A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
-Oscar Wilde, "Madonna Mia"
Sylvia and Severus dashed up to the Great Hall, where several students were milling about, talking eagerly about the situation with one another. In the midst of them were Sophie and Dumbledore, kneeling over the prostrate Rosamund. Sylvia rushed to their side immediately, but Snape hung back around the fringes.
"What happened?" he asked two of his seventh-year Slytherins.
"Well, Severa and I had had a walk around the lake, sir," explained one, nudging her friend, "and as we came in, we were discussing what it would be like to…uh…"
"I think you can omit that part, Iphi," Severa said, cutting her off.
"And this girl kind of limped in, and she looked real faint, so I grabbed her arm and asked her if she needed any help. She just said, 'Sylvia, Sophia,' and then she fainted. Well, we knew that she had to mean Dr. Oliver and Miss. St. Paul, so—"
"So Iphigenia decided to stay here with her," Severa interrupted, "and I ran up to Professor Dumbledore's office. I knew where it was because…well, I've been there before. Sophie was up there with him so we brought them downstairs. That's all we know."
"Thank you, girls," he responded, and they glowed with pride at their good report.
He brushed his way past Harry, Ron, and Hermione—the "terrible trio", he called them—who were watching with interest. He could've guessed they would have come running at the first scent of a mystery.
"Do you want to take her to the infirmary?" he asked Sylvia, Sophie, and Dumbledore.
"That's what we're planning," Sylvia answered. "Madam Pomfrey is bringing a stretcher now."
"What's wrong with her?"
"We're not sure…we're a little confused, Sylvia and I, I mean," Sophie murmured worriedly.
"Confused?" he repeated.
"We didn't sense that she was here. Usually we can sense important things about each other. Maybe we've just gotten out of practice with her…we haven't seen her in a long time….and…"
"Excuse me, ladies," Madam Pomfrey said, bustling in with a stretcher, upon which they gently lifted Rosamund.
Everyone followed her up to the infirmary, but Madam Pomfrey begged for privacy in which to examine her patient. It was agreed that they would give her rest until the next morning, when she would hopefully be awake.
***
But it was certainly not the next morning when Sylvia and Severus were awakened. They had decided to spend a comfortable night together, holding each other tightly, but they were interrupted not long after they had retired. This time, it was Madam Pomfrey who knocked on the door.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Oliver," she said, "but you really should come at once."
"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked, wrapping a robe around her and tying it.
"You may want to see her for yourself."
"Is Rosamund awake?"
"Oh, yes. She's been up for an hour or so, talking with me. We decided that it was imperative she speak to you and Sophia. I was adamant about fetching Albus as well, but she did not seem pleased with the idea. Anyway, I'm off to get Miss St. Paul…I trust you can find your way to the Infirmary on your own," Pomfrey rattled off.
"Of course," Sylvia murmured. "Thank you, Poppy." She then turned to Severus, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you going to come with me?"
"I wasn't aware that you wanted me to accompany you," he said stiffly.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I thought perhaps you might want to speak to her alone."
"No." She said it grimly, as if that would come later. "Not yet." Then she came out of whatever bleak thoughts she had found herself in, and added, "I want you there with me."
"Then let's go," he replied, buttoning a robe up over his black silken boxers.
They proceeded at a brisk pace towards the infirmary, until they passed a particular portrait of an old man, wizened with age, who stared morosely at passers-by. Snape had always found him a little intimidating, until now.
"Sylvia!" he said excitedly, his features lighting up into a smile.
She turned to him and returned the smile. "Why, if it isn't Thukydides McGregor! How have you been?"
"Miserable. I wish someone would let me rest in an attic in peace," he replied.
"I'm dreadfully sorry," she answered.
"How have you been? Time has been graceful to your delicate face," he said wistfully.
"Well…things have been hard. Do you remember Rosamund? I'm on my way to see her now, and she's been very sick. I'm worried, Thukydides."
"Then I won't keep you," he said kindly. "You go on ahead. And best of luck, dear Sylvia."
As she and Severus walked away, they could still hear the old man murmuring his goodbyes.
"And who was that?" Snape felt the need to ask.
