For Amy

Jack looked curiously up at the portraits which were arranged carefully on the huge walls. He looked to his left, then right and realised that he was alone. Again. As usual. Trying to ignore is increasingly dampening mood, he looked at the portrait in front of him, which portrayed an old man sleeping in an arm chair. He had orange robes and brown tweed trousers which were short enough to reveal green and pink stripy socks. He had a thick grey beard to his fat stomach, and a pink face. On his head was a pointed hat, striped purple and gold. His wand was rested on his lap, so Jack of course with nothing better to do chanced a hello. "Um, hi," he said, but the man didn't stir. "Hello." He said loudly, and the man jumped.

Wulfric the Weary may have been old, but he was perfectly able to leap out of a chair and draw his wand, even if it did make his joints moan in frustration. "You woke me from my slumber," he said sourly, glaring at the boy. "Ravenclaw." He said, scowling. "Bunch of swots in my day, I was a Hufflepuff you know, best house of all in my opinion." He said stoutly. "I went on to become aa marvellous wizard, I just," he coughed, his pink face turning pinker, "failed to wake up in time to see the herd of Angus Aberdeen's about to trample my tent." He scowled, "bloody cows." He muttered, sitting down again and dozing off.

Jack sighed. What a waste of two minutes.