Chapter 3
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
"Professor Dumbledore?"
Blue eyes slowly blinked open, and the old man that sat in the painting shifted slightly, his right hand coming up to straighten his half-moon spectacles.
He looked down at the tall boy that stood in front of him, rocking back on his heels, his hands fidgeting with his tie.
Dumbledore allowed a soft smile to creep across his face as he fixed the boy that looked even more like his grandfather than even his father did in his piercing gaze.
"Ah. Young Mr. Potter. What can I do for you, dear boy?"
James glanced awkwardly up at him. "It's-it's not important sir. I was just wondering if you could tell me something about my father."
Dumbledore's eyes immediately sparkled with interest. "Oh?"
A hand came up to rake stray hairs back from where they dangled in the boy's face, and Dumbledore nearly snorted. "Yes. I was wondering... I just... well, you see..."
Quiet laughter made the boy pause, and he looked up to see the wizened headmaster chuckling. Once again, somewhere in the back of his mind, James wondered how one would create an enchanted painting.
"Before one can talk, one must listen. And how could you listen to another when you cannot listen to your thoughts long enough to string together a sentence?" Dumbledore smiled. "Take a breath, James. And begin again."
James nodded his head enthusiastically, black hair bouncing as he did so. "Sorry. I was just wondering if... well, I wanted to know if he was ever afraid."
Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows crinkled as he frowned slightly, taken aback. "Your father?"
At James's nod, he continued. "Of course he was afraid. Many times, in fact, and he did not care who knew. It is not fear that you should be ashamed of; it's whether you take action when you know you must that truly matters. What is the use for bravery if it does nothing to aid in your acting on it?"
James nodded. With his hands in his pockets and his square glasses propped crookedly on his nose, his shirt untucked and tie hanging loosely around his neck, he was painfully similar to his grandfather; the only difference was a small silvery scar that marked the corner of James Sirius's eye, the product of a collision with the Whomping Willow at around fifty miles per hour. ("What do you mean? It was a great idea Eli, poor Jamesie here just didn't duck fast enough!")
"I just... what've I done, what'll I ever do, that could compare to the great Harry Potter. He defeated bloody Voldemort what, four times by the time he was my age? Sorry, Professor," he added hastily when Dumbledore's eyebrow raised at the language.
"My point is, all I'll ever be to the Wizarding World is one of Harry Potter's three children, one of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's nephews, a number, a statistic, a footnote. And who honestly wants that? I think I'd prefer not being remembered at all.
"I know it sounds dramatic, but everything little doubt or insecurity I've ever had seems like pathetic nonsense compare to the shit-er, stuff-that my father had to deal with. I mean, how can I talk to him about it without sounding like a whiny little tot?"
James glanced up and frowned, taken aback.
Dumbledore was fast asleep in his painting, a soft whistling noise punctuating each breath.
James started to say something, to wake him up, but shook his head at the last moment and walked away.
Adults never seemed to listen anyway.
...
But as the annoyed Gryffindor turned and plodded down the sunlit corridor, the blue eyes cracked open again, and a soft smile set upon Dumbledore's face.
As he turned his wizened face toward the golden rays streaming through the windows, once again silently grateful for being hung in such a beautiful place, Dumbledore contemplated an eternity of watching harried students walk the old halls, slowly becoming simply another name and face to be memorized in History of Magic, the great wizard that was revered so many years ago.
And yet, he thought as James disappeared around the corner, he would also get to see the countless generations of wizards growing up, see the descendants of his students populate the halls where their parents once stood. And one thing was for sure; there would always be a child with messy black hair and that same mischievous twinkle in their eyes, willing to continue the family tradition.
There would always be a Potter.
And so, Dumbledore thought, of course everything wouldn't be perfect.
But all was well.
A/N: Hehe... hey, guys...? *flinches and ducks rotten fruit* I am so sorry for being on a... well, two-month hiatus, I guess? It was just really depressing to have to end my favorite story that I've written or even started to write, and plus I've had a really busy summer. Do I have any fans from New England? Because man, I love coming back up here to visit. That's where I'm from, by the way; I live in Mississippi now. Anyone from there either? Anyway, let's just say a lot of family stuff happened. But I'm back now! ...mostly! I'll update either this or The Life Chosen on Monday, whichever one I get inspiration for. Didn't mean to make the A/N this long, just wanted to give you an update. Love you guys, and I hope you know that no matter what you are going through, YOU CAN GET THROUGH IT AND YOU CAN WIN.
~~~J, a friend. "Sanctissimi cordis, quam acerrimi animi!"
