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6th December 2126 AD
Harry Weasley sprawled on one of the sofas in the Slytherin Common Room, absentmindedly cursing Jerry Goldstein’s boot laces together. He glanced around, pleased to notice that no one had spotted him in the act, and moved onto a bigger and better target: seventh-year prefect, Angelique Lupin. He charmed Angie’s bowtie so that it would flash red and gold whenever she spoke. Her head was buried in a book, so she might not even realise he’d jinxed her for hours.
“Bored, are you?”
Harry startled, stowing his wand and feigning innocence. On the wall before him was a portrait of a wizard in his forties or fifties. He was wearing a very old-fashioned pair of robes and had dark messy hair and bright green eyes. Previously, he’d been sleeping, or faking it very well.
“Only the boring get bored,” Harry retorted. “I make my own amusement.”
“Fair enough,” the portrait said, smirking for some reason. “I’m just glad to see that pranks are the worst trouble you’re getting up to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? We’re in Hogwarts. We can hardly get into much mischief here.”
A distant look appeared on the portrait face. It almost appeared to be wistful. Harry took a moment to check to see that no one had noticed him talking to the mad old portrait that had been sleeping as long as Harry could remember. He’d been a member of Slytherin House for six years and he didn’t think that anyone had ever spoken to the portrait that sat, pride of place, above the central mantlepiece in the Common Room. Nobody even knew who he was.
“In my day, finding a dragon in the caretaker’s hut was the least of my troubles.”
“A dragon,” Harry echoed. “Sure.”
The portrait was finally taking the time to look around. After a moment, he scowled.
“Is this the Slytherin Common Room?” He sounded offended.
“Yes. It’s a privilege,” Harry snapped.
“A privilege my arse! The Minister must have had me moved after all the chaos I caused. Merlin, is that a Malfoy over there? They haven’t changed one bit, have they? And would you look at that, she must be one of Tonks’s descendants!”
The portrait turned back to Harry and gasped.
“You’ve got the Weasley hair! I don’t know how I didn’t notice before. A Weasley in Slytherin. Ron must be turning in his grave.”
“Slytherin and proud,” Harry said, exactly the same as he’d said to his dad when he’d returned for Christmas first year. He’d laughed, ruffled Harry’s hair, and told him he was proud of him.
The portrait glared at Harry over the top of his glasses, then burst into delighted laughter.
“I wish I’d woken earlier, if only see to the drama of it all. Go on then, which line of Weasleys are you descended from?”
“What do you care? You’re not one of those scumbag blood purists, are you?”
For no apparent reason, the portrait burst into laughter once more.
“Quite the opposite, I think you’ll find. No, I married a Weasley. I’d love to know if any of my line as still about. What’s the year, and while we’re at it, what’s your name, troublemaker?”
Harry narrowed his eyes. The man quite nosy for a portrait.
“2126. And my name is Harry Weasley, descended from Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley on my mum’s side and Percy Weasley and Audrey Brown on my dad’s, if you must know. Great-Grandma Lily has told me all about them.”
The portrait’s jaw dropped. Good. He obviously knew who Harry’s great-great-grandparents were.
“That explains a lot,” the portrait murmured. Then, the portrait beamed and began chuckling to himself.
“Explains what?” Harry demanded. He didn’t get his answer. Instead, the portrait disappeared from his frame, leaving the background of Hogwarts Castle empty and motionless.
“Arg!” Harry collapsed back onto the sofa with a growl. He hated portraits, especially those with enough magic in them to be sentient. The portraits of the Heads of Hogwarts were worse enough.
It was only seconds later that someone behind him gasped.
“The portrait’s empty!”
An observant firsty was pointing, gaining everyone in the Common Room’s attention. Moments after that, Charlie Potter burst into the room, Slytherin tie flapping over his shoulder.
“Harry Potter’s portrait in the Headmistress’s Office has a figure in it,” he gasped. “It’s him!”
He pointed at the empty portrait above Harry’s head: the one he’d just been conversing with.
Harry stared at Charlie, shocked beyond belief.
Suddenly, everything the portrait had been saying made an awful lot more sense.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. He jerked his head around; the portrait had returned. Not only had he returned, but he’d brought a friend. Harry narrowed his eyes. He recognised that man… it was War Hero Severus Snape!
“A Weasley in Slytherin,” the portrait exclaimed. “Named after me, I’ll bet.”
“Quit your squawking, Potter,” Snape growled. Black, beady eyes appraised the room. “A descendant of the Potter line, too, it looks to me. Whatever is the world coming to?”
The portrait of Harry Potter—for that’s who it was—gasped as he stared at Charlie Potter.
“Next you’ll be telling me there’s a Malfoy in Gryffindor.”
“Have you got a problem with my sister?” Alfie Malfoy said, stalking forward. “You might be Harry Potter, but you’re just a portrait.”
Harry Potter gaped, then burst into peals of laughter, as seemed to be his wont.
“This is the best day ever,” the portrait proclaimed.
Harry exchanged a commiserating look with Charlie as he realised that they shared a mutual ancestor. Even worse, he seemed to be the quintessential Gryffindor. Charlie, despite the fact that he was Head Boy, looked more than intimidated by that fact.
“I don’t suppose you’ll just go to sleep again, Mr. Potter?” Charlie asked.
Harry could only hope.
His ancestor grinned, the portrait seeming to come to life. “Not a chance, my dear boy. Not a chance. It seems I have a reputation to live up to.”
“No more mischief, Potter!” Snape growled.
“That stopped working fifty years ago,” Harry Potter proclaimed. “Come on, Snape! Let’s go wake up Dumbledore, next.”
Harry put his face into his hands and groaned. Somehow, he knew, just somehow, he was going to get blamed for all this trouble.