Part XXIV

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling, who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.

All my gratitude to my beta AmyLouise. Many thanks to all my kind readers and reviewers.

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Part XXIV

When the firsties arrived in the morning, Snape was disappointed, but not surprised, at not finding Scorpius amongst them. According to the Headmistress, the child had returned crushed from the visit to his family, and proud as only a Malfoy could be, he surely didn't want to expose his anguish to the morbid curiosity of the other students.

Once more, the image of a sobbing Minerva came back to Snape's mind. The portrait lowered his head under the intensity of that memory, and his eyes took on a pained expression. There was no difference before death: every human being was left alone to face it, and no rank or privileges could spare or lessen the fear and the pain of that dreadful passage.

Raising his head for a quick moment while preparing his potion, Albus Severus caught the change in Snape's mood and turned to check the room, trying to understand what was saddening his teacher so much. But there was nothing to be seen, and when the child looked back again, Snape's features had recovered their usual composure. The boy frowned in concern and continued to cast worried glances at the painting during the lesson.

The session went on smoothly, and when it ended, Albus Severus busied himself in several minor tasks, thus managing to stay behind. Then, as soon as the room was empty, he abandoned his acting and addressed the portrait with a confidence derived from their past interactions: "Anything wrong, sir?"

But Snape had sunk into a meditative mood, and his spirit was longing for solitude. That friendly intrusion somewhat irritated him and made him reply with a curt, "Nothing, Potter, if you exclude the minor detail of being dead in the world of the living."

Disconcerted, Albus Severus took a step back and lowered his head, not really knowing how to handle that assertion. But no other words came from the portrait, clearly lost in his musings. So, after a few moments spent in hopeful, but useless, waiting, the boy turned his shoulders and slowly crossed the room, still meditating on that puzzling reply. He had almost reached the door when he saw the doorknob rotate, and the heavy wooden panel seemed to open cautiously by itself; a circumspect Scorpius Malfoy peeked in but stopped in panic as soon as his eyes met his classmate's.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Albus Severus inquired suspiciously, noticing that the other boy was hiding something against his chest.

"That's none of your business, Potter," Scorpius replied coldly, and the two boys looked at each other with a challenging glare. Abruptly awakened from his trance, Snape frowned in irritation. Everything in that scene reminded him unpleasantly of the many conflicts between Harry and Draco, and his Slytherin pride ignited.

"If you don't mind, Potter, I am the one who asks the questions here," he snapped. "Now, please, leave us alone."

Albus Severus' face wrinkled in surprise, and the child turned to look at the portrait with a wounded expression. But Scorpius had already rudely pushed him aside, a triumphant smile dancing on his lips. Defeated, the Gryffindor clenched his fists and left the room, closing the door a bit harder than was polite.

Silence fell again, and Scorpius' boldness suddenly seemed to evaporate as soon as he found himself alone with his teacher. Slowly, the boy went over to the frame, and with a hesitant move, he raised the thing he had lovingly held in his arms till that moment. Surprised, Snape saw a small metallic box.

As if realising his teacher's disconcertion, Scorpius placed the box on a desk and whispered, eyes reddening dangerously, "My grandpa sends this to you."

Tears began to flow down his cheeks, but the boy wiped them away ferociously and clicked a button on the side of the box. With a smooth movement, the lid opened, and a silvery radiance lit the room. Suspended in a luminous ray that flowed incessantly towards the ceiling, the image of Lucius Malfoy appeared to the astounded Snape.

The once powerful wizard was lying in a bed and looked extremely ill. His features were drained, and his expression revealed a mortal exhaustion. His head was resting on a pillow, and his body was enwrapped in covers that a feminine hand (Narcissa? Snape thought with a shiver) was continually adjusting.

"Severus, my friend...," Lucius' voice was feeble and uneven but was clearly audible in the immense silence of the room. The child stared with desolate eyes while his grandfather opened his hands in a pleading gesture.

