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 Four
For the longest time school was my hell. I didn't need to be here-and yet I was forced to continue the repetitous movement, to continue to dip myself into the filth of the world of Hogwarts. I hated my classes now, but I kept them up because I knew I would hate myself if I quit. Even that assumption came from the formations of my father's influence. Life became merely a current that I floated in, or a potion at a steeping boil which would one second pull me under and the next second spit me out. I hated it. Worse of all was Potions. Dad felt it too- never made eye contact with me, ignored me, avoided my table when we made potions. People liked to be my partner because the teacher never came around to my table. They figured I was so perfect that he had no reason to dock points. If he had to speak with me it was in a low, flat voice, and always on official business.

I knew also that it would be a long time before I could talk to him about it. So I let the feelings settle, I let the wound smart, I let it heal. Its just one of the wonderful growing experiences. And in the meantime life passed me by- tests came and went, Quidditch matches came and went, gossip came- and went. I didn't pay attention to any of it before because I was above it. Now I didn't pay attention because I was below it.

It was hell.

I don't know whats going to happen to me, I don't know if I can bear living in this limbo. I had started keeping a journal. I needed to write this down, because it was becoming too much- and it was an activity which was different per day.

I hate it. I absolutely hate it.

I paused. The others were in a Quidditch match, someone against someone, I didn't care. I sat at the same tree, now writing in a journal I had found among my belongings. I think dad even bought it for my birthday some years back. If I could rely upon the memory, it was wonderfully ironic. Tragic or Comedic?

I looked away at the random stream-of-consciousness that filled the first page of my diary. These moments of depression, or deep introspection, always made me happy, in a very limited sense, because at least now I was aware of an issue- an issue that I could work on. After a time I quit, laying the journal and pen on the ground, and just enjoyed the distant flying and whizzing of the Quidditch match.

A song, one I had picked up from somewhere, kept emerging. I didn't know the title, or the band, or even the verses. I just remembered the chorus:

'Cause I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
That everything's meant to be broken
I don't want you to know who I am....

Over and over I sang this verse, feeling as if my entity was wrapped in this simple 4-line poem, just set to music. I didn't know if dad knew, but I loved music, especially thought provoking lines, which recalled about death, or identity- the analytical questions.

I picked up my journal again, and wrote with a new fervor-

I feel dead. Heck, I am dead to most all. I ask questions only in habit, I eat only because the annoying demands of the human body. I suppose there are potions which prevent that, but I dare not make them...I suppose, too there are potions that end it all- just one bitter-tasting gulp, a racking then pop. But I dare not make them. I could, though.

That's the scary thing.

If I'm dead in spirit, what's the use of living in body?

I stopped, suddenly scared of what I had written. I hadn't exactly come out and said it- but the implication was there. These were new feelings- that of ending a life- my life.

I hoped something would come along to change my mind.

From the depths of my mind, a song emerged- one I had not heard in years, but came back in strength:

Father, father, father, father
father into your hands, I command my spirit
father into your hands why have you forsaken me
in your eyes forsaken me
in your thoughts forsaken me
in your heart forsaken me
trust in my self-righteous suicide
I cry when angels deserve to die
I cry
when angels deserve to die

That's all I remember of the song- but I sang it over and over- feeling the sweet sun over my pale face, hoping that it was getting a bit darker, not minding the beads of perspiration forming on my brow, from the stifling school polyester robes I still wore, though it was a Saturday.

I paused. The squid in the lake made distant ripples. I really hoped that if outside influences were to stop me from floating in the lake of my own melancholy, that they would come very soon .

I heard the snap first, saw the shadow, knew who it was.

"Dad."

"Why aren't you at the Quidditch match?"

"I hate Quidditch. I will not stand sitting in the stands with all these people yelling for some stupid sport."

"It is Gryffindor versus Slytherin," he said, turning to me, standing to my left. His shadow fell on me, making it a bit dimmer,
but still very imposing. He looked down at me with those cruel, cold, calculating eyes. I didn't get up.

