Chapter Nine
Slowly the days whorled
past in a haze of snow and steely gray skies from November to December, and it
was close to Christmastime. Snape, who had been sinister and brooding ever
since All Saints' Day, had not improved his mood. He had taken away a round one
hundred and ten points away from Gryffindor one day, which some believed to be
a school record, when Fred and George Weasley had done something unforgivable.
To anyone else, it might
not have seemed unforgivable. After all, it was innocent enough (at least as
innocent as things could be when dealing with the incorrigible Weasley twins);
they had schemed and worked and plotted and planned so that they could conjure
up the tank top and shorts that Dr. Oliver had been wearing on the day when she
had shocked his first year Potions class. Then they would stick them on Snape.
What the two didn't realize was that this would make his dark mark visible to
anyone who cared to take a look at it.
It must have taken quite a
bit of extra studying in transfiguration to master this feat, but Fred and
George would do anything, go to any length, for a laugh. In the second week of
December, they struck right after the bell rang and the Ravenclaws were all
hurrying out of the classroom, although the Gryffindors had not moved. They
knew what was about to happen.
Together, the Weasley boys
pointed their wands at Snape and said, "Vestinovi!" Snape looked down in
horror as his robes transformed into a tank top of cyan blue and a pair of
khaki shorts.
"Finite incantatem!"
he muttered hastily with his wand pointed at himself, trying not to let anyone
get a look at the tattoo upon his arm, and his robes were back almost
immediately. In the same moment, he cast a spell that bound ropes around Fred
and George, and they fell to the floor, unbalanced.
"Straight to Dumbledore,"
he said icily, his voice only betraying a hint of his anger. "And I hope you
two are expelled."
"But Professor Snape, it
was only a joke—" George sputtered faintly, going pale at the look on Snape's
face. The other Gryffindors hastily cleared out of the room.
"You will NOT treat your
teachers with such disrespect!" he bellowed, and they stared up at him, shocked,
never having heard him lose his temper like this. "At least one hundred points
from Gryffindor, if not more, and that's added to the ten you lost earlier for
speaking out of turn." He then performed a spell to levitate the two boys, and
they floated down the hall, still bound in the ropes, on the way to
Dumbledore's office.
He was trying to take the
most discreet route possible, for no matter how angry he was, he knew it had
been wrong to lose control like this.
He shouldn't have tied them up, and he realized it. But he couldn't
release them now, as it would show his weakness in front of the two and they
would lose any vestige of respect they had for him.
Wasn't it just his luck,
then, that Dr. Sylvia Oliver was hurrying hastily down the corridor, book in
hand as usual, and dressed festively in red and green robes. It seemed she was
going to walk past them without the slightest glance, until…
"Sylv! Sylv, help us!"
Fred said miserably, struggling with his ropes. She looked up and was properly
horrified.
"Severus!" she screeched,
"What have you done? Release them at once!"
"You are not aware what
they have done, Dr. Oliver. A severe crime deserves a severe punishment," he
said coldly.
"Certainly binding them
like criminals is not the proper punishment!" she proclaimed.
He smiled nastily, and
wondered what sort of power she had. After all, wasn't everyone saying she was
much more powerful than wizards? "You can't do anything about it," he said,
taunting her.
Her face hardened. "I can
and I will," she replied firmly, and holding up her right hand, she cried out,
"Epiluo humas!" Immediately, their bonds flew off, and she gave him a
look of triumphant superiority.
He was clearly flummoxed
at this sudden show of strength. He was not even sure what language she had
been speaking, and she hadn't even used a wand.
Fred and George, for some
reason, did not look surprised, but hastily scrambled to their feet, and Sylvia
pushed them behind her, protecting them as if she were a mother hen.
"Sylvia," Snape pleaded,
"they are being treated justly. I am taking them to Dumbledore's office. Please
let me continue."
"Very well," she said, her
words clipped. "But I am coming with you. I know these two well enough to not
believe them innocent of all wrong doing, but that doesn't mean that I trust
you with them."
They walked silently to
Dumbledore's office, Fred and George still behind Sylvia's voluminous robes.
She left them at the gargoyle, and Snape, still perplexed at what she might
have done to release them from their bonds, was silent all the way up the
winding staircase as well.
