KLIMT’S  MIRAGE

By Susanna

A dark-clad figure appeared out of thin air amidst a group of trees in St. James Park, looked furtively around and, when he—for it was definitely a man—had made sure his sudden epiphany hadn’t been witnessed by anybody, he started crossing the lawn, directing his quick strides towards the other side of the park and consequently to King Street. In front of the impressive Christie’s building, cars were ceaselessly arriving and discharging passengers, all expensively dressed and bejewelled. The dark-clad man mingled unobtrusively with the crowd and entered the building, following the masses until they had reached the auction room, where he took an aisle seat in the tenth row.

The auction started, and the man didn't seem overly interested. Out of half-closed eyes, with a bored expression on his face, he watched as thousands and thousands of pounds were spent. From time to time, he leafed through the catalogue. Then, all of a sudden, he sat up straight in his chair and looked eagerly at the small painting, not more than 13 inches by 17, that was just being carried in.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, “now to item no. 37. a jewel, if I may say so. It has recently been discovered in the attic of a house in Vienna and attributed to the great Gustav Klimt. It is untitled, and shows…

‘~’~’~’

“Severus please! This is a time turner, and you mustn’t use it when you are in this mood! Take a walk, or smash all the porcelain, but please—”

He looked down at her. “Just leave me in peace!”

“I’m sorry, I already told you so. Look, this thing is old and battered! For all we know, you could land anywhere, so please…”

In hindsight, he fully agreed with her. Yes, he had been angry. But maybe he ought to have taken a walk instead of grabbing the time turner and… well, what was done was done. The question was, where was he? To judge by the vegetation, it was summer, and he was in Europe. In a garden. In the middle of a rosebush. Not one of his favourite locations, not least because of the thorns. Snape pulled his wand, not without considerable difficulties, and charmed them off. Much better. Then he slowly rose and tried to poke his head through the foliage, to have a look at his surroundings.

The first thing he saw was a man, wearing some strange piece of clothing halfway between a wizard’s robe and a priest’s cassock, in colours that would probably make Dumbledore go livid with envy. The man had dark, curly hair and a beard, and he was standing in front of an easel, brush in his right hand, the thumb of his left threaded through the hole of a palette. Snape knew a painter when he saw one, and was deeply relieved. He could have made a worse landing. Then the painter looked up from his canvas and directly into Snape's eyes. Snape held his breath.

“Wundervoll! Bitte bleiben Sie so!” the man called.

“Er...” Snape said. Then he added, “Sorry, I don't understand you!”

A smile lit the painter’s face. “Englishman, eh? Could you please remain in that position? You make a lovely contrast!”

Dumbfounded, Snape did as he had been told, all the time trying to recall how many twists exactly he had given the time turner. He had finished solving this problem, when the painter deposited his brush and palette on a folding seat next to him and was making his way towards the rosebush.

“Thank you so much,” he said, smiling, “Your head was a welcome addition to my painting. You may come out now—maybe you would like to join us for lunch? My name is Gustav Klimt, pleased to meet—” He stopped, open-mouthed, because the British head was suddenly gone without a trace. He shook his head, returned to the easel and looked. There it was: frowning, scowling and ill-tempered. Klimt shrugged and decided that it was definitely time for lunch.

‘~’~’~’

Hermione was awaiting her husband on the doorstep. “And? Did you get it?”

He nodded and pulled a minuscule parcel out of his pocket, un-shrunk it and handed it to her.

“Oh,” was all she could say after she had undone the wrapping. And, after a pause, “It’s beautiful, Severus. Next time we have a fight, do you think you might visit Dégas? I’d love to see you in a tutu.”