"So?"

"Do you not support your House?" he said, low and full of hidden meaning. I hope he knew I knew what he was really talking about- he hated Quidditch as much as I did.

I looked up at him, the sun creating an almost weird halo effect around his body. I would wonder later if that was fate, or if it was another prey to my imagination. But I told him the truth.

"Not really."

He looked at me a little longer, and then turned away. He seemed preoccupied, perhaps planning his next move. Or...
He walked away a bit, looked toward the figures still whizzing around, listening to their very dim cheers. I stood up, dusted myself off from the ground, and waited. We both knew what this was about.

He looked to the left, leaning his hand on a tree, staring at the castle. Both of us stood there, perhaps because the silence was enough, perhaps to plan what we were going to say, perhaps even to get our courage up.

Still staring at the castle, he spoke.

"So- what's wrong?"

I paused, because I didn't know how to put it coherently- within the structure named syntax of the English language.

"Telling you would require a long time," I responded.

He paused. "It's not....hormonal, is it?"

"No." Just like him to jump to typical teenager problems.

"Then what is it?"

I didn't know if I should say. Last time I did....I lost control. And I didn't want to do that again. But there must be some way of communicating my fears without getting him mad- or me crying, unintelligible.

"It's just...the wonderful process of being a teenager." I folded my arms and leaned against the tree. He didn't say anything for the longest time. I felt a bare breeze brush my brow, its coolness resulting from the evaporation of my perspiration welcomed. When he did speak, however, it was soft and caressing, with a gentleness I had not heard from him in a long time.

"Sylvia- " he said, "you live in a dream world- where everything is right and true, everyone doesn't judge each other based on who they're related to. Unfortunately, out there, after Hogwarts (he gestured beyond the castle)--"

"They are not like that," I finished quietly.

"They will eat you alive Sylvia- they will judge you based on who you know, what you do, who your relative is-"
He walked away from me, lost in thought. "And to survive, you have to think like them. Because if your don't learn survival-- you might as well go kill yourself because you're through."

I thought about this. I knew dad had a rough background, but I didn't know details. Something, though, had caused him to approach life like this--

"I understand the world is heartless," I started, remaining objective. "And I understand that maintaining such an attitude is useful. But to approach everything in such a manner---I don't have a personal reason to think that way. You do--"

I could see him in the midst of a memory, but I continued: "I don't. I have had a relatively sheltered and good life- its natural that my outlook on life is overall optimistic."

I could see him react.

"If something comes my way that tells me to think another way, then I will alter my thinking and go on. But living as if the world's out to screw me with no reason- it doesn't make any sense to me."

I could see dad struggle with something- his mask did not hide the battle brewing within his mind. He turned away from me, completely, and faced the distant Quidditch players. I saw his straight, firm stature- see a bit of proudness even from here- and yet there was something else on his mind....

"Dad?"

He didn't turn around. He was hiding, this was his way of hiding, not in an overly blatant manner- not even just walking away. No- all he does is turn his back in an impression of power.

I got myself off the tree and walked toward dad. I noticed how in the sun our two shadows extended far to our left- two menacing figures which reminded me of pawns in a chess game.

But we're not pawns....are we?

"Dad."

He still didn't answer- I saw his head slightly droop. I continued to approach him.

"Dad- you can tell me whatever's bothering you."

I could almost see him smirk.

"I can never tell you what's bothering me," he said, and I felt a fierceness to it.

"Dad," I insisted as I came closer (I could touch him if I wanted to), "I am no longer a child. Please don't try to protect me anymore. I have to come out of my "dream world" now; the sooner I learn how harsh the world is,...the sooner I can deal with it. Please."

I raised my hand to touch his shoulder in the ultimate form of communication, but before I could he turned around in an angry flash of black cloth, almost whipping me.