"I don't know if you will listen to my words after the many spiteful accusations I cast against you when we met at Hogwarts. But I do hope and pray you will accord me this last chance. I deliver my message into Scorpius' hands. Please, do not send him away unheard."

The effort had been too much for that devastated organism. An excruciating pause followed while the man struggled for breath.

"Life is a harsh teacher, Severus," he finally went on, "and now that I'm facing death, I watch things with different eyes. I want to close my accounts and make amends for the many sufferings I have caused. I am here to ask for your forgiveness."

A choking cough interrupted the speech, and Snape felt fear and pain tighten his heart. But finally, obstinately, Lucius mastered his forces again.

"I have been unjust with you, Severus, because my pride needed a justification for the faults I had committed. But I was a fool in thinking to elude my doom. A sentence had been written for me since the moment I chose the wrong path so many years ago."

Lucius closed his eyes in exhaustion, and the little hand tenderly wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I suppose there is a lesson in all this, though I won't ever be able to put it into practice. But it's my destiny, and it must be fulfilled." The voice was becoming more and more indistinct, yet Snape could easily perceive the immense regret filling it. "Still, it's so saddening to leave my wife again."

"Lucius!" Narcissa's cry of pain reverberated in the column of light, making it vibrate violently.

For a moment, Lucius looked like his younger self, and his hand clasped his wife's with surprising strength. Then he ceded to his exhaustion and leaned back on the pillow, whispering slowly, "You have made the right choice, Severus. Blessed be you forever."

The light vanished abruptly, leaving Snape with a tightened throat. Curled under the frame, Scorpius was sobbing quietly, face in his hands and shoulders shaking lightly.

The portrait contemplated the boy for a very long moment, and when he spoke again, his timbre sounded unexpectedly harsh.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Startled, the boy raised his head in panic. "Y-yes, sir?" he stammered, trying to steady his voice.

"This is no time for crying!" Snape affirmed; then he began to pace feverishly. "We must do something! I can't... I won't..."

A strange urge was compelling him. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to the child.

"I must see your grandfather," he ordered.

Bewildered, the boy widened his eyes. "But you are a painting! How will you...?"

"I will use your magic," Snape declared simply.

Scorpius watched him, agape. Then his eyes sparkled, and his features hardened in determination.

"What shall I do, Professor?" he asked.

*************

Ten minutes later, Snape was flying, wrapped in a handkerchief tied to the claws of a majestic grey owl. Passing through the fabric, the stinging October wind was cruelly biting the fibres of the canvas in a silence broken only by the powerful movements of the wings.

Everything had happened so quickly! It had taken Scorpius only two tries to learn and cast the spell that had reduced a life-size portrait to a more manageable size. Then, carefully holding the painting in his hands...and Snape had felt a comforting warmth radiating from the boy's fingers...Scorpius had run to the Owlery, chosen a bird and sent it to his family with that precious load. There had not been time for second thoughts, nor for asking permission from Minerva. For the first time after his awakening, Snape had felt free and master of himself, and a violent emotion had filled his heart.

The whistle of the wind was mixing savagely with the roaring of the blood throbbing in his ears while he was swinging loosely in the air. What if Scorpius hadn't secured the package well? That would mean the end for Snape, and most importantly, for his mission. Yet there was no fear in his heart, only a ferocious determination and a growing anxiety: was he already too late?

Finally, he felt the great bird slow down the rhythm of its wings. The owl was evidently gliding, and soon the change in the temperature advised Snape that he was inside a closed space. A house. Malfoy Manor, he thought, and a shiver shook him while again memories flooded uncontrollably into his mind. Then he heard an alarmed feminine voice.

"Look, an owl from the school and so soon! Oh dear, what could have happened?"

"Don't get agitated, please, Astoria," a calm, almost cold, voice answered. Its timbre had changed with adulthood, but Snape immediately recognised Draco, and an overwhelming nostalgia filled his heart again.

The wrapped picture gently hit against a wooden surface; the owl emitted a sharp cry and swayed, as if that wonderful creature of the sky was feeling uncomfortable on the earth. Two impatient hands fumbled with the fabric, and its soft whiteness opened to show the worried faces of Draco Malfoy and of his wife Astoria.

