12
The room was empty, the only life caught between its walls being the soft rays emanating from the full moon. It basked the uncompleted art pieces in an eerie glow.
Amita circled the room, gaze roaming out of the tower’s windows as she passed each one of them. As always, the class was furnished with only two comfortable armchairs and a small table on one of the sides. The Professor had always preferred to paint while standing up and while levitating the canvas to eye level, a preference he insisted his students at least tried out before settling on the unmoving table.
It’s just so boring, he had teasingly whined with a knowing smile, his voice stretching the last syllable to accentuate his point.
Amita preferred the stillness of the table.
She preferred the steadiness of wood under her canvas, reassuring and permanent. Professor Oakwood—ironically enough—had never understood.
But Amita and the Professor had never quite understood one another in the first place. It wasn’t a surprise, therefore, that the right way to prop their canvases would naturally cause dispute as well.
Tonight, she’d cast the charm to animate her painting like he had always wanted, make sure it was a loop existence rather than a personification—that would be absolutely disastrous—and stuff it into her trunk forever.
But for now she needed this varnish. It was the only thing missing, and then she could move on as would the Regulus of her vision.
Amita grabbed the nearest stool and dragged it across the room towards the supply cabinet. She stood on it, stretched as far as she could and grabbed the pot of varnish. It was only when she had placed the pot softly on the table and turned around to close the cabinet that she noticed the unfinished work of Professor Oakwood.
The man in front of her might not have been finished, but his eyes were already alive with mirth and the twinkle in them made Amita sit in front of it, awed. The eyes held so much in their dept. She leaned closer and could even make out her own silhouette.
How could the Professor even manage to paint something like that?
“Brilliant, isn’t it?”
Amita jumped to her feet and turned around in one fell swoop.
“I do quite enjoy how I look,” Professor Dumbledore laughed with his usual deep voice. “Even better than the last one.” He winked and Amita tensed, guilt swimming in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.
“There’s no need for that, my child,” he reassured her softly before sitting down in one of the armchairs.
He remained silent as his eyes focused on the moon outside and Amita shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. His eyes fell upon her once more and he chuckled, clearly amused at her predicament.
Amita supposed catching students out of bed after curfew was the least of his worries, especially considering the chaos brewing outside of the castle walls.
Upon closer inspection, she noticed the faint purplish hue of eye bags beneath his eyes, his glamour charm slightly weakened as the day went on. The fact they were so imperceptible was a testament to his strength. Her own had already fallen along with the Sun, and Amita knew just how tired she must look. Judging by the yawn Dumbledore stifled by clenching his jaw, he must be as well.
And then it dawned upon her.
“Did you commission your portrait because you believe you’ll die?”
Amita regretted the words as soon as they fell out of her mouth. Afraid of his reaction to her intrusive question, she turned around to face the pot of varnish.
Impulsively, her shaking hands fiddled with the closed jar’s lid.
“Not quite,” Amita was surprised to hear. The man remained impassive, a warm calmness still emanating from his every pore. “Although the chance is there—small but present—I do not plan to die just yet,” he laughed. “The headmaster’s portrait, as opposed to the representation of every day witch or wizard, must be taught to behave like the original.” He smiled while pointing to himself. “I need to teach my counterpart enough to be useful to my successor.”
Amita nodded as she finally managed to pop the jar open. She made to reach for the inside of her beaded bag, but stopped midway. Her eyes trailed back to Dumbledore, who was too busy looking out the window to pay her mind, and she hurriedly plunged her arm in.
She pulled out her canvas and a paintbrush, and closed her bag as quickly as she could.
She muttered a drying spell and once she was certain the varnish wouldn’t mix with the paint, ruining her work, she poured a few drops onto the canvas. With her brush, she spread the liquid out in soft, fluid motions.
Amita became entranced with the life-like quality the varnish granted her painting, and she sighed, preparing herself for the moment she would have to charm it, her mind dreading it.
“Slightly perturbing painting, that is, my child,” Dumbledore spoke as he peered over her shoulder.
Amita recoiled, hitting the varnish along the way which spilt all along the wooden floors. “Bloody-,” she cursed softly before levitating the liquid back into the jar, inspecting it for any kind of impurity. When done, she looked up at Dumbledore, the man’s gaze uncharacteristically stern.
“A dream,” she started while grabbing her brush, knowing fully well she had to spread the varnish before it dried. “A very bad dream.” Her right hand shook and she caught her wrist with her other, raising it high above the painting to prevent her from spoiling her work.
She wanted Dumbledore to give her detention, leave, and not speak to her again. Her Occlumency shields burned against her growing panic and she exhaled slowly to try and control her erratic heart.
But the man didn’t so much as look her way, he simply leaned forward, face inches away from the canvas.
“Regulus Black?” he mumbled to himself, before prying his gaze to another detail of her work. His eyes widened at the depiction of the Inferi and Amita bit her lip worriedly. Finally, the locket caught his attention. He seemed to stiffen infinitesimally so.
“Do you recognize the locket, Professor?” Amita risked herself to ask. She needed to know. She needed to know if she could help him without having to say anything. If painting was enough to reveal things her consciousness could never dare utter in fear of retribution, maybe she could be of help, one way or another.
The Headmaster’s eyes weren’t twinkly anymore. They were harsh and controlled, and Amita instinctively knew he had raised his Occlumency shield. Did he think she was dangerous?
“I’d rather want to know if you recognize the locket, Miss Rowle.”
The name sent a chill down her spine. “Yes.” She rubbed her wrist, but kept her eyes locked unto the Headmaster’s. The sheer magic surrounding the man was enough to deter her from looking away.
“And it seems to me…” He went silent for a while, the words seemingly heavy on his tongue. “That you believe it to be rather significant—that much seems clear—considering the intense defence method your subconscious will cook up to protect it.”
Amita bit her lips, stopping them from trembling, stopping them from opening and spewing anything. Her eyes itched as she grabbed her paintbrush and finished spreading the varnish at the edges of the canvas.
“Why is it important?” he inquired, voice hard. She didn’t look up, kept applying varnish distractedly. “I asked you a question, Miss Rowle.”
Amita flinched, her head snapping in his direction. Her Occlumency walls trembled under the Headmaster’s magic, but her pooling tears managed as a sufficient barrier between them to keep Dumbledore out. “I can’t tell you,” she whimpered. “I can’t tell you,” she repeated frantically, rubbing at her wrist.
She wasn’t being inconspicuous at all. She knew Dumbledore could notice her tick, would make the connection. And then he’d deem her suspicious and dangerous, keep and eye out for her every move until he understood why she knew so much. And then he’d force her to touch them all, force her to see all the upcoming horrors, speak soft words of reassurance as he praised her for all the good she’d bring to the world.
Amita sobbed harder.