Chapter Four

Chapter Four

By the time they reached Dr. Oliver's room, Snape was fully regretted his plea to her for help. He did not want a makeover, after all. Imagine what his friendsif he had any friends other than the Death Eaters, who weren't much of friends anymorebut imagine what they would say if they knew he was allowing himself to be made over.

Sylvia's quarters were very cheery compared to hiswell-lit, with many windows open to the night air. She had many portraits on her wall, the foremost of which was over her magnificent mahogany four-poster with its bright yellow canopy. The subject of the portrait could not be any other than Sylvia herself, looking younger. She was staring pensively at a spot in the distance, her hand clasped over her breast as it had been a few moments before. She was dressed in the clothing of an ancient Roman, and standing amidst a countryside where it looked as if a storm might be approaching.

Something about the portrait struck him as odd, and he realized that it wasn't moving, unlike the other pieces of art in the room. It wasn't magical, and, as he examined it closely, he discovered that it seemed to be very old.

"What's this?" he asked, gesturing towards it.

Sylvia, who was gathering up a large array of bottles, brushes, and other unidentifiable objects which he imagined were to be used on him, turned and glanced at the portrait. "A friend of mine made it," she said casually.

"It really is beautiful," he announced, still gazing at it.

"Thank you. Are you ready to be attacked?" she asked, approaching him with her massive amount of tools.

"Now, let's just get this clear," he said firmly. "You're not going to do anything to me that I don't want you to do, are you?"

She shrugged. "You never know. But I promise I won't do anything that Cassandra would find disgusting."

He sighed, giving in. "Very well," he said in a tone of defeat.

"Good. Now, first things first, you need to take a shower. I have here some wonderful Muggle shampoo for greasy hair and a lovely exfoliating cleanser. These should help," she said, shoving them into his hands. "Now, go!"

He obediently went towards the showers, ruing his mistake. When he returned, it was to the horrifying sound of some contemporary music. Sylvia was singing along to it loudly, but stopped abruptly when she saw him, and turned the music off.

"Please tell me kindly what that music was so I can learn to avoid it whenever possible."

"It's an American band," she explained, "of Muggles, that is. They're called The Eagles. I love their songs. But don't think of me as shallow, Sevy, I also listen to Mozart and Debussy and Dvorak and other old dead men."

He attempted a faint smile. "I only know of them through Muggle Studies."

"You've never heard them?" she asked incredulously. "Well, we will have to do something to change this. But first we will discuss your makeover. I think that these simple Muggle supplies that I have given you have done a marvelous job in improving your appearance." She looked him over appraisingly. "Yes, your hair looks much better. But your skin, I think, is still too white. Do you ever go outside?"

"Not when I can help it," he said. "Why would I want to?"

"Why? Because it's good to be out amongst nature. She holds the deepest and oldest magic that the world will ever know. You can come jogging with me tomorrow morning and find that out. Now, I can't do anything about your nose," she said, indicating that this was a great shame.

"Pray tell me what you think is wrong with my nose," he snapped; he was tired of all the nose insults.

"No-nothing," she stammered as sweetly as possible. "Beuhbesides, you know what they say about guys with big noses."

"Clearly, I do not," he replied, becoming irritated.

Now she was embarrassed. "Never mind then," she said, turning scarlet.

But this only piqued his curiosity. "What were you going to say?" he demanded.

"Really, Sevy, it's not important. I just made it up on the spot, thinking you would understand my reference. It was a little out of context and probably not appropriate at all. So just forget it."

"Are we done here?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," she said hurriedly, apparently still embarrassed. "But meet me tomorrow morning before breakfast to jog. Say, seven?"

"I absolutely will not," he said, his natural personality taking over. "Dr. Oliver, I don't need you trying to control my life!"

"Fine," she said softly, looking away from him, "but next time you need a friend, Sevy, just say so, instead of making up ridiculous excuses."

That was ludicrous! As if he needed a friend! As if, even if he did need a friend, he would pick this annoyingly superior American woman! This pushed him over the top and he stalked out of her room, shaking with anger. How dare she?

***

After his "makeover" plus the strange new idea of regular showers, Snape was glad to notice that Cassandra did seem to be paying him more attention, and mentally forgave Sylvia Oliver, though he would never say it to her face.

Happy was the day that Snape found out about Sylvia's Halloween party. The word among the faculty was that she was throwing an after-feast bash for all the teachers, and it was supposed to be great fun ("fun if you like to have your teeth pulled out," thought Snape inwardly until he found out more). Dates were encouraged.

