I'm not gonna lie, I am super-proud of this story. Ironically, most of the one-shots I'm proud of get very few reviews, haha. (One even has zero...) Anyways, if you're reading this story, I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

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A Blank Canvas

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The idea struck him quite forcibly while he was caught outside the Gryffindor common room, unable to recall the password.

"If you can't remember, child, I can't open the door for you," the fat lady in the portrait softly chided.

"I can give you the last password," Harry begged. "And even the one before that!"

"Sorry, dear. Every Gryffindor must know the current password in order to be let in."

With a sigh, he slouched against the wall next to her. "I guess I'll wait, then," he mumbled.

"That's the way. I'm sure someone will be along soon." Pouting, he peeked at her through his lashes as she returned to her mirror, but found himself too fascinated to hold his surliness for long. Even after being at Hogwarts for two months, he really couldn't grow used to moving paintings. Each one had their own personality, their own purpose. Some were even historical figures capable of talking about their entire lives as if they were still living it. He was suddenly curious about the lady in the pink dress.

So he asked her who she was.

"Who I am?" She chuckled, as if he had told her a joke. "Why, I'm Guinevere de Luca, born in Naples in the early part of the fourteenth century. I'm a distant relative of Headmaster Dumbledore." The fat lady smiled then. "A very distant relative."

"A relative?" And that word opened his eyes for the first time. Dumbledore was ancient, and Harry couldn't fathom any of his older relatives to be around. Yet she was here, alive, in this painting, speaking to him as if she were standing beside him as a living, breathing human being.

He asked her all about her creation. Who had painted her? When had she come to Hogwarts? How had she come to life? She answered all the questions with delight. A renaissance painter had done the honour of creating her likeness, and she had come to Hogwarts very soon afterwards. She did not remember the trip, however, because she was not brought to life until she entered the castle. She did not know by what means.

The fat lady had no idea that Harry's mind was whirling with the news. All of the paintings in Hogwarts were alive. If another wizard could bring a painting to life, couldn't he do the same?

Neville and Ron came along at that point and let him into the common room, but the thought of creation pursued him. He could barely manage his homework, and he didn't sleep that night. Instead, he constructed his plan.

Harry would paint his parents.

He'd never, in his wildest dreams, thought he'd be able to speak with them. His childhood with the Dursleys hadn't been happy, and he'd often wondered whether life would have been different with them to hold him, to take him places and spend time with him. But those were daydreams. Now, here was his chance to speak to them. He never realized before how very much he wanted to talk to them, to hear their voices, to listen to them say "I love you." He'd never heard the phrase before, never in his life. The Dursleys didn't say them. He didn't have any close friends. Harry wanted to hear it whispered to him while he drifted into sleep, when he got an O on a test, whenever he felt scared or confused about what he should do . . . Harry wanted his parents' love more than anything in the world. Now he could finally have it.

He talked to Hagrid first. He would need a picture of his mother and father, and he didn't know who else to go to. Fortunately, the groundskeeper assured him that he had a few photos stashed away in his house. Fang drooled on Harry's lap as Harry sipped the bitter tea Hagrid had given him.

"'Ere it is," the man rumbled finally, blowing the dust off the front. "It's no' much, but yer can have it." The photo! Harry took it eagerly, and nearly laughed from the simple joy he felt. Two people were there, moving, waving — he'd never seen anything like it. His parents. He did look exactly like his father, and his mother was beautiful. He'd waited so long just to see them. Tears stung his eyes, and he thanked Hagrid with all of his heart. He wasn't sure, but it looked like Hagrid was crying as well. The great man muttered again that it was no trouble, and Harry was so excited, he barely remembered to thank the man for the tea before he dashed back to the castle.

It took him about a week to send off for painting supplies. He had to talk to Professor McGonagall about where to get them.

"I didn't know you liked to paint, Mr. Potter," she said offhandedly as she scribbled a grade on a student's essay.

"I don't, really," he replied. Then he added, "But I'd like to try."

She smiled at him from across her desk. Harry wasn't sure why she looked so sad. "Then I shall ask Madame Pince to order a catalogue for you. It should come by owl in a couple of days." He smiled his thanks and she dismissed him with the same tight smile.

True to her word, the painting supplies catalogue came the following Monday. Harry was dismayed to see how many supplies were listed, how many colours. He had no idea where to begin, so he set aside an entire night to pick out what colours he might need. He also chose a medium-sized canvas that was the same shape as his picture. Buying paint brushes was harder. There were simply too many. Harry finally decided on a beginner's set, hoping that it would also come with instructions.

