An Interference of Portraits

Prologue: A Return to Grimmauld Place

There were many changes that occurred immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts and defeating Voldemort. For example, I went from Undesirable No 1 to became everyone's darling, quite literally overnight.

There were many things that stayed the same too, like still feeling incredibly socially awkward and clumsy, especially when it came to sodding interviews and formal bloody functions at the Ministry for Magic, and generally in large crowds.

These two aspects, more than anything, were in direct conflict with one another. Yet I was expected to be the face of the Ministry and the New World going forward. I really would have preferred that it wasn't the case, but it became my life and it seemed I couldn't fight that one anymore...

Immediately after the battle, the demands put upon me by the Ministry and Press and public escalated to a point of ridiculousness. I hated it. I thought, more than once, that doing heroic things was far easier than being a 'hero' after the event. Perhaps because in those moments I was just focused on the task in hand, not what others thought of me or how I had to behave or what was the right thing to be wearing in front of the Wizengamot, or what the etiquette was regarding all those bloody different rows of cutlery at the fancy meals that I had to attend with various ministers and high-profile people. My biggest dread was when the day came that I'd be asked to attend a Gala Dinner or a Ball. It brought on anxiety flashbacks about the Triwizard Tournament and dancing in front of everyone at the Yule Ball. It was enough to bring me out in cold sweats because I knew I couldn't dance and how the hell was I supposed to remember the steps and dance a traditional quadrille when I clearly had two left feet?

There was a horrible personification of being the hero that I had to perform and had to pretend I loved. I did it because it was expected. It came with the territory of what I had achieved. But the truth was I felt uncomfortable and wanted to be 'just Harry'. I was not some amazing hero who was all suave and sophisticated and who swanned in a saved the day. I was a nearly eighteen-year-old kid who wanted life to leave me alone. I already felt like I'd had to grow up too fast, too much had been taken away from me, and now it seemed that wasn't going to change. I tried to turn down interviews and reduce the number of visits to the Ministry; it didn't always work. I also avoided going out in the Wizarding World. I didn't know if that made the hero worship better or worse. It certainly meant that every time I did appear in public, everyone gawped at me like I had three heads or something. And that made me even more self-conscious than I already was.

At first, I had gone back to The Burrow, hoping I might find familiar comfort there. Besides, Molly insisted and it was very hard to refuse Molly Weasley when she insisted on anything. Well, I thought so anyway. She scared me more than Voldemort, especially after the way she'd dealt with Bellatrix. One thing was certain, you didn't piss Molly Weasley off.

Once there, I stuck it out there for exactly four weeks, two days, eleven hours, and twenty-six minutes. What with grieving, and third-wheeling, and ex-girlfriends, and trying to avoid explaining exactly why I had split up with Ginny and why I wasn't going to be making the expected alignment between the Ancient House of Potter and the Weasley family (not that it had been formally discussed); it was all very uncomfortable. That, and the addition of Molly's hugs and sudden tears about just the slightest mundane and normal aspect of living; anything from the family sitting together at the dinner table to appearing in the kitchen for a cup of tea. I got it. I really did. Molly was relieved and grateful and grieving. And probably suffering from PTSD. There were a hundred emotions that we were all experiencing every second of the day immediately after the war.

And then there was Molly mothering us all too, when she wasn't in tears or hugging the life out of us. Let's face it, I've never been mothered beyond the first fifteen months of my life and I can't exactly remember that time. And, more recently, I'd been on the run for nine months and answering to no one but myself (if I ignore that Hermione probably being in charge bit). It wasn't exactly going to sit right if I was expected to answer every bloody query about my whys and wherefores and divulge my innermost bloody feelings at any one time, just to make sure I was okay with my thoughts. Even a trip to attend a Wizengamot hearing was an interrogation nightmare because she wanted to know my plans for every forthcoming second of the day that I would be away from The Burrow; she wanted to ensure I was safe at all times. I felt smothered and after a month of just about coping with it all, I ran for the hills.