Part One * Part Two * Part Three * Part Four

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recongnize. I do however own the character of Sylvia and the plot. Please don't take her or the plot without my permission. If you do, it's like you take a part of my soul, because Sylvia is me. So please. Don't.

Haunting Irony: Hiding Behind the Shadow

Part Three
I walked down the hall, and ran into the bathroom. Only looking in the mirror did the realization dawn upon me. He had hit me. My father. I felt my swollen lip with my tongue, and well, I knew no more.

Everything came out, though I knew not congnatively from whence it came. I cried, with no fear of anyone coming in, because it was midnight, and I was in the part of the castle that was near none of the dormatories. It is during reflection only that I can partly piece together a coherent thought process. But then- cried, cried so hard.

I had to turn away from the mirror; I could not confront this new, emotional soul which the argument had brought out in me. I cried, and even during the ride I felt- embarassed. Embarassed that such a feeling was coming out. Still, (I was having this mental debate even as I cried) at least I had stood my ground in front of him. My mind kept going to all the stories about abused wives I had read- women who felt powerless because of the male-dominated society they lived in, or the dominnering male partner who controlled not only their life, but their perception. I now took the chance to feel the wound, and I remember thinking savagely "I hope this leaves a bruise- a nice big dark one- so there'll be evidence."

Alas, dear Reader, I cannot better convey my sense of the wild tulmult I was in- I can only tell you that I was in such a one- like all people, who in their life at one point or another suffered a serious and dehibilitating blow both physically and emotionally. Words will never be able to capture what I experienced. The best writers only get close. I, as a mediocre Recorder of events, will not even attempt.

Thirty minutes or so passed in this manner- a period that went from incredible moments of lucidity about what my place in the universe is, to raging, crying, screaming fits. I slowly washed my face, exulting in the cool water as it washed away my tears, shocking me to my senses. I had had my "pity party,"as my mom often called it, and now I was ready to deal with the world. Sleep was now overcoming my senses, nice, glorious sleep, to the point that I considered sleeping in the bathroom, to save myself the journey back. But I now longed for my bed. So without any more thinking, I walked out the door, got to the commonroom, went to bed, and without changing, fell into a dreamless slumber.

I woke the next morning strangely lucid. The previous night was still clear in my memory, and yet the emotion was gone. My...outer self, as I shall call it, took its helm with a vengence. If it wouldn't allow emotion, it would allow indifference, maybe even cruelty.

I dressed slowly, occupying my thoughts with dressing, and school work, and what we were going to cover in classes today. The robes slipped on, I felt complete- my disguise was ready, I could go without breaking into tears.

I went to the bathroom, and said to the self in the mirror "Today is going to be a hard day." I wanted to, in a sense, feel this sorrow, let it linger a couple of days, maybe cry some more, but it didn't come. I looked into the indifferent, maybe flat face that the world saw, and I was amazed. Was I that cold as to not be affected by last night deeply?

Without an answer, I turned away from the mirror and swept out of the room and to breakfast.

Maybe I wanted them to notice, maybe not. I maintained all the same attitudes, people still giving me the same looks of suspicion (but I wasn't as thrilled). I left early and found a quiet nook in the entrance hall, where I could see some others look at the House Cup Board. Not really eager to face the crowd, I waited till it died down until I could see the points, the large numbers easily discernable from where I was sitting.

I did not have to wait, however, to see the Houses reactions, and they were as easy to guess as a pattern of circle-square-circle-square-circle.

The Hufflepuffs, pleased a bit, because though their comrads the Gryffindors lost points, so did the Slytherins;

The Ravenclaws, really happy, because they were now in the lead for the Cup;

The Gryffindors, confused and dismayed, noticing the 150 points gone, and guessing that the Trio did it, again;

And the Slytherins, looking mad, really mad, but not knowing why the points were gone (but it probably was because of the Gryffindors).

My God, I could not help think, they're so predictable, its funny.

No one noticed my laughter, light enough to be hidden, but fufilling enough to content me through Divination.

