Part XXVI

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.

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

Part XXVI

"Mr. Longbottom." Snape nodded, acknowledging the entrance of the Herbology Professor. "Thank you for coming."

It was very early, but too impatient to wait, and with the help of his best scowl, the portrait had succeeded in convincing one of the elves to call Neville Longbottom in his private rooms. The man was still rubbing his eyes, but the expression on his round face was genuinely cordial.

"Professor Snape," Neville greeted, stifling a yawn. "I am glad to be of assistance, if possible. How can I help you this time?"

Snape hesitated, weighing his words.

"I need to collect a considerable amount of information from you, but this will require time, and unfortunately, my time is very limited."

He paused, and his face took on his usual cynical expression. It wasn't "his" time that was limited, but Lucius'.

"You seem to be a very busy man as well, hence I thought about booking your services in advance."

"You are lucky then, sir," the man said with a smile. "Today the students will go to Hogsmeade, so no lessons are scheduled, at least for me. Therefore, I have a whole morning to answer your questions."

That announcement took Snape by surprise, and suddenly, he remembered: yes, the trip to the town, so long awaited by the children, had been planned for that morning, but the date had evidently slipped from his mind. The news changed his plans considerably, and luckily, for the better. The portrait looked down at Longbottom with a benevolent frown.

"In this case, I will be happy to have a talk with you as soon as you have had your breakfast," he replied.

"I'm not hungry, Professor," Neville offered. "And, as I said, I am happy to be of help."

Snape felt uncomfortable. Though he was exempted from those irrelevant human needs, the memories of his previous life were strong enough to let him understand that only curiosity could prevent the man under his frame to forgo enjoying the rich food waiting for him. Yet the situation was a highly suitable one, so he folded his arms and disguised uneasiness under his usual disdainful tone.

"I was wondering, Mr. Longbottom, if there is any new beneficial plant or botanical extract that has been discovered in the last few years of whose qualities I am obviously unaware. Given that you are teaching this subject, I suppose that it won't be difficult for you to recall those names. I hope your job has sharpened your abysmal memory."

Neville looked surprised, and his right brow lifted. Sarcasm aside, the question didn't justify such a pressing call at that early hour of the morning, and Snape was only too conscious of the thoughts whirling in his interlocutor's mind, but he had no choice. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't waste it by playing at riddles.

In the meantime, the man had recovered his composure and gently replied, "Although my memory has improved, you should give me time to think about it properly, Professor. I suppose you don't really expect me to recite you a list of names by heart. Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you are looking for."

His tone revealed his perplexity...even worse, his doubts. Coming from Longbottom, that weird perceptiveness irritated Snape, and once more, he cursed the helplessness that forced him to depend on somebody else.

"I am following a special research," he began vaguely. "But, much to my chagrin, I have realised that the books I have been supplied are just school texts, and consequently, incomplete. Therefore, I thought that it would be simpler for me to consult directly with an expert and then ask the Headmistress for specific additions to my library."

Neville nodded his assent and said quietly, "May I know the subject of your research, sir? It would greatly help me to restrict the choice of the elements to include."

Snape felt cornered. Suddenly, he realised the extent of his task, and a wave of discouragement invaded his fibres.

"I need to know if there are plants that can fight degeneration of body tissues," he finally muttered reluctantly.

This time Neville didn't look surprised, but rather, on his guard. "That's what they are doing at the moment in St. Mungo's, Professor."

Fear chilled Snape's heart. "In... St. Mungo's?" he repeated hesitantly.

Neville's eyes didn't leave the picture.

"I went visiting my parents two days ago and found the hospital in great ferment. It seems that lately they have admitted several patients whose body functions are slowly degenerating. The most astounding symptom that they present is a sort of "calcification" of tissues, something that mediwizards have never experienced before. So, at the moment, practically the whole staff is researching a cause... and a cure."

The man tilted his head, looking piercingly at the portrait.

"A surprising coincidence, don't you think?"

Snape went suddenly breathless. The infection had begun its horrible march. His worst fears had become true; now he was forced to make the decision he had hoped he would never be requested to make.

Under the frame, Neville was studying the picture, arms crossed and a strange light in his eyes.

"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he suggested quietly.

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

Longbottom left a few minutes after, and once more, a haunting silence filled the room. Snape closed his eyes, feeling despair invade his heart. Worriedly, he examined what had been said while his hands opened and closed unconsciously, following the rhythms of his heartbeats.

He hadn't replied to Neville. At the last moment, his feelings had stopped him, and the debate with his conscience was still going on, lacerating his soul. The heartbreaking image of Narcissa holding Lucius' head so tenderly in her lap had frozen the words on his lips and weakened his intentions to reveal the truth.

So, exactly as he had done with Minerva, he had twisted his sentences and built a castle to enclose his secret, trying at the same time to extract as much information as possible from his interlocutor. Finally, in the effort to find a solution, he had postponed his decision, asking Neville to come back later. Longbottom had been clearly disappointed. His trustful smile had changed into a frown, and only his innate respect...and probably the hope of receiving a reply...had prevented the man from a harsh discussion.

