The Boy Who Lived

Great-Grandfather Henry

'Your ancestors certainly knew how to do grandeur,' Draco said, looking up at the fluted ceiling of the south-wing corridor that Harry had dragged him along.

Harry grimaced, 'grandeur in foul colours. Do you remember the corridor was a horrible corally-red colour decorated with antlers and stuffed animal heads? I thought cream was better. Plus, I refuse to live in some kind of taxidermologist's studio so I vanished all the dead things. Most of them were moth-eaten and they all had magic eyes which followed you down the corridor. Henry told me it was his great-uncle's hobby.'

'Who's Henry?'

'My great-grandfather. I'll introduce you in a bit.'

'It's undoubtably looking a whole lot better. What's your plan with all these chairs?' he indicated to the series of chairs which were placed intermittently along the corridor along with two console tables, a grandfather clock, a quantity of porcelain vases, and a number of pictures stacked against the wall.

Harry shrugged. 'There's more of the same chairs all over the place. They all match so I assume they're for the main table instead of the benches, for when things get overbearingly formal and stiff.'

Draco snorted. 'Obviously that's not going to happen while you're lord of the manor.

'Fuck off,' Harry winced at the reminder. 'Do you think we should keep them?'

'Probably, benches aren't great if we decided to ever have a big dinner party that won't fit in the Breakfast Room. What about all these pictures?'

'I've started to gather portraits together. I've kept it to landscapes, animals, or still-lives in the bedrooms. And only ones that I liked. But if you disagree, well, I know you won't hold back! I think some of the artwork is hideous... or simply bizarre.'

Draco flicked through a couple of frames. 'Salazar, that's ghastly,' he muttered as he looked at particularly disturbing painting. One of a trio of people looked to be taking a scalpel to an old man's temple who was very definitely awake and looking anxious with a grimace and clenched fists.

'Henry says it's a Rembrandt called Stone Operation, but I don't believe him. I suppose I'll have to get it checked out though. He says there should be some paperwork somewhere but...' Harry looked particularly lost and Draco understood. His guess was as good as anyone's as to where it might be.

He showed Draco each of the rooms he'd done, all now bearing a brass plaque on the doors to signify they'd been finished. There was very little that Draco disagreed with. His comment still stood from before: Harry had surprisingly good taste when it came to decorating, repeatedly understated and minimalistic though keeping the traditional features of Beaumont Hall. He supposed Minerva probably had an incredible influence on Harry's choices growing up and Draco was beginning to truly appreciate what she'd done in taking Harry in and the qualities she'd instilled in the man.

'Good bloody afternoon, fellahs!' they were greeted by a deep booming voice as they neared the end of the corridor and the stairs up to the turret room at the end of the wing.

'Shit!' exclaimed Draco, jumping out of his skin.

'Ah! This is Henry, my great-grandfather,' Harry said, introducing Draco to the marble bust of a man sitting on a plinth. He had great shaggy hair and skin which crinkled around his eyes in the same way that Harry's did and the most ridiculous moustache. They were definitely related.

Draco wacked his arm. 'You could have warned me, you sod!'

Henry laughed, deep and resonating. 'Life, at bloody last. To think they've hidden me away all these years. Young Harry found me in a fucking cupboard.'