The whispers now became annoying- mainly because they hadn't figured out anything. Divination swam of "suppose"s and "I guess"s. Professor Trelawny guessed what they were so concerned about.

"I suppose," she said, and I laughed mentally at the irony of her word choice, "that all of you are concerned with the major alterations in the House scores..."

My eyes froze out of, yes, fright. Did she know...

"The causes are hazy, at best," she acted, putting her hand to her head in a feign of great concentration. "But...yes...I see...a girl- with black hair..."

Great, I thought, as they all looked at me. I remained impassive, almost feeling that the jig was up, but they did something I thought they would never do---they lied.

"-But it couldn't have been her-"

"-she was in bed last night-"

"-I saw her go to bed at 6pm- she felt bad!-

"I saw it too!"

Even the jackass Malfoy voiced his disbelief, liking it to - you guessed it - Potter.

I, like I said, ignored this exchange, not saying anything. But the conviction of the Slytherins in my defense was enough to even have Trelawny in doubt..

"Well," she said, taking a chair, "There is a possibility of my misinterpreting the signs, which in themselves are very hazy."

I breathed a mental sigh of relief and continued to watch the show, thankful for audience participation. (And the fallicy of their minds).

The class ended, and I felt I was merely changing my seat and show- I had the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher next, who was always a barrel of laughs. But before I could escape the stuffy room, Trelawny handed me a note. I, of course read it as soon as I escaped the classroom, and the contents sent a surge of ice through my body:

Miss Sylvia Snape,
Your detention will be at 8:00pm tonight with Mr. Filch.
Professor S. Snape.

His signature....I quickly folded (rather, crumpled) the note and went to Transfiguration at my normal quick speed.

And what do I hear, back in the commonroom after dinner? Ha- Potter! How he's doomed to die a horrible death at the hands of Malfoy's dad...

The fates do indeed smile upon me, for I am blessed with idiocy. I could get away with murder, and the Morons, headed by Malfoy, would convince themselves that Potter or one of the other Gryffindor's really did it! In my chair removed from the group, half in shadow, I smiled as the mental image crossed my brain: I, with a bloody knife in my hand, a body laying face-down on the ground- and Malfoy, royally, stating "Friends- Slytherins! Lend me your ears! Potter killed this person! Ignore the fact we watched her commit the act...and she still has the bloody knife in her hands! This is Potter's doing!" Then the accomplying mob yell and the frenzied run to tie Potter to a stake.

I felt my face contort in the darkness. Boy, do I have a wierd sense of humor.

Really, I was surprised that Dad had any trouble controlling these brats.....

For the first time since last night, I felt the faint sirring on an emotion trying to emerge. I hurridly pushed it down. It slid, smoothly, and I was in control.

The detention was nothing. I went at 8pm and reported to Filch to serve my detention. As I cleaned, he continued his diatribe about the trouble of students. I blocked it out, and concentrated on cleaning the tables in the Great Hall, a job usually reserved for the house elves. The methodolical approach to cleaning- the smooth, repetitous wipe of the rag, the periodic dip into the bucket of water soon lulled my mind into numbness. I didn't notice the size of the tables; the work required to scrub each and every stain (as I was required to do) was nothing- one could compare the experience to being in a trance.

It was after 10 when I was done. I only noticed my sore muscles, not at all apprehensive about the reason behind it.

My fellow Slytherins, however, as fickle as they are, had apparently had a change of heart.

I entered the commonroom where half the House waited, and could I see...anger? Yes....

"Where were you?" Mafloy asked of me. The rest of the House waited in silence.

"I do not answer to you," I said, and even as I tried to cross the room to go to bed, I felt the haunting eyes of the House follow me, scrutenizing me. They have no right, I thought, to critique me, me of all people.

Mafloy took a step toward me and said in a loud clear voice:

"We know what happened last night."

I stopped but did not turn around. Were these Slytherins smarter than they looked? Were they able to discern what really happened from the web of lies and rumors constantly passed from mouth to mouth?

"Really," I said, still calm, as I turned around and faced him, keeping my face as impassive as ever.

