The Walls Have Eyes
It is dark. Absolute, pitch black, and different somehow than the darkness he'd become used to recently.
At first he fears that something must be wrong with his vision, but after a few minutes of adjustment, he can finally make out his hand in front of his face. His eyes are fine. The blackness is something else. Relief floods him before his old instincts kick in and he tenses, straining his ears for any sign of what might be going on.
"What fresh hell is this?" he mutters, feeling decidedly odd for a dead man.
He's supposed to finally be free of the nonsense of the living, and yet he is tired, as if he'd just wrestled ten rounds with a troll. For what must be months now, he'd been surrounded by blissful nothingness, so why was he suddenly here in the dark; conscious, and tired?
Trying to get a handle on what's happening, he starts to grope his way around in the blackness, hoping to find something with which to set his reeling senses right. Further and further out he stretches his arms, finding nothing. Slowly, carefully, he starts to shuffle his feet forward, finally coming into contact with some kind of solid barrier, which won't yield to his not so gentle pushing. Laying his palms flat upon it, he trails them along the slick surface, trying to find the end to the boundary. His heart-rate speeds up considerably as he explores, unsure of what he might find.
Why in the world was his heart beating again? Wasn't he supposed to be done with this rubbish? Hadn't he spent his dying breath giving Harry Potter the memories which contained the information that had been oh so vital to the fall of the Dark Lord? Hadn't the little bugger, against all odds, finally defeated the madman mere hours after his own unexpected and untimely death? What in the world could possibly be left for him now? Was he doomed to never be left in peace, even in death?
In frustration, he beats his fists against the smooth surface. It does no good, neither his mood or his situation improve. Resigned, he lays his cheek against the cool expanse with a soft sigh. After a moment he realizes that he can hear something. Unless he was going insane, (which, while living, had always been a distinct possibility given everything he'd seen and experienced in his miserable life), he thinks it sounds like some kind of muted muttering going on on the other side. It reminds him of the background noise in the odd, white, King's Cross-like train station he'd found himself in after he'd died.
As soon as he'd heard the Dark Lord had been defeated, he'd boarded his train 'on' that day, dammit! So really, what in the name of Merlin's pants was happening now?
Sliding his hand along the slick wall, he slowly and carefully makes his way along, hoping that this isn't suddenly some type of punishment after all, for his many misdeeds as a young Death Eater. Perhaps sacrificing the rest of his life in order to serve, protect, and guide Albus' golden child hadn't actually been sufficient penance.
The thought suddenly makes it a bit hard to breath, or perhaps it's just because his heart has started to pound. The murmuring seems to grow louder as he gropes his way around in the dark, hoping to find a weapon of some sort, because his wand doesn't seem to be in any of his robe pockets. The louder it gets, the more it sounds like voices, and the harder his heart beats in his chest, the sound of it filling his ears, mingling with the murmuring voices. Whatever this is, he wishes that they could all just get on with it.
As his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he can just make out some kind of shape in the shadows behind him, large and hulking, but for the moment still, and (hopefully) inanimate. He keeps a weary eye on it, just in case, as he continues to search for an end to the barrier. Suddenly, on the other side, he can hear one very distinct voice, very close to his ear. He freezes in place, trying to make out the words. Something about the rumbling bass of the voice is strangely familiar to him.
"And so, in honor of his apparent years of courage and sacrifice, we unveil today, this likeness, in hopes that it will go a long way in clearing his heroic name."
Abruptly he is blinded by bright light from the other side of the barrier. When his eyes adjust, he finds himself staring, dumbfounded, out into a very familiar circular office. Dropping his hands from the clear obstruction that separates him from a crowd of gawking well-known faces, all seemingly applauding him for some reason, he tries his best to understand the situation.
He knows this office. How many times had he stood there, in front of that very desk, and argued with Albus over every detail of the whole wretched war? How many months did he sit behind it, fear constantly gnawing a hole in his gut as he awaited word of Potter's whereabouts and progress in Albus' little mission for him? He knows this office, yet something is not right. Something about the angle from which he is viewing it is off. It's almost as if he's been backed up right to the wall, somehow above the fireplace mantle...
Staring in disbelief, he registers the people gathered there. The voice he heard belongs to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Minerva stands behind the headmasters desk, her eyes a bit misty, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. The red heads of many of the Weasley family make them easy to identify. Most of them look quite miserable, George in particular. And standing next to the Weasley clan is Harry Potter, beaming up at him with Lily's green eyes, like he expects some kind of praise or acknowledgment.
"Don't worry, Severus," an all too familiar voice cuts through the confusion. "It takes a bit to get used to, but all in all, it's not a bad life."
Slowly he lets his gaze travel outward, past Potter, past Minerva, to the wall behind her desk. As he looks into Albus' blasted twinkling eyes, he suddenly understands. A portrait. His consciousness has been brought back as a bloody portrait and he's cursed to hang here for the rest of eternity, forced to watch the comings and goings of generation after generation of dunderhead students.
"Oh, don't look so horrified, Severus," Minerva pipes up. "Young Mister Potter here has worked tirelessly these last few months to clear your name and make sure that you are recognized for your selfless acts. Every other Headmaster has a portrait, it's only fitting that you be here too."
It's exactly as he feared, even in death, he'll have no peace. Already he longed for the stretch of blissful nothingness that he'd just been pulled from. 'What a life,' he thought to himself as he settled into the high-back chair which shared his canvas. It was no longer a menacing shadow in the dark.
If the gathered crowd was expecting some kind of grand speech from him, they could bloody well wait until they turned to stone. This was Potter's fault, all of it; from interrupting his peaceful eternal rest, right down to the uncomfortable chair the artist had painted. And why was he hanging above the mantle? The most recent headmaster of the school should hang behind the desk. Even in death, life hated him.
AN: I know, I know, Batteries and Baking was supposed to be my last work in the fandom. I blame Nightmareprince for pointing out that it would have been weird not to participate in this contest... seeing as I came up with the concept. Oh well, it gave me the opportunity to write a grumpy Severus. Gimme reviews! I love to hear what people think.