A/N: I don't think this chapter needs much introduction, but "Unchained
Melody" belongs to Alex North and Hy Zaret, who wrote and composed it, and
everyone but my handful of characters belong to J.K. Rowling. That's about it!
Chapter Fourteen
By
now, close as it was to Valentine's Day, he had forgotten what Sylvia had said
to him after he returned to her chamber that night. But he would never forget
the look in Remus Lupin's eyes that had been directed at him, that look of
anger and grief and mourning.
Life
had continued at the pace that life had always continued at, and he had watched
as the Christmas holidays were swept away, along with Lupin (and Cassandra, he
reminded himself occasionally—but he tried not to think about her), as classes
resumed, and he once again had to deal with the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan,
as the thick snow that blanketed the grounds grew increasingly less and less
thick, and he resumed his jogs with Dr. Oliver.
Now
it was February, damp and mostly gloomy, and he was working on the optative
mood and Xenophon with his Greek mentor and feeling quite blissful in the
apathy he had adopted after Cassandra's sudden departure. It was as if he had
returned to the days when he could take the life of another with hardly a trace
of guilt. That was what the Dark Lord had always said was his greatest
quality—his remorselessness that was based in the apathy he thrived on. He
thrived on it now once again.
If
his students had noticed that something was different about him, they certainly
hadn't said anything. But when he coldly took fifty points from Ravenclaw on
account of Grayson Oliver speaking out of turn, he learned that the first year
sent his "older sister" (though he guessed the two were hardly related) to
fight his battles.
She
didn't seem so worried about it, though. In fact, she was smiling and her eyes,
which matched both her grey robe and the atmosphere outside, were bright.
"I
heard that you were a bit harsh on Grayson today," she commented right before
the two began their daily Greek lesson.
"I
see he's too cowardly to approach me himself," he replied coolly.
She
gave him a rather exasperated look. "He didn't ask me to talk to you. But
something's been different about you, Sevy, these last few weeks. What's going
on?"
"What's
going on?" he asked, laughing mirthlessly. "It doesn't take a genius to figure
it out, Sylvia."
Her
mouth tightened. "I'm sorry about Cassandra. I should have known better than to
trust her, and I blame myself—"
"Dumbledore
said the same thing, you know," he said, cutting her off. "Apparently everyone
takes the blame except for the one person who ought to feel it most keenly."
Her
face softened. "Just as long as you don't think it has something to do with
you, Sevy. I'd hate for you to think that."
He
was quickly losing his resolve on the apathy, and after a moment of awkward
silence, what had been brooding in his mind ever since the incident came out
his mouth.
"And
you think it doesn't? Sylvia, I'm positively odious. I should have been
suspicious of her right from the start. A woman so beautiful could never see
anything in me. No woman could ever see anything in me."
"Severus,
don't!" Sylvia replied passionately, biting her lip. She looked as if she
wanted to say more, but then caught herself and continued in an even tone of
voice. "Don't you remember what the philosophers have said about the soul, how
it is where the true beauty lies?"
"There
is no soul," he answered dully. "Haven't you read Nietzsche and Sartre?"
She
looked torn, as if she wanted to say something more, but thought better of it.
"All right," she said finally. "Show me everything that you know about the
optative mood."
***
On
Valentine's Day, he tried to ignore the occasional cut-out heart and the
magical sweets that he saw the students passing one another furtively in the
Great Hall at breakfast, along with their shy giggles and reckless teenage
abandon. The last thing he wanted to be thinking about was the woman that he
thought he had known and loved, and what they might have been doing together on
this day.
He
sat down heavily next to Sylvia, who was eating an English muffin with cherry
preserves on top, and dressed for the occasion in robes of the palest mauve.
"Happy
Valentine's Day," she said to him, smiling.
"I
only wish," he muttered, not knowing at the time that by the end of the day,
everything would have changed.
***
That
night he appeared on the dot of eight at Sylvia's door as usual, ready for his
Greek lesson, with his textbook in hand. They had moved on from the optative
mood now to the imperative, and she had said that she was pleased with his
success.
When
she opened the door, her face was surprisingly grave. Snape thought that she
looked distinctly nervous. He was about to ask her if anything was the matter
when she indirectly answered his unasked question.
"Sevy,
I'm sorry if I appear a little anxious," she said, giving him a smile that
lacked warmth. "There's something I need to tell you, and I'm not sure how."
"Sylvia,
you know that you can tell me anything. We're friends, right?" he replied
uncertainly, saying it half to reassure himself, much less her. He was
wondering what might possibly be the matter.
A
shadow flitted across her face. "Yes, friends," she repeated. "Severus, I don't
know how to explain this to you, and I've been thinking about it for days.
Perhaps it would be best to show you something that you could understand.
Here." She held her hand out to him.
"What
is it?" he asked. The hand that she proffered was empty.
"I
can show you a memory. It's similar to my Pensieve. I don't think it should be
strange to you."
He
looked at her face, taut with some repressed concern, and her hand, which lay
ready for him. He then took a deep breath and grasped it.
