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Odi et Amo

By Iphigenia

"Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior" -- Catullus

Severus Snape glanced about him furtively, then dashed into the bookstore. It was a Muggle bookstore, part of some large corporate chain, and Londoners of every variety wandered aimlessly down the numerous rows looking for the answers to life's problems that they only hoped a jaunt into some piece of fine literature would bring them.

Snape was dressed in Muggle clothing—slacks and a collared shirt—yet he was still the hapless victim of many a curious look, and he kept glancing down at his ensemble, wondering what he had done wrong. Or could it be his hair that they were all staring at? It was long, but he knew that some Muggle men wore it long. He looked around desperately for a long locked compatriot, but found none. Obviously this was an area of town where men did not go for that fashion. He also had the sneaking suspicion that his nose was drawing some attention.

Ignoring the looks as best he could, he made his way straight for the philosophy section, and began to peruse the offerings. He picked up Plato's Phaedo and put it down, as if debating whether or not he should buy it. Muggle philosophy fascinated him, and it was a guilty pleasure. In fact, philosophy was the reason he had snuck into this bookstore, and the Muggle world. His room at Hogwarts was home to a hidden shelf of philosophy books, packed in tightly because there was not room enough for all of them.

He had first found himself addicted to this strange Muggle obsession when he traveled to Greece for a summer holiday. He had been there half for rest and relaxation, half because he had needed to get away; it hadn't been so long at that time since Voldemort had lost his powers, and somewhere deep inside of himself he had been afraid that the man was coming back. He had wanted to go as far away as he could afford. He had passed himself off as a Muggle for added safety and had avoided the Grecian magical community.

He had gazed up at the might of the Acropolis, and had heard a tour guide telling a group that this was "the cornerstone of Western civilization, and the birthplace of philosophy. Socrates himself walked here, and Plato, and Aristotle, and many others." He had had no idea what philosophy was, but on a lark, he had discovered a tiny bookstore and bought a copy of the Republic. He had been fascinated by it, and his fascination had not ceased until this day.

He stood before the shelves of books, ruefully trying to choose between Kierkegaard and Nietzsche. He picked up Fear and Trembling to look through it, and then Thus Spake Zarathustra so he could compare the two.

"Oh, by all means, the Kierkegaard," said a woman with an American accent behind him. "It's infinitely more cheerful."

He turned to glare at her. "Thanks," he said curtly, "But I can decide which one I want myself."

"Excuse me," she replied, matching him glare for glare right in the eyes, for she was as tall as he, "You just seemed a tad indecisive and I thought I might help. I have read them both, you know."

"Good for you," he answered with clenched teeth. "I just don't need your help."

"Suit yourself," she said, shrugging, and turned to look at the books opposite him.

A few moments later, he heard her muttering, "If Augustine was neo-Platonic and Aquinas was neo-Aristotelian then how does the Church reconcile the two very different beliefs about the nature of the world and the transitory nature of the—"

"Sorry," he said, turning around again to make her stop. "Do you mind? I am trying to make a decision here."

She whirled to face him with gray eyes full of malice. "Look," she said, "I am from the American South, and people there, even if they are just pretending, are at least falsely nice. Is that really too hard for you to do so as well?"

"It seems like it's hard for you," he said triumphantly, and she shut her mouth with obvious distaste and then opened it again, as if trying to decide what she should say.

At this point she was saved from such hard decisions by an old man who was walking purposely towards her. "Do you want to buy anything, honey?" he asked, also in that annoying American accent. "It's near time for us to be getting on to Diagon Alley."

Snape's eyes grew wide at this point. "I beg your pardon," he said sweetly to the old man, as if making a point to the girl. "But did you say that you were going to Diagon Alley?"

"Not so loudly, if you please. We don't want the Muggles hearing us," the old man responded.

"Then are you…one of us?" Snape asked, feeling as if he had swallowed a rock. He didn't want other wizards to know about his secret.

"Oh my soul, you're not one of them, too, are you?" the girl said, clearly irritated. "Because that's just perfect, just brilliant, if you are."

"I teach at Hogwarts," he said to the old man, intentionally ignoring the girl.

"Wonderful! Would you see us there? This one's little brother got his letter last month, and we're going to buy the school supplies."

"Yes, I can take you there," Snape answered. "Give me a minute to buy one of these books and we'll go straightaway."

He was clearly flummoxed about which one to choose still, and the girl snatched the Kierkegaard out of his hand. "Come on, I'll buy this for you," she snapped. "You can get both."

As he led them to the back of the Leaky Cauldron, he learned that the old man's name was Ulysses Oliver, and the girl's, his granddaughter, was Sylvia Oliver. The boy accompanying them was Grayson Oliver, a small redheaded boy that looked distinctly mischievous.

Finally they arrived at Diagon Alley, but at the man's insistence Snape was still not able to take his leave of them; Ulysses simply pleaded that he would also show them how to reach Platform Nine and Three Quarters (as term started the next day), and could Snape refuse?

This was how he (quite unfortunately) found himself eating peanut butter apple ice cream at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor with Sylvia Oliver, and every few minutes turning to glare daggers at Hogwarts students who were passing by, pointing and laughing at him.

