Albus carries it with both hands, fingers wrapped unshakingly, securely around the polished frame to be sure the immensity of the burden does not overcome his strength. Wouldn't do to let the poor boy fall now, after all. Wouldn't do at all.
"Hey!" A sleepy voice rises from the painting, startled and muzzy, "Hey, where am I? Who the hell are you, and where are you taking me?!"
He turns the canvas and conjures a gentle smile. It is by far the most difficult spell he has cast all night. "Sorry to have disturbed your rest, Sirius," he tells the raven-haired youth staring out of the frame, "I'd hoped to have you hung up again before you woke."
"Headmaster?" The eyes are delft blue, pricked cerulean-bright and startled where the lumos catches them. "I. Well. That's okay, I suppose. I thought I was being stolen," he grins, the rakish beauty, "but if it's you, then it must be all right."
But you have been stolen, dear boy. Albus wants to say, and I cannot ransom you back. Instead, he resumes his climb, each torturous step reminding him that he has lived to climb these stairs far, far too many times.
"So. Nice to get out of the dining room at last," Sirius fidgets, "Rotten scenery back there with all those doxies in the curtains." He leans toward the edge of his frame, peering for a better view. "So. Er. Where are we going, Sir?"
"Albus, Sirius," he corrects, pleased to note that his voice does not tremble, "I insist. And I have brought you to Hogwarts to join my... my personal gallery." Again, he manages the smile, and the paint which thinks it's Sirius Black at 20 years old returns it guilelessly, if a little confusedly.
"Sure, Sir. Er. Albus," the image says, "But I don't recognize this. I could have sworn I knew every stone of the old place, but this...?" He is leaning in his frame again, openly craning his neck to get a look at his surroundings.
Albus stops climbing, turns the canvas about to give its occupant a proper look. "Very nearly, dear boy," he says, "But I'm afraid this tower does not appear on your map." It is a private place, this lofty perch; no feet save his own have ever touched its steps; no other's breath but his has stirred its dust. Even the castle elves dust and polish its doorstep without guessing what lies beyond.
The painting makes a gasping sound. "Whoa. Is that the Astronomy Tower down there?"
The shape glimmers dimly through stones so deeply impregnated with invisibility charms that they have become translucent from within as well. A wide, flat roof some twenty feet down, ringed with telescopes and kissing children -- what else could it be? Albus has never been one to seek the murky depths, after all, hiding his heart in the castle's stony bowels as old Salazar did his vengeance. This vantage; unplottable, undetectable and scraped raw by heaven's gaze is a far more fitting site for an old man's guilt. But aloud, he only says "Yes, dear boy. Yes it is."
"But that's the tallest...oh," Sirius's portrait gives an abashed chuckle, "Of course. That would be why you always saw what we were getting up to. Great view, Sir -- er, Albus."
He almost smiles at that. He knows what they say about his amazing powers of observation; attributing him everything from a network of invisible spies, to a seer's talents. He could correct the boy now -- hardly any point letting the illusion stand now that Sirius is... But he cannot. To do so would be to admit that he does not see everything, but rather applies his keen sense of strategy, his understanding of human nature, and a great deal of brazen luck to the business of knowing just when and where to watch when things are happening. And those words from him now would be simply obscene. Because you did suspect. You did guess he might. You did not stop him in time. "Thank you, Sirius," Albus manages, and continues to climb.
There is no door at the top of the stair. No need for one. No threshold to interrupt his weary feet on their way, nothing over which to stumble except his own regrets. Sirius's image gasps as the torches crackle to life, and Albus cannot but agree; the gallery is impressive, both in scale, and in occupation. Sadly though, there always seems to be room for one more painting amongst the throng.
That thought overwhelms him, and he stops, hoping the tremor in his hands cannot be felt through the painting's frame. He has promised himself that he is NOT saving places for them, but each time his duty or his conscience brings him up here, Albus finds himself staring at the open stones between the canvases and thinking. Severus perhaps? Minerva just there? Rubeus one level higher? And a little further on, Merlin forbid, even Harry?
"Merlin's balls, Albus," Sirius whistles, "How big is this gallery of yours?"
Albus swallows, but can't manage to smile this time. "As big as it needs to be, dear boy." He turns toward the gently curving steps that lead up to the second level -- the second war.
A snide voice hails him before he's gone up two steps though. "Come with another sacrificial lamb, have you my old Foe?"
He turns, offers the Dark Lord's portrait a polite nod. "I'm afraid so, Grindelwald."
"Hmph," the fierce eyes glance down at the painting in his hands, "Killing them young these days, aren't you? Relying on babies to do your dying for you, Old Man?"
"Hey!" Sirius's portrait yelps, "Fuck off, you old tosser!"
But Albus only gives his old adversary another nod. "Sadly, it would seem so," he admits, "War comes for the children in these dark days, and no matter how I try..." But no. That begins to sound too much like an excuse, and he does now allow those here. Albus shivers, and forces himself to meet the smug triumph in the eyes of the first man he ever killed. "They are always too young, I fear. For me, they always will be."
And then he continues on his way, pretending he does not hear the laughter ringing from the room beneath him. Other paintings take up the taunting as they go along -- not many, for it is often difficult to collect the names and images of his fallen foes -- Young Riddle, Wilkes, Evans, Starling and Allegriette, Crouch fils, poor, nervous Quirrel; a chorus big enough to speak for those he could not win back from the darkness.
The other portraits quickly shout them down, however. The show of loyalty makes Albus's heart twist in his breast each and every time he witnesses it, but he doesn't ask the dead to be still; he hasn't that right.
"That isn't Sirius Black, is it Albus?"
