Chapter Text
The child known only as ‘Harry’ slipped silently into the alcove of the Potter Hall of Portraits that had become his safe haven over the past six years. He had been two and a half when he had first stumbled upon the narrow, dusty maze of passages that had once provided discreet transport for the first Potter elves -- back before the family magic of generations of wizards and witches had built up through the manor and lands. Magic enough to provide for elves to be born with enough power to snap their fingers and apparate where they were needed, making the hidden passageways obsolete.
Until, of course, they provided refuge to a lonely, raven-haired child.
“Harry, are you well? It is early yet for your regular visit, is it not?” Harry smiled sweetly up at the looming portrait above him as soon as the calm, low voice began speaking. The owner of the voice, Ralston Hardwin Potter, was the oldest of the animated portraits housed within Potter Hall, the ambient magic of the manor having only developed enough to support the sentience of a family painting during his lifetime. Ralston had been born in 1587, and had gone on to join the Wizengamot in 1612, at the young age of twenty-five. He had served faithfully for forty years, known as a strong advocate for the rights of diverse magical creatures, and for his support of the proposed Statute of Secrecy, strongly opposing those more militant members of the court who were calling instead for the declaration of war on the muggles. In 1652, Ralston was elected onto the International Confederation of Wizards and retired from the Wizengamot to devote more time to his new position, as well as to his growing number of grandchildren. His contributions were paramount to the Confederation’s signing of the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy in 1689, and it was not until he saw the law officially established in 1692 that Ralston retired fully from the political sphere to live out his days amongst his family.
“Good morning, Granaidh,” Harry greeted the imposing man, nodding his head politely at his many-times great-grandfather. “Yes, I am well. Lord Potter has an unexpected guest today, and I was instructed to keep out of sight. I hope you don’t mind that I spend the day here?” Ralston’s lips thinned in anger both at Harry referring to his own father by his official title and by the self-conscious doubt that crept into the boy’s eyes as he assumed his presence there would be seen as a burden. When he responded, however, he was careful to keep his frustration from his tone.
“You are never unwanted here, Hardwin, you know this,” the portrait chided gently, unable to stop the sigh that slipped out when seeing the pure joy that such a simple acceptance brought to the boy.
Ralston thought back to the first time he had met the young Potter six years before, when he had been startled from one of his frequent naps by a hidden panel pushing away from the wall and a tousle-haired, teary-eyed toddler tumbling through onto the floor in front of his portrait.
“Great Merlin child, where did you come from?” In his shock, Ralston’s voice had boomed out unchecked, his voice gravelly from disuse and obviously sounding quite intimidating to his tiny descendant, seeing as the boy immediately cowered back and began to tremble.
“I’m sorwy sir, I’m sorwy! I didn’ mean ta intwude, pwease don’ be mad?” Despite having been asleep moments before, Ralston was instantly alert and concerned at the extreme reaction. Careful to speak in a soothing manner, Ralston shushed the child before taking a more gentle approach to his questions.
“It’s alright child, I am not angry with you, and you have not intruded in any way, I was merely caught off guard when you tumbled in through the wall. There now, relax child, there’s a good lad. My name is Ralston, what’s your name?” By this time, the boy’s trembling had mostly died away, and he braved peeking up through the long, wild bangs that obscured a good portion of his face. He seemed puzzled by Ralston’s portrait, head tilting curiously to the side and eyes running all around the edges of the large frame. Ralston kept a warm smile on his face, but inside his thoughts were racing. The boy, in addition to his timid, jumpy demeanor, also appeared physically a little haggard. His hair was not just long, but unkempt, as though it had been a long time since an adult had taken the time to trim or tame it. His clothing appeared to have been of acceptable quality at one time, but now was worn and faded, his sleeves starting to fray and a discreet but discernible patch sewn into one of the knees of his trousers. They were also just a hair too small for even the boy’s tiny frame, and clung tightly enough to show that he was far thinner than Ralston thought healthy for a child of his age.
“M-my name is Harwy, sir,” the boy answered uncertainly, shaking Ralston back out of his thoughts. Ralston’s brow furrowed at the simple, common name -- so out of character for Potter heirs -- before he tapped his own forehead sharply in reprimand for the foolish moment. The name was obviously a nickname, Merlin knows his own children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had been fond enough of the silly shortenings of their given names when he was alive.
“And your full name, young Harry?” The man asked kindly. The boy, however, frowned, and even took a small step back, eyes darting around the small alcove that housed Ralston’s portrait as though searching for an escape route.
“Just, j-just Harwy sir. Lord Potter says I haven’ any other.” Ralston frowned at this, growing more and more confused and uncomfortable with each new revelation the child provided. Thinking the boy must have misunderstood the question, Ralston tried again another way.
“I did not mean that you had many different names child, I meant your given name, your family name. Just as I go by ‘Ralston’ but am in reality ‘Ralston Hardwin Potter’...” But he did not get further in his explanation, for upon hearing his surname, the boy’s trembling returned with a vengeance, and he hunched down on the ground, balancing on the balls of his feet as he hugged his knees and began to rock back and forth, babbling tearful pleas at the portrait.