It was this last bit that threw him into a frenzy. Should he ask Cassandra to go with him? Would she even say yes? Half excited and half ashamed that he was acting like a hormonal teenager, he approached her one afternoon right before dinner.

"Ah, Severus," she said softly, in a faraway voice, as he approached her.

"YesCassandraso good to see you."

"It does me well to see you in the flesh, too, Severus," she answered. "You have been haunting my Inner Eye for some time now."

"I have?" he asked, his heartbeat beginning to pick up.

"Of course you have, my friend," she replied, though by this time she was looking beyond him out of a nearby window.

He pressed onward, ignoring this bad sign, and asked bravely, "Would you like to come with me to Dr. Oliver's Halloween party?"

She took a deep breath, and then released it, almost as if she were sighing. Then she responded, "I would be delighted to go with you, Severus."

He almost melted in relief. "Thank you so much, Cassandra!" he near-shouted in his joy.

"You are very welcome, Severus," she said mistily. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must consult my orb."

"Yes, of course," he answered hurriedly. "I'll see you soon!"

He was so excited that he forgot to glare angrily at the portrait of Sir Cadogan, his least favorite of the pictures, on his way past. He heard Cadogan calling, "Stay and fight, you mongrel! I could best you any day!"

He found a certain puerile joy welling up inside of him and threatening to spill out, and, without a second thought, he strode headlong down the stairs out into the warm final rays of the sun, towards the archeological dig, his black robes trailing behind him like a coronation gown.

In the green grass marred by a large brown maw in the earth he saw Dr. Oliver's companions, a girl of perhaps twenty with raven hair and deep brown eyes, and a younger adolescent, sixteen or seventeen, with locks of a shimmering blond hue. They were carefully cleaning what appeared to be a piece of pottery, and looked up with surprise when he came near them.

"Where is Dr. Oliver?" he asked, out of breath.

"She's digging," replied the girl with obsidian hair. "She really can't have any distractions right now."

"Hey, Sevy, is that you?" came Sylvia's voice from within a large hole. She then stuck her head up to see him, waving cheerfully, covered with dust. "I'll be right out in a minute, so wait there. Just don't contaminate—" He had ignored her advice, and dropped down to the edge of the cavity, "the site," she finished wearily.

"Sorry," he said a bit sheepishly, all of his normal reserve lost, feeling as young as he thought other normal thirty-year-old men might.

"No, no," she said distractedly, coming upon something in the ground, "I'll just rework everything over in that vicinity."

"I didn't mean to cause any more work for you," he said sincerely.

"Sevy, it's all right," she replied, peering intently at what looked like a piece of tattered parchment.

"What do you have there?" he asked, watching her closely. She was muttering to herself; he assumed she was reading the words scrawled on the paper. Suddenly she looked up with a shock, her hand flying to her heart. "Is something wrong?" he asked, trying to get a closer look at the parchment.

She shifted it to the other hand deliberately just in time to avoid his gaze. "Nothing's wrong," she said falsely. "Did you come down here to tell me something important, or did you just have a fit of immaturity? You are acting very out of character, Sevy."

"I wasjust going to tell you," he murmured, still glancing at the parchment. "I asked Cassandra to your party, and she said she would go with me."

"Ahwonderful," Sylvia said with a note of detachment in her voice. "It would be nice for you, Sevy, to settle down in peace, after all you've been through."

He might have imagined it (as he often did with such things, being extraordinarily paranoid), but he thought he saw her glance at his left arm. "How do you know what I've been through?" he asked, almost panicked.

"I know more than you think I do," she said cryptically, then shook her head as if to free herself of the thought and said, "Well, now that you've won the girl, Sevy, don't you think we could be friends? Or at least try? Please, do come jogging with me."

He debated it for a moment. He could count all of the friends he had ever had on one hand, and none of them had been women. But there was something compelling about Sylvia, something in her eyes, that let him know she was honest, and that she meant no harm. Surely it would not be a crime to go jogging with her? "Very well," he said, after consideration. "I will come with you tomorrow, with one provisowe discuss On Being and Nothingness."

"It's not a bad proviso," she said, laughing. "Of course, I also demand a discussion of the ancient Greek philosophers, the first of their kind."

"I would be glad to oblige. So I will see you at seven?"

"Yes, of course. Just make sure," she said, with a hint of a smile, and he fancied yet again her eyes on his arm, "that you wear a long-sleeved shirt. It's a bit nippy in the morning this time of year."