"Are you sure?" He asked me, and what I saw in his eyes was a bit of fanaticism- so wild, unbridled, out of place that I took an involuntary step back.

"Yes," I said, wondering for the first time what he was about to unveil- how bad was it.....

"Because once you know....you cannot feign ignorance anymore. There are ways to uncover the truth- many ways, painful ways....no matter how hard or ardently one hides them."

My God, he said that as if...he knows personally.

"Or you can tell me now," I said, "and get it over with. Look- I graduate next year- I will be out on my own very soon. I have to start dealing with the "real world" I can deal with it. Whatever it is. " I looked into his eyes, so confident, and with a last
What am I getting myself into, said "Tell me."

I begged him with my eyes, then my voice.

"Please."

My dad emitted a soft sigh.

"Not here," he said. He turned and headed toward the castle. I grabbed my stuff and followed, my mind wild with possibilities-- of what I was going to learn.

I knew something was unusual when we did not descend the stairs in the Entrance Hall. Instead he walked forward, toward some unknown destination. Where was he taking me? I searched the now-familiar halls and found myself tracing a familiar route. When, though, we turned a corner and saw the stone gargoyle I knew we were going to Dumbledore's office.
The question of "why" pounded in my mind as Dad said the password, and for the second time I watched the staircase appear. Again he headed for the door, and I did not know whether to follow or not. Dad's unusual behavior was not a comfort. Why couldn't Dad tell me himself? Why did he need the Headmaster's help?

He knocked on the door gently; the door opened and instead of a bewildered Headmaster, as I expected, he took one look at Dad, then me. He opened the door and said:

"Yes, I suppose it is time."

Time? Time for what? I panicked. Once again I entered the office, all the silvery instruments in their same place. Dad walked in and I could tell there was a conflict; I could see it on his face. Dad took his place by the door; Dumbledore sat at his desk, and I stood before them, trying to remain logical, trying to not get worked-up over nothing.

"So," I said, my arms crossed across my chest, looking at Dad, who now stood almost painfully straight. "What is it?"

He did not look at me; rather he looked at the Headmaster and the two exchanged looks as if I was about to stumble onto something bad. The mood of the room became very uncomfortable.

"What is it?" I said, looking to Dumbledore. He did not say a word. I turned furiously toward Dad. "Tell me, please!" I implored. He did not say a word either. Rather they exchanged looks again, and I felt left out of the loop. I felt myself starting to get angry at them for not telling me the secret: for being left out in the cold. I was angry with my father because he had to get someone else to tell me.... Couldn't even tell me himself.....

Dumbledore suddenly broke his gaze with my father and looked at me.

"Sit down, Sylvia."

I shot my father a dirty look and moved to the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk. I made no effort to conceal my anger now.

"Severus, I want you to sit also."

I hear his voice respond: "I thought you wanted..."

"You are involved in this too. Sit down, please."

I did not look as I heard the scraping of a chair landing to my right; a second later my father was sitting next to me, both of us huddled around the Headmaster's desk.

"You should be angry with your father, Sylvia."

Such a response caused me to freeze momentarily.

"I should?"

"Yes."

I fought the urge to look at my father; instead I stared at Dumbledore. He smiled a benevolent smile, then continued.

"In many ways, Sylvia, your predicament is much like Harry Potter's."

This was so way off in left field that I forgot my anger toward my father and looked at Dumbledore wide-eyed. I felt my father shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"How am I like Potter?" I asked.

"You both have been living in the bliss of ignorance." He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair.

"Ignorance?" I muttered, and now looked at my dad in disbelief. He was looking at the surface of the desk. I was rather dismayed to see that my father could not even look me in the eye.

"But- why-"

"I have not told Harry about certain events in his life," Dumbledore said, "to protect him from the truth. See, I thought that not knowing the truth would allow him to grow up as normal as a boy in his position could. But, due to...recent events, I have found that I have erred on that point."

Dumbledore breathed a deep sigh.

