“Captured by old Nott, my grandfather in Knockturn, in his prime and at the cutting edge of society, really,” says your host, “People do talk about him, but those were fanatical days; Grindelwald had not yet fallen, and everyone had what would now be deemed an unpopular opinion, not just grandfather. And there, on the wall, the portraits – meant to echo each-other – of his father, who was on the Wizengamot, and of mine; they have the general look of the family, as you can see. Great-grandfather of course is also somewhat disliked today; they say he was monstrously unfair, but if truly you read his opinions I think this is exaggerated. One could only do so much before the great Muggle-lovers’ reforms swept in, and he did not believe in judge-made law. I agree. I do think it’s a bit like overstepping one’s station, don’t you?” Here he gives a small laugh. “We have never liked oversteppers, I must say…”
This is an understatement, so you do not comment.
“…of course you’ll note that my father is in the cut he wore back then, when there was a great mania for traditional wizarding regalia and such. When you are a family like ours, you do tend towards tradition. Other people treat it as a bogeyman. Unfairly, I think. But then again there is my son. Here’s his photograph; the very image of my father, only in a great flapping Muggle kind of belted cloak. Very embarrassing, but my wife had Dippy take the picture. A very devoted mother, my wife. It’s a shame we don’t have the women’s portraits in here; they far outstripped the men, I think. Now here–”
“But wait,” you interject, suddenly noticing something very odd, “Where are you? I don’t see your picture anywhere.”
“Oh,” your host says, with a kind of only barely-concealed dread, “Oh. I’m afraid we generally sit for portraits at eighteen, and my eighteenth year was not a portrait-painting sort of time. And of course I’m by far the least prepossessing in the line. A pointed chin, you know.”
And then he sweeps you out of the very imposing, cold room (which looks terribly old, but which they say had to be rebuilt after the war), and a house-elf appears at your elbow to make sure you don’t try to turn back for another glimpse, and there is your host’s mother, distracting you with light, canny talk; and out of the corner of your eye you can see your host looking relieved. Is it because he no longer has to discuss this with you? He is a renowned coward, after all. Far too much of a coward to face the reality of his family, you think. But then you turn your mind back to all those proud brows and haughty chins, and begin to wonder if, really, he is relieved that there is no picture to complete the chain, nothing to demonstrate he may echo his forefathers, no voice which might say, “Oh yes, there is old Draco, who is exactly like the rest of them, really; note how much like his father around the eyes.”
Perhaps the relief is because he would not like to be like them at all.
MissWriteress 