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The Arrival of the Portrait

Minerva McGonagall crept through the halls, her hands wrapped tightly around a portrait frame, her tartan robe fluttering at her ankles. In her hustle, she stumbled over a roll in the rug and tripped forward, dropping the corner of the frame to the floor with a thump.

“While I do appreciate your efforts to fulfill my request to move my portrait, I do wish it would be a bit less bumpy,” came a voice, with a hint of a smile in the tone. The voice belonged to the portrait within the frame.

Minerva frowned, “I’d like to have seen you try running through this castle in the dead of night while carrying this frame without being seen,” she snapped. “Couldn’t have a modest frame. Oh-no! This ornate thing must weigh a hundred pounds!”

She hoisted the frame up once more with a grunt and continued on down the corridor, up another flight of stairs and down several more hallways.

Finally, she arrived to the hall she was searching for and quickly leaned the seemingly empty frame against the wall. Her old, knotted fingers withdrew her wand from her sleeve and she walked quickly, back and forth, seeming to pace. After five turns, the wall glowed, gold as fire sparks, as the frame of a door appeared in the wallpaper. She glanced both directions down the hallway to be sure none of the students had left their beds to sneak around the hallways. After confirming that she was quite alone by casting several revealing charms, she grasped the portrait and carried it hurriedly through the door, kicking it closed behind her. McGonagall put the portrait down again inside, this time leaning against a little table in the center of the room. The walls stretched on what seemed like forever, lined with rows and rows of old tapestries that hung from the ceiling, the carefully stitched family trees of every wizarding pure-blood line. Also there were large stacks of record books and bundles of scrolls scattered across the floor, picture albums and old copies of The Daily Prophet.

“What is this room?” McGonagall asked.

“The Hall of Ancestors,” the portrait answered.

“Why did you need to be hidden here?” she asked, confused, “Why not a hall of portraits or of hidden things? Why the Hall of Ancestors?”

“Blood holds a great many secrets, Minerva,” the portrait said darkly, “Secrets yet untold. Now - you are certain that no one else, other than Hagrid, knew where you were going to put my portrait?”

“Yes, Albus,” she replied, addressing the portrait for the first time by name. “Though I hardly see what use the information of this portrait’s location is to anyone other than myself anyway. Wouldn’t you rather stay in the headmaster’s office, comfortable on the wall, like the other portraits?”

A warm smile crossed Dumbledore’s painted lips. “I would rather a lot of things, Minerva, none of which I should get.” He paused, then, “Hagrid has been given the prophecy? He alone knows of it?”

McGonagall nodded. “I made certain of it.”

“Then I do believe we have done all we can until the day comes that all of this shall come to pass,” he said, settling himself more into a beautiful velvet chair he had been painted sitting upon. He lifted the book painted beside him on the nightstand. “How I do wish they’d at least had thought to paint more than one volume,” he said woefully, “I should have liked to have something to keep myself entertained with until then.”

“How long do you suppose that shall be?” Minerva asked, “Before the prophecy comes to pass?”

The headmaster stroked his long silver beard, pushed his half-moon spectacles up his nose and said thoughtfully, “I suppose it shall be quite a long time, Minerva.”

She took a deep breath. “What about Harry Potter, sir?”

“What about him?” Dumbledore asked.

“Shouldn’t we warn him?” she questioned, “So that he can be prepared so that when this all begins --”

Cutting her off by raising one hand, Dumbledore shook his head, “Do not trouble Harry Potter with the knowledge of any of this. Harry has given enough of his life over to the greater good, Minerva, and it is time for some well deserved rest in the Potter household. No, this battle must fall upon the shoulders of another. Anyway, the prophecy says it will be many years before we see rise to the dangers these prophecies speak of, and by the time they come to pass Harry Potter will be an old man. It is nothing of which Harry Potter must trouble himself.”

McGonagall nodded her understanding.

“And now, my dear Minerva, it is my duty to wish a good life to you, and may you reap all of the charming benefits of living to old age.” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, “May your years be filled with happiness, warm tea, and a magnificent collection of tartan pajamas.”

She took a deep breath. It was just a portrait, she told herself, not Dumbledore himself. She had no reason to feel as though this were goodbye all over again. She turned to leave, her heart heavy.

He cleared his throat. “Minerva?”

She stopped and looked back, her hand on the door.

“Good night,” said Dumbledore, and he wiggled just the very tips of his fingers in salutation.

Tears blurred the edges of her eyes. “Good night, headmaster,” she said croakily, and she stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed, and with a fading golden glow in the wallpaper, the Room of Requirement sealed itself once more.