Oil Painted Tears

Harry crept side on towards the guardian gargole and whispered to it nervously the password "Marzipan grass".

The unsuspecting gargole leapt a mile. Startled, it snapped, "What business do you have creeping up here in the dead of night?".

Harry visibly cringed at the word - 'dead'. He shook his head quickly to expel the thoughts lingering in the back of his mind.

Forsaken.

Coming back into himself, he replied sharply, "None of your business, just let me in."

The gargole snorted disapprovingly but obeyed, shifting out of the way to allow Harry access to the cramped spiral staircase.

Harry slipped up them, keeping to the shadows and desperately hoping that the lodgings at the top were empty of living occupants.

As he stretched a hand towards the ornate doorknob, he paused listening and compressing his racing thoughts.

'Did he really want to enter this room?'

It held so many memories of that night...That night of truth.

His emotions won over his head and he twisted the knob smartly and pushed the heavy door ajar, then gaping wide.

The room was blissfully dark, a comfort of the last few days in the sun, under the constant bright glare of the surrounding students.

Always having to act happy, and carefree, and...over it.

Stepping into the room, he cocked an ear, listening intently and, eyes adjusting to the gloom, saw exactly what, or perhaps it should be whom he was wanting to see.

The portrait.

His only link, however remote, to Sirius.

Phineas Nigellus.

Drawing closer, Harry's legs seemed to give up, felling him gently to the plush carpet at just below eye level to the sleeping Phineas. Harry drew back from breaking down, but he wasn't able to hold back a quiet hiccupping sob.

The elegantly poised portrait stirred restlessly in his sleep and snuffled irritably. Harry relaxed and turned to gazing upon the picture's face, searching for a resemblance.

"Why are you staring at me, you insolent youth?" demanded an arrogant voice.

Harry fell over backwards, and struggled to sit up again.

The portrait smiled sadly. "Don't worry."

Phineas's voice shrank as he turned away into his background. "I know." He bitterly scrubbed at his eyes with an elaborately lacey handkerchief from somewhere unseen.

Harry fought back tears. Someone who felt the same way, even if only in a pride sense.

It must be sad, mused Harry tearfully, to have lost the last member of one's family and be dead and partially inhabiting a picture frame.

Phineas could either read minds or thought the same way as Harry did. For he, as if answering Harry's very thoughts, made a feeble attempt to console Harry, and perhaps, himself.

"I suppose we are in the same boat, in a manner of speaking. No family. Or true friends...." He sighed.

Harry had the willpower to nod quickly before giving in to the flood of tears. He huddled at the bottom of the portrait, face pressed to the frame, eyes tightly shut.

Phineas had never seen a child cry like this. Why, in his day, children were seen and not heard.

But Harry was no ordinary child. Phineas had seen Harry's stronger side, but it was all different now, so different.

Phineas remembered. A tear ran down his cheek, down his oil painted face.

And yet, he did not smudge.