A/N: This is another "explanation" chapter, but hopefully, this one will be more interesting to the readers at large. Shout out to my homiez—Karen, Stef, and Steph. Act like you heard!
Chapter Eight
Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.
Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
Now in the haunted twilight I must do
Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.
-Amy Lowell, "The End"
It was a cold and bitter February that year, and little cheer to go along with it. Dumbledore and his informants had had no news from Voldemort for almost two months.
"Which is incredibly unlike him," Sylvia said, twisting the fabric of her rich wine-colored robes as they sat in a meeting of the most important members of the resistance. "Back in the old days, meetings were weekly, if not more often. And even then, he wanted me with him most days out of the week. What ghastly thing could he be doing?"
"Can it be that he suspects you?" Arthur Weasley asked shrewdly. "Perhaps he no longer confides in you because he knows where your sympathies lie."
"It seems highly unlikely," Snape interjected. "He has not called a meeting of the Death Eaters either. No, he has gone into some kind of seclusion, I believe. But what he could be planning, I have no idea."
"I'm afraid we're all at a loss," Dumbledore said humbly. "We know no more than we did when this silence began two months ago. We've no connections closer to him than Dr. Oliver, and if he will not call for her or for his Death Eaters, then I don't know what to do."
"At least we have had two months with no attacks," Remus Lupin said frankly, glancing over at Sylvia. It was the first time he had returned to Hogwarts since his teaching job 2 years past, and he looked a little put out. "Whatever he is planning, that is a nice respite."
"I agree," Dumbledore said. "But as I can't think of what else we can possibly do at the moment, I suggest we adjourn this meeting. We will meet again next week."
At these words, everyone slowly stood and began to give their farewells.
"Sylvia, can we talk?" Lupin asked, sidling up next to her. His words were slightly clipped, and he did not look as if the talk would be pleasant.
She said, "Of course," just as Snape answered, "Of course not."
She gave him a look. "Severus, I'll just be a minute."
"Is that how long it takes you to get to Greece?" he asked sarcastically, though it was clear to even him from Lupin's expression that he was hardly going to ask her to go on holiday with him.
She rolled her eyes. "Sevy, really."
"Not meaning to eavesdrop," Dumbledore said, "But I'd like to talk to you anyway, Severus. If you don't mind."
"Not at all," he replied sweetly. "As long as these two stay where I can see them."
***
"And what did Lupin want?" Snape asked coolly as the two walked to the Slytherin common room. Sylvia wanted to talk to Draco about "something very important", and he was accompanying her to make sure that Lupin hadn't tried to steal her away again.
"He told me that he had missed me, he hoped we could still be friends, and he added that he had finished translating a particularly difficult part of Rowena's diary. Apparently it is something so obscure that they've had trouble with it for years."
"Really?" Snape, who considered himself something of an amateur linguist, was interested. "Mind if I read it?"
"Of course not," she said. "I think a 14th century copy of the diary is on reserve in the library. Feel free to peruse it."
"How magnanimous of you," he said dryly, remembering that no matter how obscure the entry was, Sylvia probably knew what it meant. "Why didn't they just ask you to explain it to them?" he asked.
"Because I wouldn't," she said, her lips thin with anger. "And now Lupin and Dumbledore threaten to tell Draco unless I do so today. And so I go to him now."
"Oh, Sylvia, I'm sorry," he said, wondering what on earth could be this important. "Can I do anything to help?"
She took a deep breath. "Just promise you'll be there for me, no matter what."
"I think you know I will be."
"Good," she said, as they entered the commons. "I'll go to him now."
"Good luck," he called.
***
"Draco, can we talk?" Sylvia asked.
The boy shrugged. "I guess."
"Can you come with me?"
"Yeah, whatever," he replied, bidding farewell to his goonies Crabbe and Goyle.
As they walked around corners and up staircases in the vast expanse of the castle, he asked, "What's going on, Sylvia?"
"There is something very important that I need to tell you," she replied, as they approached an ancient tapestry of a hound and a fox. She murmured a few words to it, and it melted away, leaving an aged wooden door in its place.
"Where are we?" Draco wondered, as Sylvia opened the creaky door.
She didn't answer, but the room answered for her. It was tiny, but full of sunlight, and contained three rows of pews with kneelers, and a small altar. Despite the fact that the room looked like it hadn't been used in years, the altar coverings were fresh and clean, flowers were placed around the small chapel, and a candle was lit over the little aumbrey.
But most striking was the stained glass panel behind the cross of the altar. It was a man in his mid-thirties, tall, dressed in flowing robes with brown-blond hair but eyes black as midnight. In spite of himself, Draco shivered at the combination.
"What is this place?" he asked, staring at the stained glass in awe. But he felt as if he already knew.
"This is Swithulf's," Sylvia said simply, nodding her head gravely to the cross over the altar.
"Slytherin's…I mean, your son?" Draco asked.
"Yes. Your older brother, I suppose. I've kept it nice for him. It was all he asked. 'Keep a candle lit for me, Mama.' So I did."
"Why…what happened to him? He's left out of the history books, you know."
"He died out of his time," she replied. "He was only thirty-seven. My firstborn."
