Memoirs of a Self-Centred Horcrux

Memoirs of a Self-Centred Horcrux

A wall stretches in front of what I could call my eyes... Brown tones - worn beauty of time - cover my life in dullness. It's no fun being an impatient painting in a dreary house devoid of other pieces of flat art.

Odd cracks appear in my canvas as the statue that sits uncomfortably on the mantle - just out of my sight, conveniently - brags about being able to move a few centimetres in its rotting place. What can I do? Let it rot in peace, of course. After all, I probably won't be here to hear its whingeing when that actually happens.

There was a time when I could travel through paintings and pictures... I could speak with my kind and humans alike... I could flirt with the cute blond angel in a nearby canvas. The paint that coated the seraph's pale cheeks would seek out some lost, deep buried pigments, colouring the beautiful dimpled face. I remember always laughing when that happened. I so loved to play with that prude's feelings.

I once had a very intriguing conversation with a writer - a young, around fifty, lad. Quite an encyclopaedia, he was! I mocked his pedantic phrases and made him run out of the room with a speed that betrayed all Muggle physics' laws.

I remember when I became what I am now. Ah, long before my conversations with pseudo-artists and blushing, painted, pure seraphs... When I was but a painting of a beautiful, truly superficial and nauseatingly boring young knight. Dressed in crimson, flashy, Gryffindor-like attire, no less! I still have those horrendous clothes, but I am as far from boring as one could get. Bearing the soul of an annoyingly ambitious dark lord does that to you, I should say...

If I could remember those blessedly light times in which a scoundrel that positively begged to be lynched during a wearily formal duel was my main concern, I would probably miss them. But, as I don't, I see no reason in wishing for something that my sad, bored imagination created.

Ah, hear that silly statue speak. No, I don't care that a rat is eating the ancient table near the door, you foolish rock!

I met a sculptor once... Horrid man, if you ask me. Maybe he created that equally horrid thing, the one sitting over there, on that gruesome mantle, complaining senselessly about other materials' business.

Anyway, that annoying chap only talked about tools. Imagine a writer talking about quills! When there is so much more to dwell on, the idiot talked about hammers. I thought I was going to die. Imagine what the owner of my piece of soul would have said about that. I shudder at the thought!

Oh, but do not get the wrong idea! I met beautiful dull women, carrying around - as some sort of modern pets, I suppose - charmingly ugly, yet very interesting fellows. I met struggling werewolves, future mages, irritatingly intelligent necromancers, bitingly witty vampires and young, stupid heroes of all types. I scoff at their memories, like I couldn't in their faces for fear of losing their amusing company.

My existence was filled with glamour. How many sordid tragedies or innocent tales - the effects of love, lust, hate, boredom, enthusiasm or alcohol abuse - I have seen! To many to count, I could say... However, I counted them, so that is no longer the case. Ah, wouldn't you like to know?

Oh, shut up, you hopeless stone, I know you have no taste for the sublime poetry of the past live of a crude observer. 'Who?' you ask. Why, me, of course!

Here he goes again; filling this tasteless room with his insipid words. Ah, how I wish there was a rock-eating rat on that cursed mantle!

I cannot even bask in my intriguing past in silence. I used to hate it - silence. I used to wish for loud ball-rooms and senseless humans, for crazy orgies or pure literary clubs. But, now, all I want is a chamber devoid of that loud fool. So what if he is the statue of a Hogwarts' founder? He has no soul, only an amusing - yet far too annoying to be taken into consideration as good company - caricature of a personality. By the way, everybody knows that Godric was a purely idiotic dupe!

Oh, that reminds me! I once met a well-known historian. Nice fellow, a little addicted to living in the clouds, but other than that, pretty capable of entertaining my bored pigments...

He told me all about those founders. Revolutionaries of the British school system, my back-canvas! They created more trouble than they were worth, if you'd ask me!

I met Dumbledore once. I couldn't really talk to him. Too much hate buried in this paint-imbibed piece of soul I possess...

He seemed nice, intriguingly eccentric... I would have enjoyed a conversation with the man. I really would have...

No, you stone-carved Godric impersonator, I do not whinge... I was simply expressing regret!

Plebeians! They do not see the fascination of lost opportunities. I had a lot of those, I must tell you! And, still, despite my bizarre craving for silence, there are still so many interesting individuals out there, roaming this doomed planet. And I am stuck in here, waiting for a lost boy hero to come and destroy me - for the good of mankind, no less! What more can I tell you? The company is not helpful.