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 friends…if he had any friends other than the Death Eaters, who
weren't much of
friends anymore…but imagine what they would say if they knew he was
allowing himself to be made over.
Sylvia's
quarters were very cheery compared to his—well-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. "Be—uh—besides, 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.
"Yes…Cassandra…so 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 was…just
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."
"Ah…wonderful," 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 proviso—we
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."