I turned to look at my father, who did not raise his head.

"So, you're been lying to me?"

He did not answer.

"How long, dad? For how long have you allowed me to live a lie?"

I glared at him, angry for not being told the truth, angry because he thought I couldn't handle it, angry for living so long in a lie.

"Too long," but it was not my father, it was Dumbledore. "Severus, I will not tell her for you."

He sat up straighter in his chair. "But- Headmaster-"

"I will not. And I will tell you why. She is not my daughter. She has family, alive, who has a bond stronger than I could ever forge with her."

Dumbledore sighed again.

"But she must know now, Severus."

I looked one more time at dad- and his face was so unreadable I had no idea what he was feeling. My mouth opened a little bit in disbelief, almost expectancy. This was it: he was going to tell me; but would this information be my downfall?

I waited with apprehension. My father did not say a word; he seemed to be wrestling with his very being. I felt a little guilty with forcing my father to feel like this -- maybe it was better that he not tell me...

In a slow, deliberate action, my father reached for the sleeve of his left arm. He pulled the sleeve up slowly -- I started to wonder what I was going to see -- he hesitated before the sleeve went past his forearm -- My breath caught in my throat -- I caught Dumbledore's eyes and they were serious beyond belief -- when I looked back at my father, he had pulled his sleeve past the forearm -- and....well...

I looked at the mark, then at Dad, then at the mark again.

"So. I am the daughter of a Death Eater."

The cold, hard truth chilled the empty room- it had a biting edge. I looked at my father, who was distraught, yes, but not nearly as distraught as I was inside. I folded my hands on my lap. I had so many conflicting feelings in me- fear, horror, grief, pity, jubilation that I knew not which one to display, if any. I simply sat there as apparently calm as I could be. must appear calm, I intoned. Must appear calm, must appear calm, must appear calm...

I looked to my father, who now stared at a silver instrument on a desk: to Dumbledore, who was staring at me with very interested eyes.

"Sylvia-"

I held my hand up. My father stopped speaking. I turned to Dumbledore.

"Is that it?"

The frankness of my statement I think startled Dumbledore just a tiny bit: but he responded. "No- there is more. Severus?"

I looked to my father as if I was awaiting for a doctor's diagnosis-cool, calm, even waiting patiently for the remainder of the result.

must remain calm must remain calm

He sighed, heavily, and now I did not care that I was making him uncomfortable.

"What else is there?" I asked dad, sneering in a savage way.

"Sylvia," Dumbledore warned.

"I'm sorry, headmaster," I said, eyes still locked on Dad's tormented eyes, fully enjoying his squirming. "Tell me, Professor. What else is there?"

His mouth opened as if to say something but then it shut.

"See?" I said, looking at Dumbledore, but addressing my father. "He can't even tell me. Where are your snide comments now? Your eloquent speeches which ring with double meaning?"

He turned on me again like a wounded animal, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. He answered with cold frankness:

"I am not aligned with the Dark Lord any longer....I work for Dumbledore."

I sat back in my chair a bit. That's it? That's rather...plain. Even for you.

"Well, of course you do," I said snidely, "You teach here, don't you? Or was that a lie, too?"

He pulled his hand back, ready to strike; I raised my forearm in self-defense.

"Put your hand down."

We both turned to Dumbledore. His eyes now burned with an inner fury. Dad slowly lowered his hand.

"You too, Sylvia."

With great resentment I lowered my arm and layed it gently on my lap.

"Sylvia, your father is a member of the Order of the Phoenix-"

I saw my father's eyes get wider at the sound of that name--

"Headmaster, is it really necessary to tell her about the Order?"

"Yes." The simplicity of the three-letter word shocked him.

"Your father," Dumbledore continued, "is a member of an organization which is dedicated to bringing down Lord Voldemort."

Dad shuddered.

"He is an invaluable member, I assure you, Sylvia. He is loyal to bringing down Voldemort."

