Chapter Three
Over
the next few weeks Snape tried his best to get Cassandra Vablatsky to pay him
some interest, but it seemed it was to no avail. Every time he met her in the
hall, she ended the conversation quickly, and if he sought her out in the
Divination Tower, she was too busy working on something to be disturbed. He was
beginning to wonder if he repulsed her. He wouldn't be surprised…
With
these disturbing thoughts in mind, he stormed down the corridors on a Saturday
night, taking points away from anyone who was out of their Commons. He felt a
certain twinge of excitement at another possible punishment when he heard
voices up near the Great Hall ahead, but his face fell when he recognized him.
"You
should probably be going back to your Commons, Grayson," Dr.
Oliver was saying, "It's getting late."
"See ya,
Sylv," he heard
the boy call, and when he walked into the large open entrance hall it was
deserted except for the American academic, who was walking along slowly while
reading from a book. He noted that she was dressed in robes.
He
tried to sneak past her (for the last thing he wanted was to attract her
attention at a time when he was feeling so nasty), but she heard his footsteps
and looked up from her book. "Sevy!" she cried, apparently delighted. "What are
you doing? I have something to show you, anyway," she continued, not letting him
answer the question.
"By all
means, show it," he said a bit curtly, hoping to throw her off, but he knew
that it took more than a curt tone to do so.
She
presented the book she was reading for his inspection. "It's
Rousseau's Social Contract," she explained. "I'm
re-reading it, and it's every bit as good. Have you been through it?"
Eager
as he was to get away from her, he could not help but feel exhilarated at the
prospect of discussing philosophy. "Not yet," he
admitted. "I'm still working through the Nietzsche."
"Gloomy
stuff, isn't it?" she said, making a face.
"I think
it's realistic," he
proclaimed.
"Then I
feel sorry for you," she replied. "What did you think of
Kierkegaard?"
"I haven't had
time to get to him yet, actually. I've been very busy this month."
"Yes, so
have I. Do you happen to have a copy of Sartre's On Being and Nothingness?" she
asked. "I have been looking for mine and I think I have lost it."
"I think I
have one stashed away somewhere," he said, smiling for the first
time. This was what philosophy did to him.
"Could I
borrow it? I'll treat it well, I promise."
"By all
means, yes," he said politely. "Come with me and I'll get it
for you."
They
proceeded down towards the dungeons where Snape made his home, and she did her
best to keep the conversation going.
"Tell me,
do you like it down here?" she asked as they descended into the cold and dimly lit
depths.
"It suits
me," he said
simply. Sometimes he wished that it didn't.
"You are a
typical Nietzsche fan, aren't you?" she said. "Always dressed in black, living in dungeons…I bet
Friedrich never had so much fun in his life!"
"My
classroom is down here. I live near it for a reason," he said
peevishly, his bad mood beginning to come back.
"Don't get
angry, Sevy," she soothed. "I was only joking, for heaven's sake."
"Here we
are," he
proclaimed, breaking the spell that had sealed his door. They walked through
the office into his living quarters.
"Cheery
place you've got here," Sylvia said dryly, looking about
at the dark stone walls and his four-poster bed with the black hangings. The
few pictures in the room were glum and depressing—a woman in mourning who seemed to
be crying, a man slaying a dragon realistically, and a large portrait of
Salazar Slytherin, blinking down on them menacingly.
"You don't like
it?" he asked
sarcastically, but she didn't respond. She was staring at the picture of Slytherin with
her hand clutched to her breast. "Dr. Oliver? Are you all right?"
"All
right?" she repeated, as if coming out of a trance. "Oh, yes,
I'm fine.
Anyway, where is the book? I'll get it from you and then leave you to your own devices."
"Now this
is what I'm proud of," he said quickly, trying to change the subject. He
demonstrated to her the spell he used to reveal his hidden bookcase, crammed
with books of every size and shape.
"Amazing," she
breathed. "Sevy, you are obsessed!"
"You didn't believe
me before? I'm having to magically alter the bookcase just so they'll all
fit in there," he explained, smiling again a bit.
"Wow," she
exclaimed, going forward to examine the books. "You have almost everything here,
Sevy. I am so impressed."
"Borrow
whatever you like," he said generously, his bad mood finally dissipating. "I've read
most of them."
"Thanks so
much!" she
replied, sitting down in one of his hard backed chairs with a copy of Sartre. "Oh, good,
you annotate while you read. I hate people that don't mark in
books."
He
sat down across from her, the Nietzsche in his hand, unopened. He was dying to
ask her how he could impress Cassandra, but didn't know how to say it. "Um…Sylvia?"
She
looked up. "You called me by my first name?" she
asked.
"Sorry, I
didn't mean to
show any—"
"No, it
doesn't bother
me," she
said, waving it off. "I was just surprised."
"Yes, well…Professor
Vablatsky…Cassandra…do you know her?"
She
smiled. "Cassandra? Oh, yes indeed. She and I have struck up
friendship in the last few weeks. She's not very old either, and my two
assistants are younger than I so we relate well together."
"I know
this may seem a little strange but—"
She
cut him off yet again. "You feel yourself drawn to her and you want me to help you
win her attraction."
He
was a bit flabbergasted. "How—how did you know that?"
She
rolled her eyes. "Honey, when you're a woman, you know these kind
of things."
"Please
don't call me
honey," he said icily.
"Sorry,
but it's a cultural thing."
"I don't think that's an
excuse."
"Right," she
replied, obviously not caring what he thought. "Now, if we're going
to win you a woman, Sevy, you're going to have to clean yourself up. As I imagine you can't do this
yourself, I am going to expedite the process by helping you. Follow me." She
stood up and led the way out of his room into the hallway.
"Where are
we going?" he asked, wondering what on earth he had gotten himself
into and what Nietzsche would say about such things.
"This time
we're going
to my room," she declared. "And we are going to give you a
makeover."
