Chapter Three

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 dungeonsI 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 depressinga 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. "UmSylvia?"

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, wellProfessor VablatskyCassandrado 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. "Howhow 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."