"Old school chum," she replied with finality, and before he could question her, they had arrived at the infirmary.
Rosamund sat propped up in a hospital bed, her face as white and wan as the sheets, as still as a waxen doll.
"Rosamund." Sylvia said her name not with the joy that she had so recently had in her voice at the meeting of her old friend. This time she sounded more resigned, as she would to a woman who had troubled her in recent years.
"Hullo, Andromache," Rosamund said quietly. She would not look her in the eye, and was wadding the bedsheets into knots with her fingers. "Hello, Severus," she added as an afterthought.
"What have you done, Axiotheia? What's wrong with you?" Sylvia's face showed concern, but no pity. Severus had never seen her be so hard, so indifferent.
"Can we wait until Artemis gets here?" Rosamund pleaded.
"If we must." Sylvia said down in a chair, motioning Severus to do the same. Feeling strangely foolish, he grasped her hand. But she smiled at him and squeezed it harder.
It was but a minute more before Sophie arrived, with her son walking more slowly behind her.
"What is it, Rosamund?" Sophie asked. Her voice, like Sylvia's, was purposely cold. It was clear to Snape, at least, that the two were communicating with each other on a level beyond words, a level that Rosamund could not hear. Perhaps it was a test.
"Must he be here?" Rosamund asked, indicating Snape.
"Get on with it!" Sylvia snapped. "We've been waiting for you for months, and you had better explain yourself. Where have you been?"
"With Voldemort," Rosamund said simply. Snape cringed slightly at the name, and at the directness with which she said it.
"Why?" Sophie asked. Neither the elder nor the younger member of the Three were giving her any grace.
"He…he is my One." It took her a while to say it.
Sylvia's face was transformed during this moment. A light, perhaps that of illumination, seemed to make her features grow more powerful, more ominous.
"Then it is as I thought," she replied, and, standing upright and gently smoothing out the wrinkles in her robe, she began to walk out of the room.
As an afterthought, she added, "I can't believe it took so long for him to impregnate you."
"Impreg…" Sophie, despite her cold veneer earlier, was clearly shocked by this information, as were the two men.
"Yes, impregnate," Sylvia repeated, and Rosamund nodded her confirmation. "She is of no use to us now. She's mortal from the moment of conception. A loophole that he must have discovered from the ancient writings. He has nine months without our power to wreak his havoc, secure from our threats. Until the child is born, we have no hope."
"Oh God," Sophie breathed. Then she snapped. "How could you? How could you…you…"
"Severus, Albus…?" Sylvia said, motioning them outside.
"Sylvia, we can't…" Even Dumbledore seemed at a loss of what to say.
"Oh, Albus," she said reassuringly. "It's not as terrible as that. It would've taken that long, I imagine, to convince Draco. The only difference is that he now knows that we cannot harm him."
"I must call a meeting of the faculty," Dumbledore said quietly. "Severus, will you help me to summon everyone?"
"Yes, headmaster," Severus mumbled. "Can I have a moment with Sylvia?"
"Naturally. Best of luck," the headmaster said to Sylvia.
"I'm so sorry, Sylvia. This is—by Merlin, this is terrible. I can't believe she would…"
"She's waited her whole life for love, Sevy," Sylvia said. "She had never been with a man before. She did not know what to do."
"I love you," he said suddenly, surprising even himself. He wasn't sure why he said it. Perhaps it was the imminent danger that faced them, or simply a revelation not glimpsed heretofore.
"And I you," she replied, kissing him softly. "Now, you must go to your meeting. And I have to go, as well."
"To him?" He wasn't sure why he asked. It was a foregone conclusion.
"Yes. This time…" she bit her lip as she said it. "The time has passed for games and pretenses. He knows the whole truth anyway."
***
"Ah, Mother. I knew no better way to get your attention," Voldemort said with a sickening excitement. He sat in a large overstuffed red chair before a fire. With his presence in it, it looked like some sort of demonic throne before the fires of hell.
"Tom, I am very upset with you." She adopted a scolding, maternal tone. It had worked before. His early loss of his mother and his awe of her age had left him sensitive to this sort of manipulation.
"Oh, but Mother," he said mock-petulantly, "You never taught me about reproduction. How was I to know?"