But now panic was strangling Snape. How could he deny his knowledge to the mediwizards? How could he delay their research when, by simply uttering a name, he could offer them the answer? How could he condemn those infected people and prevent medical staff...much better trained and equipped than he was...from putting all their resources to work?

And yet, something was rebelling inside him. There should be a way to spread the news without involving Lucius...

But Snape no longer had the time to analyse his thoughts. A soft noise of approaching steps announced the arrival of his second visitor.

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

Marcello Bernardi walked in and went to greet Snape with a charming smile.

"Professor!" he exclaimed joyfully and continued with his most flourished eloquence, "in my country, we say that friends must meet again. So, it's a pleasure for me to be back at Hogwarts, and I can only hope you might consider me a friend. The Headmistress said that you have a very important question and that you have asked specifically for me. I'm honoured by your preference."

"The honour is mine," Snape replied briefly, studying the man with a scowl. His shy nature always felt uneasy at those emotional statements so openly displayed. "And I actually have an important question."

He paused, searching for words. But the horror of his situation had somehow slowed down his reactions. During his visit to Lucius, he had forgotten that he was a picture because the feelings that had been flowing so forcefully in his veins had annihilated every other consideration. But now anguish was enveloping him in a suffocating web, and frustration was rising to intolerable levels. So, he went straight to the point.

"Would it be possible to transfer a painted object from a picture to the real world?"

He had tried to control his voice and to pose the question in a calm, almost detached tone. Bernardi widened his eyes.

"I see. You are beginning to enjoy the possibilities offered by your fax machine," he joked, yet his expression became extremely cautious.

"Why do you ask?" he enquired, and though he had tried to be as detached as the portrait, his voice sounded unexpectedly stern, in surprising contrast to the light-hearted tone he had used till that moment.

"I am the one who posed the question first, and I would like to be answered," Snape replied, still simulating a calm he didn't absolutely feel. "I suppose I am entitled to receive an explanation, considering that this is your work, and that I am a painting. So: would it be possible to send out... let's say a quill, a book... or perhaps a potion?"

Bernardi breathed slowly. The eyes of the two men met in a long, circumspect gaze that broke into a wary smile.

"A potion, you said, Professor?" Bernardi finally replied, and he sighed, crossing his arms.

"It won't be nice to explain," he warned uncomfortably. But the portrait gave a disdainful nod, so the painter continued resignedly. "The real world and the painted world are separated. Definitely divided. The life a portrait is living is only a simulation."

He paused, and his eyes seemed to apologise for the brutality of his words. "I'm sorry. I know it's cruel. But the boundaries between the two kingdoms have been clearly established, and there is no way to circumvent them...with few exceptions. Your fax is one of them, for instance, and it required great magical skills to manage its connection. This is why your humble servant was called."

He bowed jokingly, but there was no happiness on his face.

"As you have seen, painters can link a real object to a painted one that is its perfect copy. But we are not allowed to do the reverse. This is why I wouldn't be in the position to take out your... potion," and a strange smile curled his lips at the reiteration of that word. "It would exist only in your frame because it has been created there."

He raised a hand to prevent objections. "In other words, I can paint objects that are copies of those existing in this world and then link them to their originals, but I can't do the opposite. If your library contains the same books that your students have in this classroom, it's because those books exist in this world. I can, of course, create and paint fantasy creatures or objects, but that is all the more reason why they will exist only in your world. The rules are very strict."

"Rules can be broken," Snape whispered with desperate intensity.

Bernardi looked at him in utter amazement.

"Merlin's beard!" he murmured. "Would you be one of the few..."

He stopped abruptly, and a mischievous grin opened on his face.

"Yes," he admitted calmly, "rules can be broken. Only sometimes, and in very rare, exceptional circumstances. But not by me. What you would like to do requires a Maestro Sommo, a Supreme Master Painter, a position that very few of us achieve, and that I can hope to reach only in... let's see, no less than 40 years. If you are willing to wait..."

The portrait took a deep breath. The man was clearly sympathetic, so Snape prepared himself to struggle and grab every possible advantage.

"Then perhaps you can't," he conceded, "but what about another..."

"I know what you mean," Bernardi interrupted him. "But in England there is none. You can only find somebody in Italy."

His tone became wary and low, as if confiding a secret. "Very few know about this, but my grandfather is one of them."

He paused, embarrassed for what could be interpreted as boasting, then continued eagerly. "Yet my grandfather wouldn't agree to help you... unless you'd give him extremely forceful reasons. The magic required for such powerful spells can destroy a wizard."

Snape lowered his head in frustration. Too late. He was too late. He had no time. He had no potion. He had no hope. Had he been too hasty in making promises? Was he going to disappoint Narcissa and Lucius and Scorpius as he had done with so many other people in his previous life? He buried his face in his hands in an unguarded movement, feeling too miserable to worry about his visitor.