"What did he die of?" Draco questioned.
"That's what we must talk about, Draco," she answered, sitting down in one of the pews. He followed her example.
"My son died as a result of his father's madness," she said, glancing up at the panel of stained glass. "When I met him, Slytherin was not what he became in those later years. He was ambitious, and he was cunning—he had heard that a child of a mortal and one of the Three had a longer life expectancy than a mere mortal, and so he deceived me into bearing him a child, and then, marrying him—but he was not mad. He simply wanted an heir, and a line, that would outlast others.
"I imagine he was sorely disappointed when our son, Swithulf, took more after me than after his father. He was my first child, and I was only fifteen…by your years."
"He has your hair, and your face," Draco noted, staring at the panel as if trying to decipher the man.
"Yes, but Salazar's eyes," Sylvia replied. "Then, to the surprise of us both, Swithulf was not as talented at magic as his father could have hoped. He would get so angry with him…screaming and yelling and threatening and beating…I knew it was not what Salazar had wanted, a child that was almost a Squib. MY son would always run to me, crying, and I would gather him up in my arms and tell him that it would be all right, that his magic was his sweet spirit and his pure soul, not his ability with a wand."
'What a pansy," Draco muttered under his breath, branding Swithulf as a mama's boy forever in his mind.
"What's that?" Sylvia asked a little sharply, as if she had heard.
"Oh, nothing," Draco covered, remembering that this woman was his mother.
"Then, as if this wasn't enough, Swithulf shocked us again. He became an ardent Christian, and claimed that he was going to go into training for the priesthood. Salazar beat it out of him, and that night, he almost died…probably would have if I hadn't done some things that I am not supposed to do." She looked grave. "He continued to worship at the nearest chapel, but Salazar wouldn't let him get the wrong idea about Muggles. He arranged a marriage with Helga's niece Helewis, a beautiful young girl whom Swithulf had known all his life."
"Man, they had some pretty horrible names," Draco commented.
"I think you would have every right to say that if you weren't named after an Athenian lawgiver who punished every misstep with death. Not the most promising name, Draco."
"Yeah, well, you take what you can get," he answered sullenly.
"Anyway," Sylvia replied, with the air of one anxious to get on with her story, "Salazar was shocked when the two of them, with Helewis' consent, moved to a Muggle village not far from here, and became part of the local community there. It was an insult he would not bear, he said."
She broke off for a moment to stare at the large panel of stained glass, and Draco could swear he saw the glimmer of a tear in her eye.
"Salazar bided his time for a few years. Swithulf and Helewis would always visit us in Hogsmeade, and bring their children….four beautiful children. I had managed to hide the fact that they had had them christened. I knew Salazar couldn't stand it. But when the fifth was born…I went to the ceremony, and he found out."
She paused again, and he could tell that the next was the worst. He didn't want to hear it about the Founder of his illustrious house. But what could he have done? Killed a few Muggles? Destroyed the church? It couldn't have been so bad.
"Salazar had gotten old, and became crueler with each passing year. He was in his seventies at that point, and I had long since ceased to live with him. I had known…I could tell from the signs…that something must be done about him, but I was loath to do it. Then he went too far. He went to the village, went to the church, and herded Swithulf, Helewis, and their children out. He said that he wanted to speak with them, but he merely wanted to get them out of the way. And then…and then…he destroyed the town. To a man. The children, the babies, the women and men, all dead. Hundreds of corpses littered the area."
"Whoa," was Draco's only comment. He realized after he said it that it was probably a little callous.
Sylvia shut her eyes. "Sophie and Rosamund agreed with me. He must be destroyed. We had never done it before, but we knew there was a ritual for such things. It needed only the three of us, and one more, someone who had the blood of the condemned running through their veins. I had been taught about it, when I became the eldest of the Three."
"And your son was the one, wasn't he?" Draco surmised.
"Yes."
"And what happened?"
She sighed. "I can show you. Swithulf asked that I preserve his memories in case such a thing needed to be done again. I keep a Pensieve of them here, in his chapel. Would you like to see? I don't know if I can…if I can tell you."
"Sure," he shrugged.
"Very well." She ascended to the altar, and dug a Pensieve out from underneath it, a very old one, looking rather worn and time weary. "Do you know how it works?"
"Of course," Draco said a little huffily. "The Malfoys have one where we keep our esteemed family history." He realized as he said it that he wasn't a Malfoy, not really.
"Would you like me to join you?" she asked.
"I guess."
"Ready?"
"Whatever." He was doing his best to feign indifference. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand (he marveled that hers was so cool) and touched her other hand to the surface of the Pensieve.
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Why is there always a conveniently located Pensieve at hand? It's such a valuable plot device. Eh well, take what you can get.
Now I would like to thank my loverly reviewers: Severa, my partner in crime and favorite person to visit; Normandie M, a girl knowledgeable in all things Pompey; Threeoranges (and her various personas), for livening up my reviews considerably; Polgara, for faithfully reading my sequel; Anna, for letting me come to her house and mock her plumber; and last but not least, my darling Benito, for loving his girlfriend so very very much.
Thanks y'all! Next chapter coming soon!