"Really. McGonagall pulled the same trick on me in my first year."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh come on! You mean you haven't figured it out? Potter set you up!"

There was a loud protest against Potter. I couldn't hide my amusement; I wanted to laugh out loud; but I restricted my merriment to a smile.

"Oh, I knew already." Hiding a lie with a lie- oh, boy.

"Then why did you serve the detention? Why didn't you go complain to Professor Snape?"

"Would he really believe me over McGonagall?"

A girl spoke from the chairs-

"Sylvia! He's your father! He 's got to believe you over Potter!"

My stomache contorted with the reference, but I continued with, "Besides- he didn't give the detention, McGonagall did. It would be no use to complain to him- he would uphold her desision, no matter if he thought her wrong or not."

Wow, I thought. Two lies in a night. Want to make it three?

"That evil Potter," Mafloy was saying. "I've been waiting for so long for him to be kicked out. And with all he's done....."

The speech continued, and before anyone could say anything else, I swept up to my room.

I sat down on my bed, fully clothed. I watched the torchlight shadows dance on the walls. Here, with no one in the room, I took the chance to laugh- the sounds were hollow and errily out-of-place among the cold stone walls.

Those MORONS! I screamed in mental anguish! How could they be so blind, so driven by their infernal hatred of Potter to construe even the most obvious! These people....are so stupid. Its that simple.

I dug my hands into the pockets of my robes and pulled out the note. I read it again, almost freaking out at the famililar structure of his handwriting- I recongnized the clear and crisp formation of the letters- smoothly formed together.

My arm ached as I reached over to my bedside table to an awaiting ink and quill. Not knowing the purpose of the exersize, I started to copy down the note in my own handwriting. I cannot explain what this does for me- I have always exulted the feel of forming fresh letters, little pieces of art themselves.

When I was done, I looked at what I had done, and....

My god...

They're so.....similar.

Even the individual letters!

See the little hook at the end, see the capital ' S ' ! Are we so similar as to have even the same handwriting? I turned my head to the side in disbelief. I wondered if I showed the same "distinguishing traits" as dad- the cold approach to others, the cruel treatement...lord knows I couldn't trust my own perception of myself.

I felt the cold stone against my back as I sat up in bed and contemplated my fate.

The next day the others were normal (or as normal as Slytherins are)- Malfoy still pissed. I sat down in a chair before breakfast, to briefly review my notes in History. The others did their thing, ignoring me as always.

I was a bit startled by the dark figure I saw out of the corner of my eye. It approached me, and stood waiting in my shadow. I really didn't want to talk to her, so I kept my eyes on the notes and hoped she got the message that I was too enthralled in my work to talk.

But she didn't move. I waited a full 20 seconds for the figure to go away, but she didn't. I was getting uncomfortable. Finally I jerked my head up, looked her in her eyes, and asked "What?"

It came out a bit harsher than I felt, but I was annoyed.

I saw the eyes of someone younger than me, much younger than my 17 years, get a little larger, ever so slightly. I saw the cheek twitch and the mouth open ever so subtly. I noticed the minute shift in body position as she involunterily took a step back. All this occured in a fraction of a second, and as she started to back away I saw those eyes filled with something I thought I would never see.

Fear.

She backed away from me, (not daring to turn her back), until she was on the other side of the room. I tried to find the reason somewhere on her physiogamy, tracing her movements with my eyes even as she retreated toward a group of friends. They gathered, talking in whispers, as if they thought I could hear them from over here....

She's 11 years old, Sylvia. She's afraid of you.

Afraid? Why should she be afraid-

You know why.

"My God," I whispered, as I leaned my elbow on the armrest, my hand in a fist over my mouth. Look how I treated her....I didn't give her a chance, basically snarled at her...she's only eleven.

Despite all of my force, despite all the willingness I tried to make myself cry, it was this simple incident which cause a single tear to start to form.

My hand found its way to my temples, stretching the forefinger and thumb across my forehead. I closed my eyes. To a causal observer, it looked like someone suffering with a headache. But feeling the tears wet my hand was no headache, as I asked myself the question: Have I started to become him?