He stops, turns to reply. "I'm afraid it is, Frank," he nods to the couple, "good evening, Alice."
"Oh no," the pretty blonde sighs, winding her hands around her husband's arm, "Oh Albus, James and Lily will be so upset."
"Ja-" Sirius yelps, chokes the name off. "They're here? Their portraits?"
"Right here, Padfoot," James Potter answers, stepping into the Longbottom's frame. "It's good to see you again, old man, but damn I wish it wasn't like this." James smiles, puts one hand forward, palm out, as if pressed to the air in greeting.
"Like this?" Albus can hear the laugh in Sirius's voice -- watery delight at the sight of his long lost best friend, some confusion at everyone's subdued manner. "Don't go all picky on me, Prongs," his voice strains to keep hold of the cheer, but there is a worry underneath. Some part of him is beginning to understand. "Dead or alive, you're still my best..." Albus closes his eyes and waits, "friend…Oh. Oh God."
He was always such a clever boy. So quick, and so merry. So brave and so very, very reckless. Albus looks up, blinking rapidly, and Edgar Bones' painting gives him a sympathetic smile from farther up the wall.
"Dead or alive, Paddy," James offers a sad smile, "Still best."
"How..." Sirius's voice is smaller this time, "How did I...go?"
"In battle," Albus says, knowing that will be a comfort at least, "fighting to protect young Harry. He is safe," he adds before James can ask, "Most likely trying not to fall asleep in his dormitory room at this very minute, in fact. He was…" angry, reckless, furious, desperate, lonely, thinking he'd been abandoned, "Very brave," Albus manages at last, "very brave indeed. And so were you… so were you all."
"Albus," It is Lily's voice this time, gently reproving, which makes him want to smile, or perhaps weep. "He knew -- Sirius, James and I... It wasn't your fault. We all knew."
No, he thinks, and his heart twists with what must surely be an audible moan, No, you did not know. You could not know, because you had not seen, but I knew. I knew and yet I let you go, because the cost of saving you was just too terrible. How can I ever make amends to you, knowing I will have to make the same decision about someone else? I cannot even match your brave deaths with my one of my own -- not yet, not when my dying would render your sacrifices moot. He takes a breath against the pain, and gooseflesh spreads across his arms as though a draft has wandered in through the stones. I must live awhile longer. See this bad business through. But the debt... dear Merlin, the debt is terrible!
"Sirius always did want to be a hero, Sir," He turns, grateful for the interruption, and smiles weakly up into Regulus Black's wide blue eyes. "At least you gave him that."
"Reg?" Sirius's ragged gasp spares him the necessity of answering. "You're. But this. What are you-?"
"Same as you, Siri," the other painting offers a tenuous smile, "just hanging around. Want the spot next to me?" A hope stands bare in the youth's tone -- forgiveness, renewal, reconciliation that might be possible now that neither one possesses a beating heart. "Good view of the Quidditch pitch."
Not to mention that it faces James and Lily's portrait, and the empty spot beside it which Albus is decidedly NOT saving for Remus Lupin. He turns Sirius's frame, and holds it up against the wall. "What do you think?"
Sirius's image stares, his bright eyes flickering from his brother, to his year mates, and farther along the curving gallery wall. Albus watches the painted gaze take in the marching frames, another curving staircase, and the third level above their heads. "As big as it needs to be, Sir?" Sirius answers at last, "Just what is this private gallery of yours? Why are we all here, just because we're all dead?"
"Because SOME people can't let go," sniffs Dorcas Meadows, stirring her painted cauldron as though wholly disinterested.
"Because, Sirius," Albus gently overpowers her sour tone, "I need to be sure you are not forgotten, that your loss, your sacrifices are never taken for granted."
"That, and because flailing himself leaves bloodstains on his robes," James angrily prods the embers of the same old fight, perhaps emboldened now that Sirius hangs amongst their number. "When are you going to give this up, Albus?"
"When the next Headmaster finally hangs HIS painting up here," puts in Caradoc Dearborn sourly.
"Probably not even then," says Gideon Prewett, not looking up from his chess game with his brother. Fabian only laughs and moves his king out of checkmate.
"It wasn't your fault," Lily said, stepping into Sirius's frame, "Albus, you cannot carry us all on your back like this!"
"Someone must," he manages, releasing the frame into the sticking charm. The wood has worn numb, pale grooves into his fingers, and he watches them fill with blood. It is easier than watching these ghosts try to forgive him with one hand, and absolve him with the other. "Someone must keep in mind that some victories come with too high a price. And that some losses can never, ever be recovered." At last, he looks up, meets her heartbreakingly familiar green eyes, begging her to understand.
Because he could have spent them carelessly. He could have marched them into the fire like chessmen, spending them twelve moves ahead in his mind, so that each death, when it came, would be no more than a springboard to his next attack. He has such a coldness inside him, he knows, and he could easily allow himself to think in numbers and statistics. And it is that which terrifies him in the dead, dark hours after midnight. That he could spend even one life for his cause, and not remember that a person LIVED it. And died at the end of it as well.
But her eyes, sap green under the shadow of her lashes and viridian where the light touches them, hold only mercy and forgiveness. But those eyes have never blamed to begin with, and so they have no right to forgive, and he, no right to accept it from them. Albus sighs, weary and suddenly chilled. A padded bench trots around the corner, and butts up behind his knees like a friendly dog, and he allows himself to sink down onto it.
"But that is neither here nor there tonight," he says in his best storytelling voice. Obediently, all the nearby faces lift and turn to regard him, and if some look frustrated, and others disgusted, he can bear with that more easily than the ones who gently smile. "Tonight, I would like to tell you all about Sirius Black, and his heroic death in the battle for the Department of Mysteries."