"Professor Snape!" the man reacted in astonishment.

"Professor Snape?" the woman repeated in utter surprise.

"Glad to see you, Astoria, Draco," Snape composedly replied; then he crossed his arms and watched the couple, concealing his curiosity under his usual ironical expression. He hadn't cared to investigate who his favourite Slytherin student had married. So the portrait was surprised and pleased to find that the youngest of the Greengrass sisters...a girl he had always considered much worthier than Pansy Parkinson...had been Draco's final choice.

But his reflections were soon interrupted. Astoria Malfoy, an elegant blonde woman with anguished eyes, was asking anxiously, "How is Scorpius, Professor? Is there any problem with my son?"

"The boy is fine," Draco declared firmly, exchanging a glance with Snape. "Professor Snape is here for a visit," the man continued with a meaningful expression, keeping his eyes on the portrait. "Please leave us alone."

Astoria opened her mouth with a request, then silenced by her husband's determined face, lowered her head with a sigh and left the room. In the meantime, Draco had raised the portrait in his hands, looking at it with cold, yet fascinated, attention.

"You haven't changed, Professor," he sneered. "Death is decidedly the perfect cure against aging."

"Unfortunately, a definitive one," Snape replied briefly, considering how his student, on the contrary, had grown old. Draco's blond hair had receded somewhat, which emphasized the pointed chin and the arrogant expression of his thin lips. The two men examined each other for some moments.

"Am I welcome in your house, Draco?" the portrait finally asked.

The man clenched his fists. "No, you aren't," he snapped angrily, "but I suppose I will be forced to accept you here. Didn't my father call you?"

"Yours is a wrong assumption," Snape replied imperturbably. "I came on my own accord with the help of your son."

The man darkened even more. "So? Are you here to torment us again with vain considerations? My father came back literally devastated from his visit to Hogwarts. I told him he was making a huge mistake, exposing himself and our family to scorn and criticism."

"I have a different opinion on this matter, Draco, but discussing it with you would only be a waste of time, I'm afraid. How is he?"

For the first time, Draco lowered his guard. "He is still lucid, but declining quickly. The mediwizards say that he has only a few days left. Perhaps only a few hours. They cannot tell."

"I want to see him," Snape ordered. Then his voice softened. "Please."

"What else would you want from him?" Draco exclaimed. "Weren't your words enough?"

"I came here to comfort him in this most fearful moment. After all, this is a step I have already undergone, and hopefully, my visit will help soothe his spirit."

Draco placed the picture on a table and crossed his arms. "What is all this concern about? Didn't you betray us all when you were alive? What kind of difference can your visit make now?"

"I'm sure that your father knows better. However, why don't you leave the decision to him?"

Rudely, Draco grabbed the portrait again. "Let's go ask him, then. But I advise you, Professor...don't try any of your dirty tricks, or I'll smash you into a thousand little pieces. And then I'll throw them into my fireplace."

"You know I didn't come here with a mean purpose. However, you are free to do whatever you think best. I am literally in your hands," Snape agreed softly. The man snorted, considered the painting for a long moment; finally, he began to walk.

Suspended in Draco's firm grip, Snape watched the corridors and the rooms opening before his eyes; suddenly, he was back in time, and the ghosts of his mind came to populate those empty spaces as if the pattern of their lives had never been interrupted.

"This is the salon where I used to meet your father when you were a child," the portrait unexpectedly noticed, and an immense nostalgia tightened his heart again. So many terrible events had happened in that house! And yet, it seemed that his mind could recall only the joyful and serene memories at the moment.

"And that is the room where you received your prefect's badge," Snape added quietly. "Lucius was so proud! I can still see the smile on his face."

Draco's fingers tightened convulsively around the picture. The man watched Snape angrily, but his eyes reddened, betraying his inner emotion. He blinked, trying to fight back the tears, and suddenly, he looked again like the child he had been, arrogant and vulnerable at the same time.

