Weasley popped by to visit her."
"Percy?" I can't stop the enquiry from slipping from my lips, even though I'm keen to learn more. He was always my favourite of the millions of ginger-haired siblings that tumbled through my portrait hole, and I still hold a soft spot for him now.
"No." Violet scoffs. If looks could kill, the parchment I'm painted on would be burning with the rage of a thousand fire salamanders right now. "Ronald."
"Ronald? What was he doing back here? He didn't exactly get on when he was a student, so why would he be back at the castle?"
Every hand-painted inch of me aches for the answers to my questions. My heart hasn't ceased its pounding since Violet unfurled the parchment, and the wine in front of me does nothing to quench my now dry mouth.
"Well, that's the goss. Apparently, the lanky lad—who has filled out his bean-pole like gangliness since graduating—has been holding auditions to find a suitable girl who could pretend to be the Lost Witch. And he showed up, the night of the Yule Ball, with a young witch who he was claiming was the real Hermione Granger. Even had a fake diadem made, probably to make it all look more genuine."
I gasp, clutching my hand to my heart. "He tried to defraud Minevra?" I whisper, unwilling to speak the words any louder for fear of disturbing the rest of my neighbours, even though they are listening in to us. Nosy sods.
Violet nods, her eyes wide even as her fingers play with the piece of paper in front of her. "McGonagall reckons he was trying to hoodwink her for the reward money."
"Well, the Weasley family has always been poor, so it doesn't surprise me."
"Exactly, my dear. The lengths some people go to."
"What happened next? I bet McGonagall wasn't the most impressed."
"Oh she was livid, Gertie. Threw them both out of the office, as she's in her right to do. But it didn't stop there."
"Don't tell me it got worse?"
Lips tightening, Violet pauses and I know it's only for dramatic effect. Yet the witch has me hook, line and sinker. I'm perched on the edge of my chair, the hard plastic digging a painful line into my ample buttocks and my chest is pressed into the wooden table. So slowly, I could have sworn someone had cast Impedimenta on her, Violet's mouth unfurls into a grimace and she lowers her voice before saying, "The poor girl he dragged along with him knew nothing about the ruse. She was only a tiny thing, and although she was wearing a beautiful blue dress for the party, it was clear she wasn't from money. It didn't look right, you know? Well, once she caught onto the wicked Weasley boy's plan, she attacked him."
"Attacked him? In the corridors of Hogwarts?"
"Right outside of the Headmistress's office. She lifted her wand, and screamed 'Oppugno!' at him—"
"I've never heard of that charm before."
"Well, it's not surprising. An aria of yellow canaries came flying out of the witch's wand and attacked Weasley. And they wouldn't stop, even when the girl left. And that's not the juiciest part of the gossip."
"There's more?"
"When he was alone, and the birds finally disappeared, the guy sank onto the floor, calling after the girl. Her name was Mya, apparently. The Monkey reckons he's never seen anyone look so heartbroken in his life. Ronald's arms were covered in scars from the attack, yet he only seemed upset about the fact this Mya had left him."
"He's in love."
The words are out of my mouth straight away, and although I didn't witness the event myself, I've never been so sure of anything before in my life. Hundreds of children have passed through Gryffindor Tower. I've watched fights, make-ups and make-out sessions—although I don't encourage the latter for too long, I have responsibilities, you know.
But my friend nods in agreement. "That's what I suspect too. It happens to all of us, even the gingers."
Playing with the stem of my glass, I digest the words my best friend has shared with me. The Lost Witch? Her return would give the whole Wizarding World hope again. Not to mention Professor McGonagall, who has been alone for so long. The war has been hard on everyone, and the community is still healing. Learning Hermione is alive and well is almost too good to be true.
Maybe next time.
"I've asked the Monkey to keep me updated. Now, you mentioned last week about the time you caught Remus Lupin sneaking out of the common room after curfew with that Black boy. Walburga Black would be rolling in her oil paints if she knew. Tell me more about it."
The change of topic pushes my depressive thoughts to the back of my mind as my stomach swoops with glee. This is what I'm good at, tales of students from past and present. Taking a long swig of my drink, let the warm liquid slosh around my mouth. Only once I've swallowed do I speak again, "Well, it was the summer term of 1979…"