Dad shuddered again. I looked at my father with such a deep, resentful hate. And yet Dumbledore spoke with such conviction that even I started to doubt.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"Work." My father responded.

I thought about this for a moment. "Care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Figures," I scoffed.

I turned to Dumbledore, hoping for an elaboration, but he was merely watching the spectacle with those crystal blue eyes. I turned back to Dad and stared at him for the longest time, trying to see if he was lying. He was unreadable as ever.

"He cannot tell you exactly what he does, because--"

"It's a secret, right?" I said sarcastically.

"Yes," he responded, with all seriousness.

"Huh." I cocked my head a little to the side and looked between the two at a pretty silver instrument. I wondered if I should believe him, and then I felt a surgence of prickly heat on my cheek. I felt a sharp pain in my back; I felt my tongue reach up and rub my lip...and I understood. I turned to my father and spoke.

"I do not believe you," I said, under the calmest of voices, simple and pure, not hiding my feelings anymore.

Dad shaked his head and stood up, glaring at me as if I was the most hated object on earth. I looked up to him from my seat, retaining an almost innocent face, as if I was merely awaiting his explanation of the most obvious thing in the world.

"Proof?" he whispered. "You want proof? Here's your proof!"

He savagely pulled out a set of papers from his robes and thrusted them at me. Dumbstruck, I took them. I didn't know that he had the proof available on convenient parchment....

He turned and walked across the room as I looked at the papers, written in unfamiliar hands. I read them, looking up periodically at both Dumbledore, who now studied his fingers intently, and Dad, who either paced back and forth or had his hand in his head, as if he was dizzy.

The papers themselves....they were letters...my father's personal letters...from men who I've only read about in the papers...names like Antonin Dolohov...Rodolphus Lestrange...

"Lucius Mafloy!" I whispered in surprise. Neither of the adults looked at me.

...This was like a story...a horrible story...these men talk of deaths....many deaths...like the people were nothing.....these fill the first three letters...and then there's anger....much anger....conspirisies exposed...threats...death threats...against him....against Dumbledore...against...

Me.

I started to breathe heavily as the descriptions got more gruesome...I was very aware of the shadows of the room, of all the minute sounds...there was a particularly crazy-sounding one from a Bellatrix Lestrange--

must remain calm must remain calm must remain calm

" 'There's always the Cruciatus-' " I started, the words coming to horrid truth in the still room. My father turned to me like lightening, face contorted in fury, eyes begging me not to read it outloud. But I did, although I could not say my darling Sev.

" ' --but even I find that after awhile that gets boring. Actually, Rod suggested we wait till she goes to Hogsmeade, and forcefully Apperate her out of there. Then, we get you to come, and then forcefeed her some of your poison you've made especially for Lucius right in front of you- you know the stuff- it tortures the person, and yet they don't die...Well, I told him that he should be more original, because that's what we did that with that stray Muggle in '78...' "

Suddenly I felt very cold. I felt the paper slip gently from my grasp, not caring that it fell. Look at the almost casual way she was talking of my death....

"I received those letters in June," I heard my father's voice say from across my shoulder. "They knew you were in Keaton, and so I moved you here." His voice was clipped, brusque, but there was a touch of....gentleness?

"I understand."

I sighed, and looked at Dumbledore. His calm demeanor crackled with concern, yet I could not tell a difference in his carriage.

I raked my hand though my hair.

"Well," I said quietly, "I can't say I didn't bring this on myself."

"Sylvia, you didn't-"

"That's not what I meant Headmaster."

There was no use crying, or screaming -- though the little ball of energy did not dissipate from my stomach -- I realized that I had to deal with this...predicament.

"So- what do we do?"

"You will do nothing," Dad said, "except continue acting as if you know nothing."

I looked at Dumbledore, almost pleadingly.

"He's right, Sylvia."

"You mean that I can't do anything? That I have to sit at school and pretend everything's fine and dandy, when there are a group of people--" I raised my hand and pointed it toward the window, "--out there waiting to kill me?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said with the greatest sincerity.