"You know," said Sylvia, after he had done this not a few times, "you really do look intimidating in those robes. If I were a poor student of yours, I might consider dropping your class."

"Potions is required," he said curtly. "By the way, Ms. Oliver—"

"Dr. Oliver," she corrected with a bit of pride.

"Dr. Oliver," he continued, "where was it that you went to school? I don't remember you at Hogwarts, at least not with that unbearable American accent. And how old are you?" He had been unable to determine this of yet; she looked like she was in her twenties but somehow ageless at the same time.

"I went to Brown for my undergrad, Harvard for my grad, and the University of North Carolina for my Ph.D., with a short stint in between at the American Academy at Rome."

"Then—then you weren't in a magical school?" he asked, slightly unnerved, and also noting that she had not given her age. Perhaps it was a sensitive subject.

"Oh heavens, no! Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"But you are a…a witch, aren't you?"

"Please. Would I bother myself with such things?"

He rolled his eyes. "Being in Diagon Alley suggests to me that you would bother with such things. And this whole time I thought you were a witch."

"Is it really that big of a deal if I am or not?" she asked defensively.

"Good lord, you're hard to talk to," he said, his voice rising in anger.

"And why's that? Just because I'm not like you?" she snapped.

"Are you trying to take everything I say and twist it?" he asked. "You're doing a good job at it, if so, and I would like to add that--

"Severus," an unctuous male voice interrupted mercifully. Snape turned and saw Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater. Certainly he couldn't know Snape's secret? "How are you, my dear man?"

"Lucius," he replied with something akin to a sneer, but he also rose graciously to shake the man's hand. After all, politics was politics. "It's so good to see you. How is Narcissa? Well, I hope?"

"Very well. Have you met our son, Draco? He's eight. We hope he'll be getting his letter to Hogwarts in a few years."

"I look forward to seeing him there," Snape said, giving Lucius a forced smile.

"Now, Severus, who is this lovely woman with you?" Lucius asked, moving forward to greet Sylvia. "Don't tell me you've finally found someone to settle down with."

"Hardly," Snape said nastily. "This lovely woman is a Muggle. You don't think I would sink so low, do you?"

"I think that that was a bit presumptuous of a thing to say," Sylvia interjected, standing up, hands on hips, to face him angrily. "As a matter of fact, I'm not a Muggle in the least."

"You seem familiar," Lucius said, holding out his hand for her to shake. "Have we met?"


"We might have," she answered warmly, taking the proffered hand. "I have a few friends here in Britain that I visit once in a while. The name's Sylvia Oliver, it's good to meet you, uh…"

"Lucius Malfoy. Well, Severus, it was charming to get to talk with you, and Sylvia, I hope we meet again, but I must be going. Good day." With that, he walked off briskly towards Knockturn Alley, as the two companions resumed eating their ice cream.

"And I am a Muggle because…?" Sylvia wanted to know.

"Because you told me you were not a witch! And that makes you a Muggle," Snape snarled, embarrassed and angry.

"I never said that I wasn't a witch, my dear. I said I didn't bother with such things. I got a letter from Hogwarts, you know, my mother is British and she attended school there. I just decided that it was not the path I wanted to take."

"Fascinating," Snape said dryly. "I've never heard of a witch who decided not to nurture her powers."

"Ah…well…" she said uncomfortably, looking away from him.

"What are you doing in Britain now, Dr. Oliver?"

"Unfortunately for you, Master Snape, I am going to be at Hogwarts this year," she answered.

"Really. And what for? Don't tell me we've become so desperate that we're hiring the likes of you for teachers?"

She ignored his gibe. "I think not," she replied. "Albus Dumbledore has asked me to come. I will be doing an archeological study of the grounds with a few of my assistants. This is what I have my doctorate in—that, and Greco-Roman Studies."

"Why is it that Dumbledore would want an archeological study of the grounds?" he asked, curious.

"Trust me, he believes that there are quite a few things of value buried in that earth," she said rather mysteriously. "But what has my grandfather done? I'm sure you have pre-term meetings you need to make, not to mention a few philosophy books to read."

"Yes…about those…" he said uneasily.

"I know. They don't exist, right?" she responded, smiling a bit.

"Absolutely," he answered, relieved.

"But you had better be nice to me, because blackmail is a precious gift," she warned. "Now, why don't you tell me how to get to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and I'll relay the information. Then you can leave us."

"In between platform nine and platform ten, there is a solid barrier," he explained. "Just walk through it, and pretend it isn't solid. It's really all very easy."

"I see. Thank you so much for your time, Severus. I trust I'll be seeing you again soon."

"Unfortunately," he muttered. He had already decided that he didn't like this woman very much. Her manner was simply infuriating.

"What was that you said?" she asked a bit frostily.

"Oh…nothing," he answered hastily.

"Hmm," she said in a tone implying that she had heard him. "Best be on your way, Master Snape. Please leave." Now her voice was more than a bit frosty.

"Gladly," he replied, whirling about and disapparating into the air with a little pop. The less he saw of her, the better.