Work Text:
He was obsessed.
Ginny, at first, had understood. Or claimed to, at any rate, but if he were being honest, she hadn't. Not really, not in the way that he really could explain. In her defense, how could she? Her life, before they met, had followed a different trajectory, and after the defeat of Voldemort, had ventured towards a quieter life. Harry struggled to readjust, but how could he possibly do that when he had no idea what he was to adjust himself to? Normal life--it was a phrase he could read, but not comprehend in any meaningful way. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione had grown up ensconced in the love of parents and/or siblings; it was something that Harry was mildly jealous of, even though he was brought into the fold. He was so used to conflict, to struggle, that to have a peaceful life was something that terrified him because it was so foreign to what he had known. Peace was something like islands that would occasionally appear on the horizon, that he loved, but suddenly he'd feel like he had to leave, before he was forced off.
The past, however awful it had been, had resembled something of safety, because he knew the walls, the edges, what it felt like. It was a lamprey that had sunk itself onto him, that he gave life to, unsure and scared of what would remain if he dared remove it. Harry, however, tried to move on, and failing that, tried to find something that had given his life as much meaning as the fight against Voldemort had. He remembered being angry that he was denied from hunting down the scattered Death Eaters after that dark wizard's defeat. Did the ministry honestly expect him to just cast aside what fate had foisted upon him? That question was what led his mind to the dungeons, where Severus Snape had dwelled. Of course, it wasn't fate, but Dumbledore that had given the Slytherin his own via dolorosa. And for the first time, Harry wished that he could speak to him.
Harry had stood in Snape's defense many times after the latter had died, almost lionizing the wizard, which even his classmates had wondered at. No one could deny the worst aspects, but it made the shafts of the good he had done even more striking. It was what made Snape even more intriguing to Harry, who wanted something, anything that he could press his mind against. After much deliberation, it was determined that a portrait was to be done of Severus Snape in honor of what he had done during his time as headmaster at Hogwarts. Harry leapt at the chance to memorialize the wizard and no one dared ask why, he suspected that it was because of their shared history. But that wasn't quite it.
And so here he was, working with a painter to give Severus Snape a second life. The probably was, Harry was never happy; there was always something wrong and it would be so minor that it would exasperate the artist, who was clearly very talented. Ginny, after having spoken to the artist, who had complained about how overbearing her husband was being overbearing, making it impossible for him to complete his task. It was the first major argument they had in a while, but that was largely because Harry had withdrew from his family. He finally told her that perhaps a short trip to the continent would clear his head of whatever ghosts still roamed in it. Ginny, whose worry had increased at almost the same rate as his increased remoteness agreed. In the end it had been what he needed.
A few days after their return, during which time, the painting was completed, a small ceremony was conducted of when the work was to be presented, both physically and magically, in the headmaster's office. The artist had been pleased with his work and had assured Harry that he was certain that he had done all he could in celebrating Severus Snape. Harry was nervous at what he would see as the tapestry was pulled away, feeling that artist would upsell their own skill as a shield to their mediocrity. It was harsh, he knew, but he wanted Snape to be perfect as he hadn't been in life.
When the work was revealed, Harry had been impressed with it. The Slytherin that had made his life so difficult was before him, looking proud and powerful, pulsing with the vibrancy of magic. But what arrested Harry's attention were the eyes, in their inky blackness. That was what he was most concerned with, those dark orbs that had barely concealed the rage, the true tempest that lay just beneath the sheen of self control. The Portrait Snape blinked as the cloth was removed from the work and those same eyes appraised everyone in that room. But as soon as they saw Harry, it seemed as if the air grew heavy. Without a word, Snape had left the portrait to go Godric knew where in Hogwarts. Everyone's eyes turned to gaze in wonder at Harry, who just shrugged and made a joke about how even in death Severus Snape was just as unpleasant.
The truth was, however, Harry felt something shift within himself, which confused him. Who exactly was he drawn to, the portrait of the Potions Master or the flesh and blood wizard. And most importantly, why? Why did he have to feel it now?