“Pwease Mistah Potter, I’m sorwy for botherin’ you, I’m sorwy for speakin’ outta turn, pwease don’ be mad, pwease don’ tell Lord Potter, I’ll be a good boy, I pwomise! Pwease, I’m sorwy!”
It took much longer that time to calm the child down, and several hours thereafter of patient, careful questioning before Ralston was able to piece together an idea of the child’s background.
Harry Potter was the second son of Lord James Charlus Potter and the late Lady Lily Elizabeth Potter. Ralston knew of their first son, of course, for it was due to a prophecy supposedly made about young Grayson James Potter that James had put the manor on full lockdown, including containing the portraits in their frames. It was why Ralston had been isolated in his alcove for the past several years, only the occasional shouted conversation with other nearby paintings in the Hall of Portraits breaking up his solitude. It seemed, however, that the manor was no longer on lockdown as the portraits assumed. Indeed, it had been over a year since the the manor wards had been breached by Lord Voldemort and the Potter family attacked. James had been thrown against a wall and knocked unconscious almost immediately, leaving Voldemort to corner Lily in the nursery with two-year-old Grayson and one-year-old Harry. Harry was unable to provide Ralston with a satisfactorily detailed account of the confrontation, but in the end, Lady Lily had given her life protecting her children, Harry had been knocked out and magically drained by a curse which left a lightning-shaped scar behind on his forehead, and Grayson had been declared a hero for somehow vanquishing the Dark Lord, coming out of the confrontation whole and healthy.
What Ralston could not understand was what happened during the ensuing year that led Harry to becoming the outcast of the family. Where Grayson was doted on by his father, Harry was largely ignored, only spoken to in order to be scolded or sent away. Gray called James ‘daddy’ and was constantly told tales about his ‘mummy’ and reminded how much she had loved him. Harry, on the other hand, was told to refer to James as ‘Lord Potter’ at all times, and to refer to “Grayson’s mum” only as ‘Lady Lily.’ Harry was rarely struck, but the few times he had been it had been after referring to ‘Lady Lily’ as his mother. A drunken, grieving James had made sure to impress upon the boy that she was Grayson’s mother, not his. Harry assumed he would have received the same reaction had he called James his father, not that Harry had any desire to do so. But he remembered his mumma’s loving words and gentle touches, and no matter what he had to say in front of James and Grayson, Harry knew in his heart that Lily was his mum.
“Granaidh, Granaidh!” Harry called out softly, his amused expression letting Ralston know that he had likely been called several times while lost in memory.
“I’m sorry, my child, I was lost in thought. What is it, Hardwin?” Harry, seated cross-legged in front of his many-great-grandfather’s portrait, sat up a little straighter at the name. A few months after Harry had first started visiting Ralston’s portrait, listening to the stories of Ralston’s life and the Wizarding World of his time, Harry finally worked up the courage to ask Ralston about “bein’ a pictur’”. Ralston had been startled to realize that he was the first portrait Harry had ever seen, and quickly explained magical paintings, and about the Potter Hall of Portraits in particular. When Harry had turned wide, hope-filled eyes to the man and asked timidly if that meant that Ralston could be his family, Ralston had felt his heart being stolen fully away by the dark-haired child. He had immediately claimed that nothing made him prouder than being Harry’s family, and went on to declare that it was high time Harry had a name worthy of a Potter. He hadn’t hesitated to choose his own middle name, Hardwin, to replace Harry. He went on to tell Harry the history of the original Hardwin Potter, eldest son of Linfred ‘The Potterer’ of Stinchcombe, who had been the very first Potter.
Harry had been captivated by the story, and all the stories that had followed over the years of his family’s history and legacy. Ralston had also taught him about traditional wizarding etiquette, basic magical theory, the customs of various magical beings, and all the Latin, French and Italian he could remember. Harry was a sponge for knowledge, and so genuinely grateful for each and every lesson that he was a delight to teach. Ralston knew that no amount of love and care from an ancestor’s portrait would ever make up for the family James denied him, however, and he could not deny the spike of fear that pierced his heart at Harry’s next words.
“I got stuck in the tunnels again, Granaidh. It took longer to wiggle free this time. I don’t… I believe the time has almost come when I will no longer be able to visit you.” Ralston had been dreading hearing this for some time now, but knowing it was coming did nothing to lessen the emotions that came with the announcement. Because Harry was often banished to the unused corners of the manor when James or Grayson were entertaining guests or enjoying ‘family time,’ Harry regularly missed meals. Spending a lifetime confined indoors had only compounded the effects of his malnourishment, and it left the nearly nine-year-old more the size of a six or seven-year-old. Even that, though, was far larger than the house elves that the passages were originally intended for, and lately Harry had been struggling to fit through them. Ralston took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then stared straight into his descendant's eyes.
“Hardwin, you are a great wizard, and a good boy . I am thankful for every moment we have spent together. I love you, child. And I am proud of you. We will use every last second we have, and when the time comes that you cannot return to me, I will wait patiently knowing that you will find your way back home to me some day. And then you will be the one to tell me all about your own grand adventures, and your children and grandchildren. You will be in my heart always. Believe in yourself, Hardwin; believe in yourself as much as I believe in you, and you will succeed at whatever you set your mind to.” And so the two emotional Potters, one child and one portrait, spent the rest of the day together talking about anything and everything except for the looming end to their meetings.