"Not a kinetic learner, Tom?" she asked sarcastically. She folded her arms and stood against the mantle, the fire warming the back of her robes.
He laughed his high, shrill, cold laugh. "A good turn of phrase, Sylvia! And here I was, thinking that you had left me for good. Gone back to your sexual exploits with my transfigurations professor, perhaps, and left me in the lurch. I needed a suitable replacement."
She didn't know which to address first, and finally gave up on addressing either at all. "You're so proud of yourself, aren't you? You don't realize that She knows every outcome before she plans the action? This happened for a reason."
His bantering tone was gone immediately, and his red eyes swelled with contempt. "Who, Andromache? Your "Mother Nature"? I think you're the one who doesn't realize…I've bent her to my will. I could've done it with you if I had wanted to."
She bit her lip, not saying what she wanted to say. He stood to his impressive height, cold and pale like a corpse, and stroked her arm. She shivered at his touch.
"But I didn't break you…oh no. It is the spirit in you that I like. When I was young and foolish, I thought to myself, why would Slytherin choose her over the others? He must have seen the greatness of her will, and wanted to own it." He laughed a bit, as if at himself. "Now I know you were the only one of childbearing age. These things are simple."
She stared down at his black fingernails. "What have you become?" she whispered, and she wasn't sure why she asked it. Whatever he had become, he had become a long time ago. She was something powerful and beautiful, and like all powerful and beautiful things, he wanted her for his own, to twist to his own purposes.
He continued to talk. "You know, I don't want to lose you, Mother. Neither of us can die; it seems a shame to waste a chance such as that. You won't miss Rosamund too much. She told me how she loathed you, almost every day. Her eyes grew bright with hatred…it was magnificent. I ask you, Andromache, what would happen if I were to kill her now, hmm?"
She hadn't thought about it. Was it possible? Rosamund was mortal now, yes, but the baby…how could the baby survive if she was killed? She did her best to hide the panic in her eyes, but somehow he detected the trace of it. Panic was what he thrived on, after all.
"You won't kill her, Tom," she tried to say nonchalantly. "You wouldn't waste the gift of such a valuable child."
"A child that could destroy me?" he asked, and she thought of Draco. He smoothed out his black robes with his deadly white hands, and seemed bored. He was like a child, to get bored so easily, but he always had been.
"I'm leaving, Tom," she said forcefully.
"Why? Is he really that much better in bed than I am?"
She wasn't sure if he was making a reference to Dumbledore or to Snape, but she studiously ignored his comment.
"I didn't say that. I said I was leaving."
"But, Mother, you can't leave now. I've planned a celebration just for us. I sent my slaves out tonight to destroy a Muggle village so that we could be alone."
"That's awfully thoughtful of you," she remarked dryly.
"Do come to bed, Mother, and stop your whining. You are so much more talented than your younger sister…isn't that what she is? It doesn't matter. I've been wanting you ever since I first tasted her."
"No, Tom. Don't you know that you are not attractive anymore? Have you looked at yourself recently?" She kept her tone as light as possible, but she was through with indulging him.
"Mother." He said it coldly. "I know how he did it. I know how he kept you bound to him for so long, besides the spell he worked on you—it wasn't enough. That's why he created a charm so powerful that it could even control you, using the ancient magic."
Her eyes widened. "Who…who told you that? Tom, WHO TOLD YOU THAT?" She had lost her temper.
He smiled. "Why, he told me himself. I talked with him just the other day."
She considered telling him that necromancy was illegal, but she realized it would be a patently absurd thing to say.
"He taught me the charm, you know. Do you really want me to use it?"
She looked weary. The charm had drained her powers, and she remembered the long years of struggling until she had finally overcome it. No, she did not really want him to use it.
"Let's go to bed, Tom."
@@@
I am Iphigenia, obviously, and Severa belongs to herself, or whatever British actor she may have sold herself off to. If you find us amusing, you may read about our antics in "Rubida Luna" written by the lovely Severa, and "Redemption" by the ever-wonderful and lovely Normandie_M, who must be congratulated upon graduating and doing such an excellent job. Mazel tov! Oh, and read and review.