He
was in a whirlwind of shapes and colors and scents and sounds. Occasionally he
could make out a voice or a face, but it would soon retreat back into the
kaleidoscope. The only thing solid he felt was Sylvia's hand.
Still
grasping it firmly, he felt his feet hit the ground and looked around him. They
had landed in a wide street with overhanging trees. The scent of magnolia was
in the air, and beside them on both sides of the street were small stores and
small houses.
Sylvia
was before him and beside him. He looked at both, a little confused. Beside
him, she was still wearing the pale mauve robes. Before him, she wore a
knee-length dress of deep lavender with white trim.
She
was deep in conversation with a police officer, who looked friendly enough in
his cheerful blue uniform. Both sported thick Southern accents.
"…We're
just right glad you came back here to work on your Doc'trit, Miz Oliver," the
officer said.
"It's
good to be back home," she answered.
"And
how 'bout this boy you've brought with you? Are you plannin' on bein' wed?"
"Time
will tell, Bob," she said, then added, "Would you excuse me now? I really need
to get back to work."
Snape
and Sylvia followed the past Sylvia (Snape had to admit it was a bit confusing)
into one of the small houses. It was dingy and rather dark, but the colors on
the wall and the couches were bright and the room was well-lit with floor
lamps. The Sylvia of the past dropped her handbag on the couch with a sigh and
immediately sat down before a typewriter and began to bang away.
"This
is what you wanted to show me?" Snape asked present-Sylvia, who was standing
beside him, looking curiously at herself.
"Just
wait," she replied.
He
stood in silence, and could hear the radio announcer speaking in a soft,
faraway voice. "I've got a new one for you folks…just came out last week.
Here's Mr. Al Hibbler, singing his hit song for y'all."
The room was filled after a few brief seconds with the somewhat
ethereal sound of a man's voice singing. "Oh, my love,
my darling, I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time . . ."
A
moment later, the door opened and a tall young man with obsidian hair and eyes
as black as midnight (and, Snape though, full of even more secret designs than
the witching hour itself) walked up to Sylvia, caressing her on the shoulder.
"Riddle,"
Snape whispered, and it wasn't a question. He watched as the two of them shared
the look of those that know each other well, those that have lived together for
a long time.
"Andromache,"
Riddle murmured, and she looked at him quietly, urging him to continue.
"Mother, I have found the information that you wanted. Are you proud of me?"
"Always,"
she said briefly. "But if you will give me a moment, I really must finish this
page of my dissertation."
"Ah
yes," Riddle replied with a smirk on his face, "That. Why do you bother with
such Muggle nonsense?"
"Why
do you ask such pointless questions?" she replied, typing the end of a page
with great relish, then turning to face him. "What have you found that you
think I will find so important?"
He
leaned in towards her, tracing her jaw line with his thumb in a manner that
implied ownership. "I know who he is," he replied softly.
Her
entire body language changed from languid to attentive. "Who?" she asked, eyes
wide, staring deep into his eyes. "And how did you find out?" she added, almost
as an afterthought.
He
laughed coolly. "Wouldn't you like to know? Suffice it to say, Mother, that it
was an ancient and dark magic I used. I hope you don't mind," he answered,
running a hand through her hair. "I can even give you his name, love. And he's
mine, too."
"No,"
she whispered, giving him a troubled look. "He couldn't be. Tell me more."
"Not
until you give me a reason to, Mother," he replied, kissing her neck.
After that, all was silent save for the radio, which was dimly
singing, "I need your love, I need your love, God speed your love to me."
Then
present-Sylvia touched him gently on the shoulder. "We should go now, shouldn't
we?" she asked.
Snape,
who had thoughts he considered unmentionable swirling through his mind with
great rapidity, did not respond, though his look told her everything she needed
to know. He then took her hand.
One
short kaleidoscope ride later, they were back in her chamber, and Sylvia sat
down demurely on the edge of her bed.
"Do
you understand?" she asked.
"Not
completely," he answered truthfully.
"Albus
thinks I came here so that he could help me through my transition from Tom's
evil. That was only part of the reason why, Sevy. Cassandra came here to write
a book on me, but she could have written it at any other stage in my life. Why
here? Why now?" She waited nervously for him to continue her train of thought.
He
shook his head. "No," he said finally. He didn't want to believe that Cassandra
was capable of something so odious. "No, Sylvia."
She
looked sorrowful. "Cassandra and I botched things something awful, didn't we,
Sevy? We got things marvelously mixed up." She attempted a weak smile. "She
should have been nothing more than your friend while I…well, I…"
"You
should be my One," he whispered, at last meeting her eyes, gray on black, and
seeing that they confirmed what he had just realized.
@@@
Thanks so much to my new reader, Ariana Deralte! Keep reviewing, you guys! I hope you are happy about finally finding out Sylvia's big secret, which some of you had already realized. Kudos to you for figuring it out. Oh, and if you wanted to see it—here is the dress that Sylvia wore in her scene with Riddle.