***
"How did you do that?"
Snape demanded later, standing at the door to Sylvia's room, watching as she
hastily stowed her Pensieve.
"What's that?" she asked, coming
out from the cupboard where she had placed the stone bowl.
"You know what I said, and
you know why I'm asking it. How, by Merlin, did you break my spell?" he asked
accusatorily.
She shrugged. "I don't
like to use my powers. I rarely do. But the sight of those poor boys, and the
look on your face—I just had to. I regret it now."
"But how? I need to
know. What language were you speaking in?"
She grinned. "If you don't
know that, Severus Snape, I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to figure it
out for yourself."
"Fine. Then I will," he
replied petulantly. Almost immediately he was ashamed he had said it. He
sounded like a child!
"Anyway, I have a song to
teach you, Sevy. A philosophy song."
"Philosophy?" he asked,
brightening. No matter how she blatantly changed the subject, if she mentioned
philosophy, it would make his day.
"Certainly. It's a song by
your own Brits. Muggles, though, I'm afraid. They're called Monty Python."
He furrowed his brow. "I
think I may have heard of them in my days at Hogwarts. Some of the Muggle-borns
going on and on about them, laughing hysterically." He grimaced at the memory.
"Well, I promise you'll
enjoy this. For your entertainment pleasure, Sevy, I present—the Philosopher's
Song." With those words, she flicked her wrist (in a manner looking
suspiciously magical to him), and loud, obnoxious singing burst forth from, it
seemed, the very walls in a raucous drunken cavort. He listened intently to the
words.
"Immanuel Kant was a real
piss-ant who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a
boozy beggar who could think you under the table.
David Hume could
out-consume Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel.
And Wittgenstein was a
beery swine who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't
teach 'ya 'bout the raising of the wrist.
Socrates, himself, was
permanently pissed.
John Stewart Mill, of his
own free will, after half a pint of shanty was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could
stick it away, half a crate of whiskey every day!
Aristotle, Aristotle was a
bugger for the bottle,
And Hobbes was fond of his Dram.
And Rene Descartes
was a drunken fart: 'I drink, therefore I am.'
Yes, Socrates himself is
particularly missed;
A lovely little thinker,
but a bugger when he's pissed."
The music subsequently
ended and he looked in Sylvia's direction to see her doubled over in paroxysms
of laughter. He had had to suppress a chuckle or two himself. Eventually she
came up for air and glanced over at his staid figure.
"What? You didn't think it
was funny?" she asked, wiping tears away from her eyes. In fact, he had found
it more than funny, but he wasn't sure he wanted to show any emotion when he
was around this strange creature.
"It was all right," he
said stiffly.
"Oh, you just can't enjoy
yourself, Sevy," she bantered.
"I think I have good
reason to be on my guard with you," he countered, "when I have little idea who
or what you are."
Her smile faded. "Please
don't let the…the things that have happened lately…to come between us. Listen,
I'm having another party over Christmas break. Make sure you come and bring
Cassandra. How are things between you?"
"Fine," he said shortly,
"Things are fine." Actually, things were more than fine between the couple, and
he had recently admitted to himself that he was in love with the Divination
professor. He was trying to work up the courage to ask her to marry him. It
would be nice to have Sylvia's advice on the matter, but he wasn't sure he
trusted her anymore.
His musings left an
awkward silence and Sylvia cleared her throat. "Look, Sevy, I know things seem
a little weird right now but I promise that…they'll get better."
"I'm sure," he said
coldly, walking out of her room and towards the library. She had told him to
figure it out for himself and figure it out he would. He was going to find out
what she was, and, he vowed, he was going to do it tonight.
***
Okay, thanks again to all my WONDERFUL reviewers. In the
next chapter, Snape is going to find some interesting books in the library, and
learn a little bit more about the mysterious Doctor. Lupin will appear again
soon (in fact, I've written a little short story about Sylvia and him), and
more fighting will quite possibly ensue. I'm afraid the next few parts will get
so long that I might have to reconfigure the chapters yet again, but who knows?
Oh, and if you want to listen to the whole Monty Python song, follow this link:
http://lightning.prohosting.com/~montypy/sounds/philosop.wav