I suppose they expected me to yell., rant and rave and jump around the room. I surely waited for the incoherent babbling of a person caught in the opposite pulls of truths. I must admit though, that my last sentence was said a little hysterically. But I did not jump, rant, rave or yell.

Instead I started to cry.

Afterward I think it was because of what I learned. The idol of my life, my father, whom I had groomed my behavior to, whom I had taken on his characteristics, whom I had yes, almost worshiped, was now my double-dealing backstabbing god who had promised me heaven and given me hell, who some part of me still wanted to grovel before if only I could hear that voice talking of all the sweet world as I desired it.

But then, in that round room, I proceeded my emotional fit without knowing why.

I turned away from my father and buried my face in my sleeve. I had no time to feel ashamed of crying in front of my father; it was the startling realization of my future which drove me. In that one moment I knew who my father was. In that blinding moment I too realized what I was to become.

"Sylvia."

From within the darkness of my sleeve, I heard Dumbledore speak. I lifted my head just a tiny bit and I saw him kneeling next to me.

"Sylvia," he said, "it's okay. Now that you know you can be aware of it. You have more power because you know-"

I jerked my head up and turned to look at my father, who had not moved, who had not even made a move to consul me.

I looked back at Dumbledore, those twinkling eyes so soft, comforting.

"It's not that," I tried to say, as I sniffed. "Its-its because-" I gasped, and more tears fell. I had not cried so hard since the night Dad had hit me.

Dumbledore handed me a white handkerchief. I daubed my eyes, Dumbledore's scent filling my nostrils with a strange strength.

"Sylvia, you are helping the cause by staying here," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort and his Death Eaters cannot harm you here-"

"I know that!" I waved my hand around impatiently. "I understand that. This is....something else."
I stared at the carpet of Dumbledore's office, and tried to clear my mind....I had experienced my tears, as I had wanted to all this time, but I had to distance myself from it now...or else I knew I would walk out of here on the verge to tears. I took a deep breath, and spoke.

"I have accepted this situation. I realize that...they....would not have threatened Dad had he not shown alliegence to you." I took a breath. "I also realize that it is in my best interest to maintain a low profile, and watch what I do and who I talk with."

I don't know if I really believed it, but it seemed the right thing to say.

I looked toward Dad, who merely nodded slightly.

"What bothers me is..." I paused. Should I tell Dad the truth that I did not want to be in the same predicament 20 years from now, showing my daughter (or son) the Dark Mark on my arm? Telling my children that they have death threats against them? Trying to convince them that despite my stern demeanor, that I was essentially good? I looked at the floor, unable to look at dad. And then it was as if the proverbial lightning bolt has singed my skull with insight. I completely understood my father's position at that moment. He did not deserve this, I thought. My irrational reaction to people trying to kill me. My gaze turned to the upholstering of the chair I was in. I realized that my thoughtless accusations based on teenager egotistic tendencies had probably hurt him more than a Crucio ever could. I hated to say it, but how could I have been so stupid? I suddenly felt the cold rush of pity for my father, and his double life, as I knew I could not tell him my secret fears.

I also realized that this was not about me. That this was not even about my father. This was about....the good of the world, and what is it that one (or two) people are sacrificed for its cause? Suddenly, I had the clearest picture and understanding of the concept of duty that I have ever had in my life. Suddenly, I knew my problems were nothing compared to the problems of the world. Suddenly, I knew what is was to be Severus Snape's daughter.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"Tell me, Sylvia." Dumbledore said, gently touching my arm, his warm strength surging through my body, almost dragging the truth out of me.

"It's nothing," I said, as I pulled my arm away from his touch, holding my arm to my side, away from Dumbledore, seeking some inner warmth to prevent me from collapsing then and there.

"No." I shook my head. "It is merely nothing."

Part One * Part Two * Part Three * Part Four