Even before Severus Snape entered the dungeon, he knew. The portrait-child would be watching him. He felt apprehension, mingled with relief so strong it caught him by surprise. Now his curiosity would be satisfied. Snape realized he was hesitating on the threshold of the lab. He gave a snort of impatience; she was only a child. Not even that; merely a painting of a child. He stepped into the laboratory and met her eyes. "Professor Snape." Her voice was husky, lower than expected for her age. Eleven ? Perhaps twelve, surely no older.
Snape glided closer, close enough to read the engraved brass plaque centered on the bottom of the frame. "Yes, Miss Stuart ? What may I do for you ?" Grey-green eyes widened, surprised. She hadn't expected him to be civil, he realized, amused. The portrait-girl made several unsuccessful attempts to answer. Snape waited impatiently, trying to keep his expression encouraging - or at least not too threatening. How long had she remained mute ? It was easy to imagine it had been decades since she'd spoken last.
"I..." That one syllable seemed to cost her a great deal. The child looked terrified. Snape leaned closer, hooked nose nearly touching the canvas, silently willing the girl to get on with it. He realized what he was doing, collected himself and stepped back. "I w-want to take the Potions O.W.L. !" she blurted. Snape was dumbfounded. He hadn't been able to fathom what the portrait-child might have wanted to communicate, but this ! A request to take an exam ? His mouth was hanging open, he noticed. The potions master shut it with a snap. "The Ordinary Wizarding Level," the girl explained unnecessarily, her voice growing stronger. "I... I missed taking it, when I was a student. I want to take the Potions O.W.L." she repeated.
"You can't." Snape grasped at the only thing he could think of that made sense at the moment. "You're too young. Why, you couldn't have even completed your first year before..." his voice trailed off. Before what ? Silently, the potions master cursed himself for a fool. Before she'd been painted ? Before the living child she represented had – what ? Grown up ? Died ?
The girl considered his words for a long moment. "I was in my fifth year when I died," she told him finally, as though just now remembering. She glanced down at herself. "I was... painted... from my parents' memories of me." She looked up at him again. "They never thought of me as being older than I was when I left for school, I suppose." A wry expression, not quite a smile, crossed her face.
Snape scowled at the painting. Her story, if he'd wanted to admit it, had moved him. He didn't want to admit it. "So your life was cut short. Regrettable, but there's nothing I can do about it. You're not really alive, surely you understand that ? Your... personality, for lack of a better term, is merely an echo. A faint, lingering resonance of a girl long dead." The portrait-girl's lower lip trembled. Her eyes suddenly seemed over-bright. Snape recognized the signs from long experience. He was about to make yet another little girl cry. He shrugged. After close to thirty years of teaching, it was nothing new. "You are a painting," he told her bluntly. "Paintings, even magical ones, do not take O.W.L.s."
The portrait drew a deep, shuddering breath. To his surprise, she did not cry. Instead, she drew herself up, seeming to gather all her courage. "I am a painting now, Professor Snape. But you have the power to make me live again."