Bernardi was touched by that silent desperation.

"Professor, please," he coughed discreetly. "Why don't you ask my fellow and brother, Professor Zabini, to prepare a potion according to your instructions? I know he is a competent enough potioneer..."

The painter seemed to hesitate, then he added in a rush, as if he were afraid to say too much, "And now he has the support of our Corporation."

"Fellow and brother?" Snape raised his head with a blank expression in his eyes.

"I can't reveal anything more," the man replied firmly, but a meaningful smile shaped his lips again, and he watched Snape with a hopeful look, as if trying to suggest something to him.

Silence fell once more while Bernardi waited for a reaction, chewing his lower lip in expectation. But the portrait was lost in remoteness, and it took him several moments to realise that the painter was still looking up in anxious expectation.

"Thank you, Mr. Bernardi," Snape finally said and lowered his head again. No more words or gestures came after that declaration, so feeling depressed, the man wrapped himself in his cloak.

"I wish you all the luck you deserve," he greeted, his voice softening in compassion. Then, with a last regretful glance, the painter bowed and left.

Alone again, Snape closed his eyes and faced his soul and his increasing remorse.

Arrogant. He had been arrogant, and in his arrogance, he had forgotten that he was only a man. Even worse, he had forgotten that he was only a picture, not entitled to take his place in the world of real beings. How stupidly confident he had been in believing he could break the bonds that kept him locked in his tight frame! How terribly imprudent in raising hopes that he would never be able to fulfil!

Narcissa's eyes mutely accused him, and he lowered his head in defeat. Proud. He had been too proud, and now his pride and his vain ambitions had been turned into ashes. He should have accepted his limits. He shouldn't have tried to change his destiny. Time was passing by, and every minute could be the end of a human life. He could not avoid his responsibilities any longer. He would call Longbottom immediately. Even more miserably, he would call Minerva and tell her the truth. And then, one of those two people...living beings, not insignificant helpless paintings!...would have to advise St. Mungo's on his behalf, and definitely condemn Draco and his family to shame...

Desolation sat powerfully in his stomach, and a bitter, acrid taste filled his mouth. Picture... He was only a picture...

And then, he widened his eyes. Of course! He was a picture! And a stunning, blazing idea hit him with the force of a Bludger. Suddenly, he saw how his being a painting could become an unexpected chance that might allow him to find opportunities usually denied to living beings. He shivered in excitement, savouring the flux of energy rippling down his fibres. A picture. Why hadn't he taken this option into consideration? It was so disconcertingly simple!

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

"Albus," Snape called. "Albus! ALBUS!!!"

Quickly, he began to move from painting to painting, in frantic search of the late Headmaster. But the exasperating old man was, of course, nowhere to be found, as was usual when he was most needed, so Snape doubled his efforts. The intensity of his calls made many of the ancient portraits turn their heads in scandalised indignation.

"Yes, Severus," a mild old voice finally replied. "Are you really looking for me? Should I assume that we have finally come to an armistice?"

Snape pushed out his bottom lip in his characteristic disgusted pout; then, crossing his arms, he entered the frame in which Dumbledore was waiting.

"I have no time for jokes now, Albus. Have you ever heard of a mediwizard called Horatius Hobnook?"

"Should I have?" Albus smiled his irritating smile. "Perhaps you took me for Miss Granger, but I don't have her elephantine memory. However, the name seems vaguely familiar."

"Try to remember, then!" Snape urged him vehemently. "I need to know if there is a picture of him. Or of his house. Or of his lab. Whatever may concern him. You must have spoken with so many portraits over the years! Is there a way to learn something...and quickly?"

"The simplest way, my boy. I will ask the Population." Dumbledore smiled and his eyes twinkled merrily.

"Who?" Snape asked baffled.

"The portraits themselves. This is how we call ourselves in Hogwarts. Would that suit you?"

"Yes, it would be most appreciated," Snape murmured. Suddenly, he felt exhausted.

"As your friend was saying, I'm honoured." Dumbledore was watching him closely. "I suppose you are looking for information to help Lucius."

Snape froze and turned to look accusingly at his old mentor.

"I thought I had warned you not to meddle!" he growled through gritted teeth.

Now Dumbledore's eyes weren't benevolent anymore. "What kind of illness does he have, exactly?"

"Don't ask," Snape replied rudely.

"Are you sure I shouldn't insist, Severus?"

"Don't. Ask."

Albus shook his head and considered Snape for a very long moment. Then he turned slowly and eventually left with a deep sigh.

With another sigh, Snape closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was time to call Longbottom and ask for his help and understanding. But now a new hope, faint yet incredible, was warming his heart. A battle was going to be fought, and he intended to be on the very front line right until the last moment.

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

A/N: Of course, what Marcello Bernardi says to Snape about rules in the pictures' world and the word "Population" referred to Hogwarts' portraits are my personal inventions.