Chapter Text
DISCLAIMER: All rights to the Potterverse and the main characters herein belong to J.K. Rowling. This particular tale of events, however, is entirely mine. So there!
This story disregards the events and deaths in DH.
“—so I ask you, Harry, what would you have me do? The public demands it!”
The Minister for Magic threw up his hands dramatically.
Harry Potter scowled. He was sick and tired of having the Ministry’s minions snapping round his heels every time he turned around. He had thought that becoming an Auror would be enough to appease the bureaucrats of their obsession for everything Harry Potter related after the fall of Voldemort. Sadly he quickly discovered that being in the building every day only made things worse. This little meeting in the Minister’s private office was proving to be the final straw.
“I would have you stop referring to me as ‘Harry’, Minister. That privilege is reserved for my friends.”
Rufus Scrimgeour frowned. The intended insult had not been lost on him.
“As you wish, Ha-Mr. Potter. The issue at hand remains the same, however. Do I have your cooperation or not?”
Harry folded his arms across his chest and huffed. As much as he hated agreeing to anything that the Ministry proposed, mostly on principle, he knew that they would go ahead with this particular project anyway, with or without his participation. At least if he cooperated, he could make sure that things didn’t get too far out of hand.
“Very well. I will do it. BUT - I get to select the artist and I get final approval on where the damn thing hangs.”
“It will hang in the Atrium here at the Ministry, Mr. Potter, just as the Commemorative Committee has recommended. You may select the artist from a list which I will provide,” the Minister conceded, “however I reserve the right to determine the price.”
“Don’t push your luck, Scrimgeour. You may be the Minister for Magic, but the thin thread of credibility that keeps you hanging on can be snapped just like that!” Harry snapped his fingers, to illustrate his point. “Just because I haven’t yet used my popularity to get you removed from office, doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t. I tolerate you because so far you have been the lesser of two evils. Don’t make me change my mind.”
The Minister for Magic sagged in his chair and ran his hands through his bushy hair.
“Potter, you-you wouldn’t. The Ministry needs me at the helm. You know that.”
Harry grinned and leaned across the desk. His face just inches from the florid countenance of the Minister.
“I get to pick the artist of my choice, with no budget limitations. Is that clear, Minister? If I must suffer the indignity and embarrassment of having my own face leering down at me every time I walk into the building, I will be assured that it is a quality representation. None of your talentless brush-wielding friends are getting their hands on this commission. Not to mention the healthy little kickback you would undoubtedly have negotiated for yourself.”
The Minister’s face turned even redder than usual.
“Mr. Potter! You go too far,” he spluttered. “I have never been so insulted in m—"
“Oh? You must have been!” Harry looked shocked. “Not even when you stripped Draco Malfoy of his family home and title? Surely someone must have questioned your ethics over that little incident?”
“I was fully justified in taking possession of that estate, given the circumstances. The Malfoy family were known Death Eaters and the money was used in the rebuilding of the community. Everyone knows that!”
“Everyone knows that that’s the version you released. I happen to know that the Minister for Magic’s personal bank vault has been quite a bit fuller since you pulled that little stunt. And claiming the Manor as a weekend retreat to provide ‘stress relief’ for your favorite under-ministers is hardly using it to its fullest potential, now is it?”
“Draco Malfoy is a—"
“Draco Malfoy was cleared of all charges, as I recall. Most people considered the death of his parents as payment enough for the Malfoy’s crimes. You were the one who insisted that the sins of the father be heaped onto the son.”
“It’s no secret that you have always hated Draco Malfoy, Mr. Potter. Why are you so affronted at his treatment now?”
“Because I don’t like to see anyone treated unfairly, Minister. No matter who it is, or what my personal feelings for them are.”
“And yet you would hold me hostage, Potter!”
“I said ‘treated unfairly’, that hardly applies in your case, now does it?”
Minister Scrimgeour growled angrily. What should have been a straight-forward meeting to get Potter’s agreement to pose for an official portrait had quickly gone downhill. Somehow that always happened whenever Potter and the Minister went head to head.