"Why are you telling me all these things?" he asked hoarsely. "To show me that you cared about us? About me?"

"You know I cared about you, Draco. But you didn't want to accept my help. How much pain I could have spared you if you had decided to trust me! I even begged you that night at Slughorn's party, don't you remember?" Snape's voice had grown more and more bitter.

Draco stopped abruptly. Surprised, the portrait noticed that the man was shaking slightly.

"No, Potter was the one you cared for, the one you protected, the one you defended," Draco replied accusingly. "And you still care about him; you are unfairly favouring his son. Scorpius told me everything about your private lessons. Have you got the nerve to deny it, Professor? Show me that your talent as a liar hasn't vanished."

His eyes locked with Snape's, and instinctively, the portrait opened his mind, welcoming the familiar force flooding into his brain. Yet this time he wasn't using it to pry into another mind, but to expose his soul in an unconditional offer.

Fragments of memories flowed and intersected so rapidly that both men went breathless with emotion. Shocked, Draco staggered back, and his face paled. There was fear in his voice when he spoke again.

"How can a painting still perform Legilimency?" he gasped, watching Snape with a sort of terror. "Who are you, really? Are you really dead? Or have you been hiding somewhere in disguise?"

"No, Draco," Snape replied with infinite bitterness. "I'm dead, and I am only a portrait. Now, please, let me see your father."

*************

The door opened silently and revealed a scene of heartbreaking tenderness. Lucius Malfoy was lying in his bed, exactly as in the message he had sent to Snape. Narcissa was sitting near him, holding his hand in hers. Her hair was as white as her husband's, and her face had a grave, drained expression. Yet she looked much more beautiful in that composed attitude than in the days in which she was the inaccessible lady of the manor. The presence of death was filling the air, and the only audible sounds were the slow, gasping breaths of a man struggling to survive.

Draco stopped respectfully under the frame of the door.

"Father," he announced, a bit embarrassed, "there is a... a visitor for you, if you'd like to see him."

Slowly, Narcissa turned to watch her son. "Who would ever think to come here?" she asked, a quiet, yet excruciating, resignation colouring her words. It was more than Snape could bear.

"It's me, Narcissa," he declared with a strangled voice. "Severus. Severus Snape."

An astonished silence followed, to which Lucius was the first to react with an explosion of energy unimaginable in such a shattered body. "Severus! Are you really here?"

Joy vibrated so intensely in that cry that Draco didn't dare say or do anything, except for crossing the room and positioning the little picture on the chest of drawers before the bed. Lucius followed every movement of his son in anxious expectation, until Draco muttered a counterspell, and the portrait went back to his real dimension.

"Severus," Lucius murmured, tears trickling slowly on his emaciated cheeks, "I am so happy to see you."

Speechless, Narcissa was staring at Snape in reverent wonder.

"How... how did you manage to come here?" she finally asked.

"It was Scorpius," Snape replied, looking at the couple and feeling his tongue stick to his palate in emotion. "He performed the reducing spell and instructed the owl. That boy will become a wizard as valiant as his grandfather before him."

Lucius shook his head. "I hope he will grow to be very different from me," he said bitterly.

"Lucius!" His wife scolded him tenderly, and instinctively, the man curled against her. All his movements were extremely cautious, as if they were causing him a great deal of pain. Narcissa smiled, a pale smile meant to be comforting. "You know how much Scorpius admires you."

"He should not," Lucius replied determinedly and raised his head to Snape, the rhythm of his breaths increasing gradually in the effort of speaking and of keeping that tiring position. "You will explain the truth to him, Severus, because his father doesn't know it. I have done my best to hide it from him, and now it's too late to change his beliefs."

His gaze searched for Draco, who had retired to a corner, arms folded and brows furrowed in resentful silence. Saddened, Lucius shook his head with that strange, rigid movement; then he sighed.

"And the truth is that I have always been wrong," he murmured.

Then, exhausted by the effort and by that painful admission of guilt, Lucius closed his eyes and rested his head in the lap of his wife. She put a hand on his forehead and gently smoothed his hair, smiling her tremulous smile.

