"You have the power to make me live again." The words hung in the musty air of the dungeon.

Severus Snape glowered at the portrait. She stared right back at him, pointed chin raised defiantly. "You're speaking of Dark magic," he told her. "What makes you think you deserve a second chance ?"

The question caught her off guard. She blinked. "I didn't have much of a life, Professor Snape," she began, "only fifteen years-"

"Many people die young," he said heartlessly.

"Without happiness ? Without..." she hesitated, her narrow cheeks flushing. "Without love ?" she asked plaintively.

He snorted dismissively. Adolescent dramatics, and from an oil painting, yet. "Spare me. You were loved," he argued. "Your parents loved you." He pointed to her frame as evidence. "They had this memorial created."

"After I died." That wry expression was back. "They may very well have loved me. I don't know. They didn't show it while I lived." Snape blinked. It was his turn to be caught off guard. "You got a second chance," the portrait-girl said shrewdly, pressing her advantage. "I remember the night the old headmaster brought you here-"

"That's enough," he snapped. How many conversations had she listened to, over the long years, forgotten in her corner ? He didn't like the advantage it gave her, not one bit.

"Dumbledore didn't ask if you were worthy," she pressed on. "He gave you the chance to know peace. To have happiness."

Happiness. His mouth twisted in a sneer. "Surely your life was happier than mine has been, Miss Stuart." Those green eyes bored into his, intense. Snape reminded himself they were just paint on canvas. "You can't tell me you didn't experience some happiness, at least."

Then she did cry, just two painted tears rolling silently down her painted cheeks. "It wasn't enough."

Snape stood staring at her. She looked down, defeated. He turned away abruptly and strode into his office. He grabbed a copy of the third-year standard potions text and began, roughly, to flip through it. The recipe for the Shrinking Solutions he'd taught the month before caught his eye. The potions master hesitated for a moment, then nodded to himself. Returning to the laboratory, he flung the book down on a desk which he dragged over to the portrait's corner. "Can you see that ?"

She sniffed loudly. "Y-yes."

"Right, then. You have one week in which to acquire the ingredients." Eyes bright with tears blinked at him, confused. "I can't very well hand them to you from the storage closet, can I ?" he asked cruelly. "This is a test," Snape went on. "Prove to me you can do something other than stir," he sneered. "It's a basic third-year potion. If you're really ready to sit for your O.W.L, this should be a snap. You will demonstrate to me that you can brew this potion one week from tonight."

"Y-you're going to help me ?"

The potions master eyed her coolly. "Not so fast. I'm no Albus Dumbledore," he told the girl unnecessarily. "If I'm going to even consider helping you – if –" he emphasized, "you're going to have to show me that you're worth the trouble."