No. A nasty voice said in my mind. You already are.

I fully submerged myself in my other subjects throughout the day- Arithmancy was challenging enough, and Professor Flitwick in Charms made even me crack a smile. I even managed during lunch to have a minor discussion with another sixth year student, about the complicated and difficult Arithmancy lesson we had today. My mood slowly sank when I suddenly found myself standing in front of his classroom for class.

I felt my face slide into the comfortable impassive blank slate of emotion which seemed to have been ingrained into my being. I took a few deep breaths, told myself to be calm, and opened the door.

The coldness of the room helped me cope. It was the fact that I was in school, that now I was in class, that the man who will soon emerge from the other door is not my father, but an instructor. I pushed all thoughts of family out of my mind -- Potions was the order of the day.

He entered, and I noted with some amusement that he wouldn't look at me. Eyes wandered all over the place, constantly observant. I merely turned away and pulled out my Potion recipe for the class.

He didn't look in my direction once that day. I coudn't tell whether he was still hurt by what I said, whether he was still mad, or whether it was something else totally. I could tell from the inflection of his voice that he was under the cloud of something, because his voice was a tad bit lower than usual; he also was more volitile and was docking points quicker than usual.

I slowly but surely created the potion, slowly slicing the dead firelizard, then meticulously carving off the skin. I could see Longbottom start to shake just in the range of my vision: his eyes going from me to Dad-

(the overgrown bat)

-swooping around the dungeons. I didn't know if he was going to come to me; I was dreading it, yet with the episode of the morning, I was strangely looking foward to it - I had to prove to him, but mostly myself, that I was somewhat different than...him.

He didn't, though. Not once in the two hours did he approach the lefthand table nearest to the door to his office. I kept my head down, but every time he was somewhere else- nowhere near me. Was he playing chicken? Not trusting himself to talk to me? Still feeling guilty about actually hitting me? I never knew with him.

Longbottom was still terrified. Ooh, just what I needed, a stupid slab of flesh quivering in fright over a person- I turned to snap at him- and stopped.

Longbottom gave me eyes very equivilant to the first year's I saw this morning. With him, though, I saw his developing double chins shart to shake and twitch.

I locked him in my sight, unwillingly, as I fought with myself-

Poor guy, he's scared-

-so what? he just has a low confidence of himself-

-well, maybe if I helped him-

-help him how, do it yourself? that's what you'll end up doing anyway-

-but I don't want people to be afraid of me, that's what he does-

-or do you?

I closed my mouth, still looking at Longbottom who probably had the idea that I would suck out his soul through his eyes-

-wouldn't that be cool, though?-

and push toward him the bowl of Brazilian nuts.

"Here, you can start shelling these." I didn't hide my little coldness I had, because as much as I hated to admit it to myself, to a limit I liked being the way I was. But I could not get that girl out of my mind.

Longbottom though looked at me as if I was both a saint and a devil- he grabbed the nutcracker and started cracking the shells.

I turned to the water, which was boiling now, and I added a few ingrediants. It was a start, I thought. Not too big or drastic, just small baby steps, and the next thing I know I'm be the next Gryffindor.

I don't know about that, my mind countered, and I let the artform of Potions consume me for the remainder of the class.

Ah, the library, I could not help but think, as the heavy doors slammed shut behind me after classes had ended for the day. Madam Pince was nowhere in sight, so I took refuge in the back of the library, my back to the wall, where I could see the few students in the room. I sat with relief, from what or who I don't know. I was finally back with my friends, ideas, words, never-lying words, where everything worked, everything had a coherant logic that could be proven. I pulled out my book- the one about the warts and archaic uses of them- looked at the cover- and had to put it away. Too many memories...

I sat in silence, not knowing what to do. I didn't want- didn't need to sit here and ponder the events of the past few days. The thoughts would bring emotions- and I couldn't be emotional, not among my friends. I would never disgrace them that way. I stared, at nothing, at everything, I don't know, and I saw a lone figure pouring over a book.

Homework. Homework will save me.

