The Marauders: Year One | #Wattys2016

Beati Pacifici

Beati Pacifici

"Bloody hell. For all the trophies in here, you'd think Hogwarts was rolling in champions and good deed doers," James murmured to himself, nearly an hour into his detention. His elbow was sore from scrubbing and the water in his bucket looked just as tarnished as the trophies he'd been cleaning. The shelves seemed never ending. He groaned and looked up at the clock on the wall and wondered if Professor McGonagall had forgotten she'd set him to polishing. He pictured her having fallen asleep in her study over a cup of tea and some particularly boring students essays. Oh how terrible she'd feel when she awoke and realized James was still at it in the trophy room! He would never have to serve detention again, he imagined.

The only good thing was that he was now on to the trophies and awards for Quidditch. It was interesting seeing all the shields earned by the houses for having won House Cup, reading the names of the Beaters, Seekers, Chasers and Keepers that had been named the best players. He polished these trophies rather better than he'd done the special services awards (how boring) or the various other clubs and academic achievements awards. He was rather enjoying himself, imagining the games that must've gone on to result in some of these awards - Super Spectacular Save and Brilliant Bit of Broomwork were just some of the titles he saw awarded - when there was a little sound that made him look up.

The portrait beside the case of Quidditch awards had cleared his throat. Hem-hem.

James looked up at him, having not even noticed a portrait there at all when he'd first started. "Oh, hello," he said.

"Good evening," the Portrait greeted him. He pointed down at the brass plate beneath his frame, "I was rather hoping you'd remember my plate. Last boy who was in detention forgot it, you see, and it's been getting rather nasty."

"Oh right, sure." James sloshed the rag he was using into the water and wrung it out and scrambled over to the portrait, kneeling down before it to get the plate. Biting his tongue he started working on polishing. "So who are you, anyways?" He asked.

"I am Brutus Scrimgeour," answered the portrait.

"The Beater?" James asked, looking up with surprise, pausing with his scrubbing. "The guy who wrote Beater's Bible?" The book was rather popular - having just come out the past year or so. "But - but you aren't dead. Are you?"

Brutus Scrimgeour shook his head, "No. But that doesn't mean I can't have a portrait, silly boy."

"I thought all the portraits in Hogwarts were of dead people. That's funny. How do you find the time to sit around in the portrait when you're not dead?" He went back to scrubbing. "Time better spent writing another book, if you ask me. Your last one was brilliant!"

Brutus Scrimgeour grinned, his little mustache waggling with the motion of his lips, "Well I do thank you, I do. I'm very glad you've taken the time to read my works." He snuggled himself rather cozily into the chair he'd been painted sitting upon. "As for the time to sit for the portrait, it is rather more relaxing here with the trophies than it is at home with my wife. She's a nag, you know."

"Ah," James said, as though he fully understood this sentiment, "Yeah, girls are real downers."

Brutus Scrimgeour chuckled. "Yes, that they are."

James had just about finished polishing the brass plate by now and he gave it one last rub with the sleeve of his robes to dry it off. "Brutus Scrimgeour, Award Winning Beater and Author of Beaters Bible," he read, then he leaned closer, for the next line was much smaller and, it appeared, in Latin. "Beati Pacifici." He looked up to ask Brutus Scrimgeour what the words meant, but to his very big surprise, the portrait had opened up, like a trap door so that the frame lifted over James's head and behind it was a dark tunnel.