The portrait contemplated that touching scene, and his throat closed in regret: Never had he experienced the bliss of being loved so totally and unconditionally! The girl he had worshipped had never returned his feelings, and her death...that he himself had caused...had locked the doors of his heart in perpetual denial; no other woman had been allowed to open them after her leaving! No hand had held his hand when he was feeling scared and lonely, no smile had comforted him after the tension of a demanding day, no arms had enfolded him during a night filled with nightmares, no lips had brushed against his in a promise of joys to come. His existence had been a continual renunciation, a sacrificial offering whose ashes had been dispersed by the wind of death.

But the man and the woman before him had shared their life in total accord and built a towering castle of their mutual love. Despite the mistakes they might have committed, despite the flaws they had abundantly demonstrated, each one of them had lived for the other, and they both had adored their only child. And now that perfect bond was to be broken.

"I'm so glad you came." Lucius interrupted Snape's meditations with a voice wavering in emotion. "This means that you have forgiven me. It will be easier to say goodbye."

"Lucius!" Narcissa paled, and her hand stilled on her husband's hair. "Don't speak like that! I won't let you go, not now that we are together again."

"I'm sorry I can't obey your wish, beloved," the man replied with growing difficulty. "But at least you will stay here and see our grandson become a man. And sometimes you will add your memories to Severus' and tell Scorpius about his grandpa."

Again, the man laboriously turned to look at Snape, his lips unsuccessfully trying to curl in a smile. "Soon it will be my turn to visit you in your rooms. Please keep me a good place, will you, Severus?"

Pained, the portrait could not answer, and worried at that silence, Lucius insisted tremblingly, "Will you?"

Snape closed his eyes. A scalpel cutting his flesh would have been less hurtful. Grief, anguish, affection, regret: a multitude of feelings invaded his soul until his heart rebelled violently against that unbearable pain.

"No!" he finally burst out savagely. Lucius flinched, Narcissa widened her eyes in shock, and Draco jerked up his head with a threatening glare.

"No," Snape repeated, panting in the effort of checking his emotions. "I agree with Narcissa. I just can't watch you go. There must be a potion that can cure you, and I will find it."

Lucius blinked, clearly disoriented, and watched his wife as if asking permission to believe that amazing announcement. She hesitated, and Snape understood that she was uncertain whether to disappoint her husband at once or offer him a hope in which she did not trust.

"You were an excellent potioneer, Severus," Narcissa finally said with the patient tone of those used to dealing with children.

"But now you are...," she could not use the terrible word 'dead' before her husband, so she paused, sighed and continued softly, "how would you manage to prepare a potion? And even if you did it, how could you send it out into the real world?"

The reassuring figure and smile of Marcello Bernardi appeared to Snape's mind. "I don't know how to do it," he replied, and an immense joy was reflected in his voice, "but I know somebody who can give me an answer."

Narcissa stifled an exclamation, and her eyes sparkled in the anticipation of hope. Her arms enfolded her husband with possessive tenderness, like a lioness defending its cub.

"If you... if you are able to help Lucius, I will...," she stopped and gave a desperate little sob. What could she promise to a man who had already gone beyond human needs and temptations?

"Narcissa!" Lucius whispered and tried to free himself, but he was too weary to struggle effectively against the loving strength of her hold.

"You don't need to promise anything to me, Narcissa," Snape replied gently. "Just trust me... as you did in our previous life."

Draco lowered his head, and a blush appeared on his white face.

*************

Reduced again to a more manageable size, Snape came back in Draco's hands, ready to be shipped. The portrait was torturing himself for not having thought of a solution before, for having lost time, for having possibly condemned his friend without a try. And in his anxiety to make amends, he was subjecting his carrier to a deluge of questions.

"Who has visited him till now?" he asked with an urgent tone. Time was passing so quickly! Every minute could change the course of an existence.

But Draco was still reluctant, still too upset, so Snape repeated his question in a calmer way. And finally a reply came.

