Echo, his black hair a thoughtful blue, stared up at a particularly ornate portrait of a stern-looking wizard with a long, flowing beard. The wizard, currently mid-lecture about the proper care of dragon scales, seemed entirely oblivious to Echo's growing irritation. Echo's hand, almost unconsciously, drifted towards his wand.
"—and one must never, never forget the importance of a well-oiled hinge, young man!" the wizard in the painting declared, his voice echoing slightly in the deserted hallway.
Echo let out a low growl, his blue hair flickering with annoyance. "I get it, I get it," he muttered under his breath. "Hinges are important. Now, can I go?"
The wizard, however, simply continued his monologue, completely ignoring Echo's plea. Echo sighed, his hand tightening on his wand. He was seriously considering an Incendio charm, just to see if the painting would finally shut up.
Just then, a cheerful voice broke through the wizard's droning. "Mr. Echo! What a delightful surprise!"
Echo jumped, startled, and quickly dropped his hand from his wand. He turned to see Professor Flitwick bustling towards him, his tiny frame radiating his usual good humor.
"Professor Flitwick!" Echo exclaimed, his blue hair settling into a more neutral black. "Perfect timing, actually. I was just… contemplating the nature of these living paintings."
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "Ah, a fascinating subject indeed! What has piqued your curiosity, my boy?"
Echo gestured vaguely at the lecturing wizard. "Well, are they actually alive? Or is it just… a really good illusion? Is the actual person in there?"
Flitwick chuckled, adjusting his spectacles. "An excellent question, Mr. Echo! The truth is, it's a bit of both, and neither, all at once. These paintings are imbued with a magical reflection of the person or object they depict. It's not the actual individual, no, but rather a magical imprint of their personality, their memories, and their mannerisms. They can interact, observe, and even travel to other paintings within the same magical network, but they are not truly 'alive' in the way you or I are."
Echo's black hair flickered with understanding. "So, it's like… a magical echo of the real thing?"
"Precisely!" Flitwick beamed. "A most astute observation, Mr. Echo! And sometimes, this magical reflection serves a deeper purpose. For grieving families, these paintings can offer a way to remember and even converse with their loved ones, allowing them to come to terms with their loss slowly. It's a gentle way for them to let go, in time."
"That's good," Echo said, a faint, almost predatory glint entering his hollow eyes. "Because I was about two seconds away from almost killing what was left of this person and this painting."
Flitwick's cheerful expression faltered. "Killing, Mr. Echo?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. He carefully grabbed Echo's arm, which had once again drifted towards his wand, and gently placed it back down. "Whatever do you mean?"
"This painting," Echo hissed, his black hair flaring a violent, indignant red, "has been holding me hostage for the past two hours! Two hours, Professor! He just keeps going on and on about dragon scales and hinges, and I swear, it's the most inane, boring thing I've ever heard! I was half ready to use Incendio just to make him stop!"
The wizard in the painting, who had finally paused his lecture, gasped, his painted eyes wide with horror. "Young man! Why didn't you say anything sooner? I was merely trying to impart valuable knowledge!"
Echo whirled on the painting, his red hair blazing. "I tried to say something! But you wouldn't let me! You kept telling me not to be rude before my superiors!"
The painted wizard bristled, his beard seeming to bristle with indignation. "Hmph! I don't know why children of every generation can't seem to learn the knowledge from the people of the past! Such disrespect!"
"That's it," Echo snarled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "I'm giving you to Peeves."
The painted wizard's face paled, his painted jaw dropping. "Peeves? No! Not Peeves! Please, young man, have mercy! The last time that Poltergeist got his hands on my frame, he put me in front of the Fat Lady and made me listen to her sing for three weeks straight! It was agony!"
Echo's red hair flickered with a malicious green. A slow, terrifying grin spread across his face.
Flitwick, sensing the conversation's dangerous turn, quickly interjected, "Well, Mr. Echo, I do hope this answers your questions about the paintings!"
Echo blinked, his yellow hair settling into a calm, if slightly mischievous, blue. "Oh! Yes, Professor. It does. Thank you, Dad!"
Flitwick froze, his eyes widening in surprise. Echo, too, seemed to freeze, his blue hair flaring a mortified pink. The painted wizard in the background gasped dramatically.
"I—I mean, Professor Flitwick!" Echo stammered, his face flushing a deep scarlet. He quickly turned and, with a mumbled "Bye!", bolted down the hallway, leaving a bewildered Flitwick and a terrified painted wizard in his wake.
Professor Flitwick stood there for a moment, a faint, bewildered smile playing on his lips. Then, a soft chuckle escaped him, growing into a full, hearty laugh that echoed down the deserted hallway. "Dad," he repeated to himself, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, I suppose there are worse things to be called."
As he composed himself, he turned to continue his rounds, only to nearly collide with Professor McGonagall, who was striding purposefully down the corridor, her tartan shawl swishing with her movement.
"Filius," Minerva said, her voice a little sharper than usual, "have you seen Mr. Echo? He just ran past me like a Bludger on a mission."
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "Indeed, Minerva. He just left me with quite the… interesting conversation. Speaking of which," he leaned in conspiratorially, "is that little rumor true? About Echo accidentally calling you 'Mom'?"
A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched Minerva's lips. "It is true, Filius," she admitted, a warmth entering her eyes. "And I must confess, it did make me happy."
Flitwick's smile widened, and he gently took her hand. "Well, well, well," he teased, his voice playful. "It seems we've both been promoted, Minerva. So, where shall we go for our next honeymoon, my dear? Since I'm apparently Echo's dad, it only seems fitting."
Minerva laughed, a rare, genuine sound that softened her usually stern features. "Filius, stop messing around," she chided, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "But… It is nice, isn't it? To be called 'Mom.' I never had any children of my own."
Flitwick squeezed her hand gently. "Nor I, Minerva. Nor I. It's… a rather pleasant sentiment."
Meanwhile, just around the corner, hidden behind a large tapestry depicting a particularly fierce-looking unicorn, Echo was slowly sliding down the wall, his face buried in his hands. His pink hair blazed with a mortified, fiery red, and he let out a strangled groan. "Oh, Merlin's saggy left sock," he whispered, dying of embarrassment as he overheard their entire conversation.