Hogwarts Secrets? You want to know about Hogwarts secrets? Well, if I tell you, then they won't be secrets any more, will they? Bloody hell, you're a nag. All right then, but you have to promise not to tell. Ever. And I'll tell you just the way I was told about it.

Ahem....

*****

For over a millennium, Hogwarts Castle has proudly stood its ground, protecting and supporting generations of Britain's finest wizards and witches. It keeps their secrets, keeps them safe, and in its own way, prepares them to face unexpected shifts in their lives. Generally the focus is always on the students, but the castle also houses an army of support staff to see to the needs of the occupants. Most of these caretakers go unacknowledged, though the recent battle ought to have opened up wizardkind's eyes to the extent of the staff's loyalty to the students they serve. And while they were honored for their contributions, most people tend to forget things when they are not directly in front of them, don't they? It is doubtful that anyone ever really considered what sorts of things happened at Hogwarts castle after term ended. Perhaps the children thought that the castle just sort of faded into the mists of the lake, reappearing magically on September first, ready to welcome them with open arms. Or open turrets, if we're going to be specific.

If the students ever thought about it at all, (highly unlikely in the midst of swimming holes and Quidditch matches and sleep-overs where summer tans were compared and summer kisses recounted in vivid detail) perhaps they imagined that their teachers still waited for them there, bored out of their minds, reading the Prophet in the staff lounge and planning lessons for the upcoming term. It never would have occurred to the children that the teachers had lives of their own--lovers or spouses to return to, holidays in exotic places, quests for increased knowledge, or in Trelawney’s case, a month spent running around naked (and under the influence of not-quite-legal natural substances) in the Forest of Dean with other like-minded individuals.

But what about those that were left? No, not the teachers, but the rest of the castle's inhabitants? Filch? Well, he stays through most of the summer, too, but that's not what I meant. And not the ghosts, either--though they have their own sort of fun, I guarantee that. No, not the house elves. They spend most of the summer giving the castle a good cleaning, though they have a very special annual event, too--after all the work is done.

I'm talking about the portraits. Don't you count them as inhabitants of the castle? Well, I shouldn't be surprised, people tend to have issues acknowledging that they are in fact, sentient beings with thoughts and feelings and desires of their own. No one ever really considers what it must be like--looking out at the same stupid view, year after year, the only excitement in their lives achieved by being the one to open doors to hidden rooms and watching generations of horny teenagers groping each other in dark corners.

But oh, my--after the last teacher has left for the summer, when it's only the house elves and Filch--what a time to be a work of art in Hogwarts castle! For those hordes of exceptional bits of canvas and pigment and linseed oil, it's a chance to be a different type of art altogether, and it's positively liberating, knowing that--for a brief period of weeks--you really have no one to please but yourselves. Filch, the poor, hapless, disgruntled Squib, tries desperately to catch them at it. It's almost a game, running skyclad from frame to frame, always just out of his reach, with a tantalizing moan or a giggle spurring him on to keep chasing. Best exercise the poor man gets all year, probably.

The house elves ignore it, for the most part, but they don't get to see the real fun, do they?

No, for the very best, the most magical, the deliciously naughty part comes when the house elves are involved in something of an orgy of their own. The portraits gather at the appointed time in the particular classroom, the portrait of the traveling Minstrels strikes just the right chord, and then...magic.

I wish you could see it--it's positively breathtaking--the costumes of a thousand years, all of the artistic styles of a hundred generations blending into a scene so extraordinary, so decadent, so awe inspiring that mere words cannot possibly do it justice. A writhing mass of colour and shadow, of brush strokes and mottling, of sharp lines and soft curves. Here, a shepherd and shepherdess lay gloriously naked in a golden field, their youth and beauty shining as brightly as the sun in the sky above them. Here, an abstractly painted wizard with eyes on one side of his face is rutting between the plump thighs of a ruebenesque wood nymph, her titian hair spread over the muted colours of a Monet meadow.