I quickly pulled out my History homework- an essay on the effects of World War II on international wizard relations. I started thinking, writing, forming an argument, and like that, the wonderful process of work pushed the thoughts out of my mind, as theories and evidence about the topic flowed out of my pen, and in an hour, had written the paper that was due a week from now.

I stopped. Twilight had fallen, and the library was now almost empty. I knew where they were--in respective commonrooms, playing around the fire, for it was Friday, and no one in their sane mind would be in a library on a Friday night. The hour had passed like many under the influence of rigerous work- quickly. I felt a bit at peace, both knowing that I have reduced my workload, and the fact that I had forgotten the incident. Now I was able to think about it again, and even in an hour, some of the emotional color had left, and memory had taken over. It was easier to watch again with the color gone.

I pondered motives and syntax, pitch and our word choices while I noticed a figure approach me. She sat at my table, where the candle illuminated the face, and the crest upon her robe.

"Go away," I said, turning my head. I did not want to talk to anyone, especially a Gryffindor.

"I just wanted to introduce myself," she said.

"I know who you are."

"Really?"

"Yes." I wanted her to leave. It was getting hard, and I could feel the first strains of the emotions trying to get through.

"Well, I wanted to say that I understand your position."

How can you possibly concieve my position, I thought.

"Hmph."

"Well," she continued, "he always insults me whenever I answer his questions in class. And he makes fun of me, in class too, with no apparent reason."

I looked at her face, trying to derive the secret to her sudden friendliness from her physiogamy. What is a Gryffindor doing talking to a Slytherin? My logic ran in circles, trying to come up with a plausable reason...

But I saw what I thought was true concern. She didn't overdo it- she didn't try to convey sympathy to me; it came naturally. I shocked myself by responding.

"He.. makes fun of everyone."

"Yea, but he insults the fact that I know the answers."

A pause. I looked upon this girl, the smartest girl in the class, the person with the surname of Granger, and I could not help but laugh. She looked amazed that I started chuckling but it made sense- she recieves the berating all the time in class because she knew the answers. I have been recieving it since I was born.

I turned to my essay, the ink now dry enough to transport.

"Don't you have a detention or something?" I asked.

"I served mine last night."

A pause. Either this Granger person was really stupid, or she's....something else.

But in her naievete way, she continued: "I take it hard too. I have given importance upon Professor Snape's opinion, and whenever he insults me, then its personal. But I try to remember that's how he is. No amount of our persuasion can change him."

Pause. I slowly turn to her, make eye contact, see the bags under her eyes. She suffered too, I could see. Her lineage- that of being a Mudblood- made her suffer. She was so eager to prove herself. I too suffered because of my lineage.....

Oh, that's nothing, my mind thinks. She could still be lying...

...But look at the fact she had used the pronoun "our" instead of "mine" or "yours"....

I could feel my logic start to soften my reactions- and I responded in a gentler voice.

"Yea, but he's your teacher," I said. "He can get mad at you, at all his students, and you will fume, or cuss him out, and he'll put a damper on your day, but that's the limit of your relationship. I," paused, diverting my eyes to the hard grain of the pine table, and smiling at the irony of the situation, "am his daughter. He puts much higher demands on me. He speaks in even deeper riddles because he figures I should get them. He expects me to know everything, especially the accepted way of decorum and his way of logic. He expects that I should follow and accept his way of thinking, perception of the world-"

There was a pause. We heard a lone cough, its rough stacco notes breaking through the air. I had a sudden urge to spit out everything, the fact that I was drawing away from his way of thinking, the fact that I wanted to embrace holistic views, that I refused to see his way anymore, the fact that he's forcing his views upon me anyway, the fact that in the very act of teaching me intelligence, of debate, he was teaching me to fight....

I felt the beginning of a tear come up, and I blinked, in what I suppose was undiscernable to Granger as a mere blink, but in a true effort to prevent a tear. I was not going to let her see me cry. Even then I realized sickeningly that my hesitation was due to my father's influence.

I suddenly felt nauseated.

"It's hard being smart, isn't it?"