“Choose your own artist then, Potter. This meeting is at an end. You are dismi—"
In a classic move that would have brought a tear to Severus Snape's eye, Harry spun on his heel and walked out of the office, ignoring the Minister’s final words.
#
Number twelve Grimmauld Place was quite a decent house these days. Harry had spent a great deal of time cleaning and fixing it up immediately after the final battle, and had even formed something of a truce with the portrait of old Mrs. Black. She could still be irascible when the mood took her, but for the most part they got along rather well together.
Although the stubborn old woman would never admit as much out loud, she had actually developed a grudging respect for the young wizard. His undeniable power and stalwart heart were traits that the Black matriarch approved of, and so she allowed him to live in peace for the majority of the time.
Deciding to keep the moldering old building, and live in it, had been an easy choice for Harry. Despite being the place where all the Order members had met to develop their battle plans it was, first and foremost, a home.
The building felt alive with the memory of Sirius, and Harry felt close to his godfather’s spirit within its walls. The fact that it was located close to a subway station was an added bonus. Harry hated traveling by Floo Network, and Apparation always left him feeling slightly nauseous.
By living at Grimmauld Place, Harry was able to take the underground all the way to the center of London, and then walk the two short blocks to the public entrance of the Ministry of Magic. He relished the journey every day. It allowed him to blend the best of both worlds, Muggle and wizarding.
Today, just like every other day, Harry stepped out of the derelict phone booth and joined the flow of pedestrian traffic as it headed down into the bowels of the subway system. As usual, he found himself looking for a particular figure.
The London underground stations were always a hive of activity, and many of them were the favorite hangout for buskers and artists, panhandling for loose change as the working population headed to and from their labors. Paddington Station was no different. Here you could find, at any given time, an aspiring musician playing his fiddle, or a juggler honing his craft, a female tattoo artist advertising her expertise, or a quick-draw caricature artist.
For the past few months, there had been a young man there every evening, exhibiting his artwork along the narrow tiled tunnel entrance to the station. While there was nothing striking about his personal appearance, his work was not something to be ignored.
Harry had spent several minutes each night admiring the skill of the young artist as he walked by the display on his way to catch his train. The play between color and light, the placing of each subject matter within the canvas boundaries and the attention to detail was extraordinary. Some of the portraits looked real, as thought they could walk right out of the picture if they so chose, reminding Harry of wizard portraits, although these paintings obviously didn’t move.
Harry’s eyes scanned the area at the bottom of the escalator. Ah! There he was, setting up his display on the left-hand side today. Harry strolled over and began to idly peruse the assortment of paintings as the artist unwrapped them and leaned them against the white tiled wall.
The young man glanced casually in Harry’s direction and grinned. Perhaps he would make a sale today. After all, the dark-haired man had made a point of coming over for once. He usually just glanced at the pictures as he walked along the tunnel.
One painting in particular caught Harry’s eye. The subject bore a striking resemblance to a face that constantly occupied Harry’s thoughts. He scrutinized the painting, admiring the flawless complexion and the angular lines of the high cheekbones and slightly pointed chin. Soft white-blond hair fell straight to the subject’s shoulders, whilst a sharply cut fringe lay flat against the forehead, just above the well-sculpted eyebrows.
The lips, full and perfectly formed, were enticing as they pouted out slightly. The thing that captured Harry’s attention the most, however, was the painted figure’s eyes. He stood, transfixed, for several moments as the crystal clear grey orbs stared out of the painting, directly at him.
As he turned away from the painting, he would have sworn that it winked at him. Startled, he stared back at the picture, but it made no other movement. Harry turned away again, looking for the artist. He had to know where and when this picture had been painted. The young man was in a deep discussion with a middle-aged woman, haggling over the price of a painting of a bowl of fruit, and Harry had a train to catch.
With a sigh, he made his way towards the turnstile.
Hopefully the artist would be there again tomorrow….
TBC