Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 10: The Creed
The guard yawned at the corner, desperate for a break so he could puff a Muggle cigarette.
He glanced at his watch; the exhibition still had an hour before closing, but the crowd had thinned considerably. The only visitors left in this gallery were a group of friends, likely Hogwarts students of lower years who had gathered for a summer outing; there was also a blond middle-aged man resting on the bench, looking intently through the rain-speckled windows at the streets below.
The young group was mostly female and the guard was not surprised. There had been flocks of teenage girls who had lingered here for the past month, staying much longer than necessary for an educational experience - which if it were, they probably would not have shown up in the first place.
The war was, afterall, just another lesson in history for them.
The guard had actually pulled aside one of the lasses and asked her who Harry Potter was. She looked genuinely confused; then, like everyone else, she congregated in front of the centerpiece and swooned at the painting, oblivious that it was of said hero.
Despite the giggles endured for the past month giving him a permanent headache, the guard admitted it a brilliant tactic for the Ministry to hire Thomas, one of the most celebrated pop artist in both the muggle and wizarding world, to open the 40th anniversary victory celebration. Hopefully, these young wizards would have some idea who Harry Potter was after they studied the exhibits.
The guard pushed his elbows against the wall as he stood straight, and soon he found himself standing once again in front of the painting. Even with the visitors obstructing the lower half of the artwork, he could still appreciate the now famous portrayal of the war hero. The face was youthful and strikingly handsome, the almond shaped eyes shone in a stunning green, the bridge of the nose tall and straight, and the red lips thinned slightly to capture an air of determination. The eyebrows were like two daggers that accentuated the ferocity in the eyes, the jet-black hair a wild yet stylized tousle; the spectacles were barely visible, the frame a feather of slender curve on his cheek. The build was perfect too; the shoulders were wide, the neck long, and the tight shirt he was wearing could barely conceal the ripple of thin muscles bulging on the arms.
To put it simply, the guard sniggered to himself, nothing like the real man.
The guard had the fortune to greet Harry Potter at the launch of the exhibition. Potter had just given the opening speech, stuttering painfully as expected of him on such occasions. He made his round afterwards, a tumbler of firewhisky in hand, the effects of alcohol evident in the reddened ears as he finally set foot in this gallery. The head Auror was average looking and surprising slight for his legendary reputation; with a smile he nodded graciously in the guard's direction, his free hand absentmindedly tugging the grey hair as if not knowing where to place it. His movements were awkward, his demeanor almost shy, and the guard found him oddly endearing.
To the guard's surprise, Potter did not attempt to suppress a hearty chuckle when he saw the centerpiece, shaking his head mildly as he studied his own face; a faint grimace ghosted his features for a split second as the green eyes scanned downward, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He turned and raised his eyebrows towards the guard, who responded by an exaggerated twist of the neck, surveying the painting before returning his attention to the man, his eyes narrowed as if making a wholehearted effort to distinguish between the two.
In retrospect, the guard did not know what gave him the courage at that moment, but Harry Potter was clearly amused. He laughed and gave a pat on his shoulder as he left, and the guard was embarrassed to admit that he was star struck.
During his hours at the gallery, the guard had replayed that moment over and over again in his mind, wondering why nobody else had reacted to the painting as its subject did. He had been particularly watchful of the expression of the more elderly visitors, those who should remember the frequent headlines about the young hero during and immediately after the war, or had even attended school with him. Occasionally he could find a trace of bewilderment on their faces, but never any objections or ridicule.
Perhaps it was expected, history being written by winners throughout the ages, and he was the odd one who found the artwork rather comical.
The sudden quietness siphoned the guard's thoughts back to the present.
The teenagers had departed, leaving the man on the bench the only visitor in the gallery. He had probably been waiting for the relative privacy; now that he was alone, his hand lifted to adjust his cloak, reaching to pull down the sleeves as he rose. The face finally turned towards the center of the room.
If this man were on the painting, the guard observed, no one would ever find a reason to veer from what met the eye. Handsome was not a proper word; he was not strictly good looking, but rather, his features were so strikingly angular that they were at the same time stunning and terrible. The visage was an artist's dream, an imagery that few could forget, and his own heart skipped a beat under the scrutiny of the cold grey irises. He could feel them judging him, and could almost believe that if they found him unworthy, the hands below would not hesitate for one second to make the kill.
The guard slowly backed to the corner as the man advanced, his well-worn leather boots tapping a soft rhythmic echo on the wooden floor.
The man stood squarely before the centerpiece, his vision first drawn to the face of Harry Potter. The eyes softened, the steel around the pupils rapidly dissolving into a liquid pool of derisive glee. The guard could feel excitement welling up his chest; here came someone who could identify with him.
The smile on the man's face was a cross between a grin and a smirk as the eyes traveled downward.
It froze. The hands hidden under the sleeves closed into tight fists, their white knuckles readily observable against the dark hem of the traveling cloak.
The air was so still that the guard did not dare to take a single breath. After a full minute of deadly calmness, he finally managed to summon sufficient courage to tiptoe behind the man, wondering what could have caused such a soundless yet violent reaction.
The full view of the painting appeared before him. Harry Potter was still there, surreally attractive and well-built, flying on a broomstick. The guard looked down, surveying the backdrop near the base of the painting, filled with details that were equally impressive but few had paid attention to. A devil's fire was burning, sending flames of raging beasts that threatened to devour the young hero and his companion, whose arms held tightly onto Potter's waist from the rear. Despite the face almost fully buried in his back, the flaming red hair and freckles on the flushed cheek left little imagination as to who the companion could be.
The guard was perplexed; he failed to see what could be startling or offensive. Isn't this what fairy tales were made of? A hero and his love, whose heart he had won by a life saving mission into the abyss? The couple that would be hailed King and Queen of the land, who would ride into the sunset for a happily ever after?
A piercing snicker shattered the air around him. Seconds of quietness followed. Then came another snicker. Silence reigned again before the third attacked. Suddenly the man burst into laughter, his head swung back, his palm pressed on his chest as if the scene was so riotously uproarious that he could suffocate from the sight of it. The laugh morphed into a howl between breathless gasps and the space reverberated with the hysteria, chilling and eerie that the guard could do nothing but tremble in his spot.
He watched powerlessly as the man finally turned and strode out of the gallery, his cloak casting a long shadow in the first and last beam of the evening sun.