I had to nod my head in agreement. I felt a sudden urge to cry, let my whole being out. I also felt like I couldn't take all this anymore. I grabbed my stuff, then, as calmly as I could, I took my leave of her.

I was almost at the door when I felt the hands grab me and push me against the shadowy walls of the library.

My heart stopped for a moment as I feel the figure grab the lapels of my robes and hold me against the wall. This was no student-- this was a man--I felt him towering over me--I still could not see his face.

I hear him whisper fiercely--

"Why were you talking to her?"

"Dad?!"

"Why were you talking to her?" he whispered again. We hear a book drop and I see him turn toward the sound. For a moment in the moonlight from the windows I see his profile, the aquiline nose, the pursued lips, and the look of someone...hunted. Then he pushes me and himself back into the shadows.

"She came to me." I said, carefully, feeling his power and anger swirl and circulate in his hands, so close to my throat....

"Didn't I warn you not to say anything?"

"Yes sir." I started to cringe away from this man's grasp. This was not my father-- this...this was some crazed denizen of the night, who could easily crush my body under his grasp. He spoke too, as if he would not hesitate to choke the life out of me.

"If I ever catch you again cohorting with anyone, especially one from the Gryffindor house, I swear, I will not be responsible for my actions."

He pushed me against the wall, and I could feel my books dig into my back.

"Yes sir," I whispered, trying not to cry, trying to ignore the pain of the books.

He let go of me and melted into the shadows. I left the library and leaned against a wall, heart thumping and scared beyond belief. I raised my hands and I could see them shaking.

There was no way that I could face my peers in this state, so I made my way outside to the calm cool night. Strangely, I took wonderful relief from looking at the stars. Sitting under a tree, somewhere on the grounds of the school, I could see the peaceful landscape, and how it all made sense. The hard, rocky mountains worked with the sky and trees to form a cohesive unit. It was beautiful. And the moon- ah, tonight, it was a full moon, and it illuminated the land.

It was so peaceful now, I thought. All the silence. Everything helps everything else. Nothing is being demanded of them except for their existance. I sighed. I once knew (or I thought I knew) how to think. I once thought that knowedge was all about seperating the weak from the strong. I had a purpose for my knowedge- to both help me dominate others, feel power, and so I could please dad. But when I see dad, and I see what he has become- I wonder- will I be like that? Will I teach Potions someday with the same demeanor? Will I look at everything and everyone as either someone to conquer, or someone to be defeated by? Do I really want to be like dad? To what limit do I accept his ideas in respect of his wisdom, and when do I see the fallacy in his argument and reject them?

These and many more questions floated across my conscience that night, as the night got cooler, and I got numb from sitting in the same position for so long. I cried for the second time in two days- cried so long, letting all my secret fears and frustrations come out in a voice that no body would ever hear.

The weariness of emotion and deep thought finally overcame me- I had let my mind run around, and in effort had exausted it. It was time for blissful bodily rest. I lumbered up the stairs and opened the door. I turned to close the door, my hateful schoolbooks weighing me down, slowing my movenents, adding the unnesecary burden. I walked down the hall, almost enjoying the silence in a new way as I made my way down to the commonroom. I thought, in my weakened emotional state, that I would erupt at anyone or anything's influence. So I was rather surprised at myself when going to the door, I saw dad emerge and I didn't think or feel anything.

He stopped. I stopped. The corridor was silent. I saw something foreign on his face- was it concern?

"Where were you?" Not loud, not mad, but yes....concern.

"I went outside for a bit."

We didn't say a word. Each one operated in the cloud of our last encounter. He merely gave me a look and walked past me.

Even as I left him and entered the commonroom, I could not help but think of other circumstances. No doubt that having a student out this late warrants docked points- perhaps a detention. And I would not have been surprised if Dad had docked points. But he didn't....He just let me go.

In bed, I just wanted to pull my brain out and stop thinking. Thinking was what got me into this mess, and thinking was what kept me in it. I don't know how, but I fell asleep.

Part One * Part Two * Part Three * Part Four