Here, a Degas ballerina performs a bawdy striptease on the table as the (normally solemn) monks cheer her on, their cheeks pink with spirits and their foreheads glistening with sweat. Here, Sir Cadogan sits on the seashore having set aside his sword as he strokes his surprisingly impressive cock for the viewing pleasure not only of the stained glass mermaid lounging in the water but his fat pony, who neighs and brays in encouragement. The normally demure group of Impressionist ladies in crinolines are there, too, whooping and making a great deal of fuss as the Wizard with the walrus mustache gyrates his hips and shows them what a proper Scotsman really wears under his kilt.

Sir Barnabas is there, too, dancing naked in all his embroidered glory with his tutu wearing Trolls, and from the look that he and a particular one of them are giving each other, it seems he had other reasons for wanting to improve a Troll's lot in life. If one looks closely, it is discovered that The Fat Lady and her friend Violet are entwined on a red divan just on the edge of a still life, watching the proceedings, feeling the urge every few moments to lovingly caress a breast or slip a hand underneath a skirt, though by the end of the party, one of them will have their head thrown back in ecstasy whilst being tenderly licked from head to toe by the other.

Here, a hundred generations of headmasters intermingling--Armando Dippet fondling the ample bosom of Helga Hufflepuff as she bounces up and down on his cock, riding him like one of those Muggle pogo sticks. Severus Snape naked, pale and gaunt--almost beautiful, in a hideous way--on his hands and knees in front of Albus Dumbledore, his throbbing, dripping erection a marked contrast to the look of profound boredom on his face as his one time-victim cheerfully buggers him with a familiar twinkle in his eye. Phineas Nigellus is on his knees, too, but before Rowena Ravenclaw, the red mark on his pale buttocks a perfect imprint of her famously elegant hands, looking as if he'd like nothing more than to clean the hallowed ground that she walks on with a toothbrush and his tongue.

Minerva McGonagall is there, looking spectacularly saucy in her tartan corset and jaunty velvet hat, moving through the portraits with a prim smile, stopping to watch whenever a coupling catches her interest, offering a bit of constructive criticism or a nod of approval. She finally makes her way into the center of the gaggle of giggling ladies, where she demonstrates quite effectively how a proper Scotswoman keeps her man's tadger in good working order.

A delicious sight indeed, if one of the more three dimensional occupants of the castle had the good fortune to ever witness it. But no one did, because the portraits valued their privacy, not to mention the pride derived from their centuries of faithful services to the staff, the student body, and the castle itself. Quite rightly, they preferred to be remembered as important works of art rather than mere sordid, dirty pictures.

******

There, I managed to make that sound like one of those documentary films they forced us to sit through in primary, didn't I? Except for all the sex stuff, I mean. I reckon when you've been hanging out with someone who was executed by Henry VIII, you do tend to talk more formally.

How do I know about it? Oh, well, I did say that no one living had ever seen it, didn't I? We ghosts--no one really counts us in on anything, do they? I mean, yeah--we were given a passing mention in the speeches, but I don't think anyone really took it seriously. What can a ghost actually do, right? Except maybe warn people or scare people or distract people. Which I did, but then again, I got honored plenty for actually dying in the battle. Hell, I got right up and kept on fighting, even as a ghost. Well, what d'you expect? Gryffindor, right? To be honest, it took me a while to understand that I actually was a ghost and that the spell had actually hit me. And being a ghost is actually pretty wicked, especially when you get to see things like--you know--the annual masterpiece orgy I was just telling you about. I always did have a thing for pictures, didn't I?

Anyway, I'm off. It's going to start any minute now, and Myrtle said if I let her come with me and watch it, she'd let me put my fingers up her fanny. Not that...I mean you can't actually feel anything, but still, it's pretty cool. And no, I'm not telling you which classroom it is. Last thing they'd like is a living audience. If you want to drool over dirty pictures, well, isn't that what that internet thing is for? Go away, you're not even supposed to be here. Get a life, a real one, I mean. Let us have our small pleasures.