"A French mediwizard, a promising Healer who is considered one of the most talented emerging specialists," the man declared; then he added bitterly, "And who has no connection with the English wizarding society."

Snape tightened his lips. The honour and reputation of his family had always been Draco's obsessions. How could he be still so narrow minded as to allow a prejudice to prevent his father from receiving the cures of a renowned institution like St. Mungo's?

"So, what did he say?" the portrait asked sharply, careless about concealing his irritation. Draco was reacting in the same uncooperative way he used to when he was a child, and Snape continued angrily, "Do you understand that every little piece of information can make a difference for your father?"

Draco stopped and watched the portrait pointedly. But when he spoke, his voice was hesitant, almost pleading.

"Do you really think you can help him? Do you really believe in your promise, or did you make it just to comfort him in his last hours?"

"I always keep my promises, Draco! And you should know it by now. This is a little bit harder, but I can manage it."

In spite of his confident tone, Snape felt a horrid sensation of panic. Yes, this time perhaps he had hazarded too much. But again, a cold determination pervaded him, and once more, he urged Draco to give the answers that were essential to his task.

"So, what did the Healer say?"

Draco sighed. "He said that father has contracted Stonicrucium, or Prisoner's Fever, a terrible infection that used to infest Azkaban in the ancient times. The germ has evidently survived in some of the oldest cells. As a 'privileged' treatment, my father had been confined in one of them, and the beast was probably lurking there."

Draco sighed again. "It took it a long time to claim its victim, the mediwizard said. Almost certainly, the germ grew more and more aggressive during the years spent in my father's body, and finally, it attacked. Descriptions in the ancient books say that the illness, on the contrary, spread rapidly. The course is very painful, as the body calcifies itself. Death comes slowly and agonizingly. In the past, when its characteristics were still unknown, it was feared so much that the keepers of Azkaban used to lock the prison, abandoning the prisoners to their fate."

Snape curled his lips in disgust, and the man continued his report wearily.

"It seems, however, that the last contagion had happened in 1525, when famous mediwizard Horatius Hobnook finally found a cure. But no trace has remained of that ancient remedy, and now there is obviously no time to search for it. Perhaps, if my father had been stronger... but his imprisonment has marked him too heavily, and therefore, we have no hope."

Draco clenched his fists and finally let out his pain.

"So, at the end, in spite of all that boasted clemency, they exacted his life! Fifteen years of absolute horror weren't enough!"

The man was shaking in indignation, yet he checked his feelings again, and his voice dropped to a disdainful tone.

"But I imagine that this means nothing to you. He was a follower of the Dark, so he deserved this end."

Snape had a bitter smile. "You forget that I, too, had been a follower of the Dark, and my end came along with my redemption. Does he know about his illness?

Draco lowered his head in surrender.

"We haven't told him the truth. That would mean his final humiliation, and... and we haven't got the heart."

"So you have exposed your mother, your son, your whole family to this ghastly disease?" Snape was shocked.

"It is not as you may think, Professor. Stonicrucium has interesting characteristics. It is safe, even beneficial, for younger or stronger constitutions while it's extremely virulent for older people or for weakened ones, like the prisoners of Azkaban were. In spite of her thin appearance, my mother is a strong, healthy woman; besides, it would be impossible to separate her from my father."

"Does she know the truth?" Snape whispered. Draco nodded sadly, and they both went silent, each one lost in his thoughts.

The man kept walking till they reached the salon where the grey owl was patiently waiting. There he stopped and wiped his forehead with a nervous gesture. Something seemed to be still tormenting him, and finally Draco capitulated.

"Now you understand my need for secrecy. What will happen to my family if the contagion should diffuse? What will happen to us, if someone should realise where the infection stemmed from? My father had met so many of his old acquaintances when he returned to Hogwarts recently."

Feeling a cold terror invade his fibres, Snape stared at the man, an incredulous, helpless expression in his eyes.

"Do you realise what may happen?" he breathed.

Draco lowered his head and didn't answer.