"What's that?" Harry threw his arms over the book and whirled. Ron was watching him, slightly confused. The apple he held was frozen half-way to his mouth. The boy then grinned, a bit sheepishly. "It's just me, mate." He took a large bite of his apple. "Are you working on homework?"

"Er, sort of. This is . . . a present I'm buying for Christmas."

Ron choked on his apple. "Christmas! Merlin, I haven't bought any presents!" he gushed. "What's the date?"

"It's the seventh."

Immediately, he relaxed. "Oh, right. Excellent. Then I'll let you buy your presents." He grinned again, awkwardly, as he left. Harry never told him what he really had been doing that night. He felt it was too private — almost embarrassing.

That was also why he painted at night. At first, it was horribly difficult. He'd had to cast numerous spells around his bed so that he wouldn't wake his yearmates, and despite his practice with the magic, sometimes he'd still do them wrong. Once, he even caused his entire bed to smoke with a mispronounced Silencio charm. When Christmas came, however, he had finally inherited a cloak of invisibility from his father; it allowed him to practically roam free in the hallways. He felt it was a sign, as if his father wanted him to finish the painting, as well. So the very next night, he gathered all of his paints and brushes, then the canvas itself, and lugged them to the nearest open room.

For more than a month, he scurried there every night after dark. He invested hours in it. Mixing colours, a brushstroke here, a curve there. Harry kept the photograph with him always. His class work didn't suffer, since Hermione had taken it upon herself to help him. She never asked him questions, and he never offered an explanation, but he took comfort in her concern. "I'll get better at this soon," he often told her with a monstrous yawn. "I promise I'll have more time soon."

And he did.

It was February ninth, and he'd finished.

Harry stepped back.

Two blotchy faces peered at him.

He held his breath, and he waited.

And waited.

Harry waited for days. He didn't know how long it took for paintings to come to life, and he didn't know who to ask. Harry kept the canvas under his bed, pulling it out late at night to see whether there was any movement, any at all. He tried different spells that he had found in the library, and once he foolishly even tried talking to it. But it was always the same.

Then came the night when he had pushed it too far underneath his bed. Trying to be quiet so as not to wake his roommates, he stretched and strained to reach it, his fingers barely grazing the edge. Finally, he grasped it and tugged it forward.

Harry had forgotten about his Potions knives.

He heard the tear, but didn't have time to stop himself. Harry's breath caught, and, gingerly, he lifted the painting from the ground to examine the damage. It was worse than he had thought it would be. The canvas was cleaved in two, right across his parents' chests. The flaps flopped pathetically forward; he could still see his mother's smile through the creases.

Heat clenched his throat, and he fumbled in the dark to try and pull the pieces together. Without his glasses, he couldn't see his work, but he squinted through the darkness anyways. Maybe if he could sort it out he'd be able to magic it back together in the morning. Harry felt the oils slipping in his grip, and at once, he felt another part of the canvas tear away. No. He willed the piece to stay as he released the wad of canvas, but it fell in a crumpled heap on his bed. His breathing hitched. The painting, the one he'd worked so hard on . . . his parents.

It was then that Harry cried.

He couldn't understand why he was so distraught. The picture could be mended. He could ask for help, if he couldn't do it himself. And even if this canvas didn't come to life, he could try again. He had the paints still. He could get another canvas. He had an entire bank vault full of money. Harry could buy all the canvas and paints that he wanted until he got it right. But that wasn't what caused his tears to overflow, his entire body to shake. He tenderly touched the torn outline of his mother's face as his lip trembled.

That was it.

For the first time, he was crying for them.

He didn't miss his parents. How could he? He couldn't remember them, their touch, their voices — just a flash of green and a blood-curdling shriek. He hadn't seen pictures of them, and for years, he hadn't even known the faces of the people who had died to save him, his own mother and father.

No, Harry didn't miss them. He yearned for them.

But he knew now that not even magic could bring them back.

I've always been pretty disappointed in Rowling for downplaying Harry's disasterous childhood. I mean, he would've been pretty messed up, I think. In here, I tried to keep his personality the same while adding that factor of yearning that he never showed outright in the books.

Anyways, if you loved it, or if you think I'm crazy for loving it, please leave me a review. Thanks for reading!