Haunting Irony: Hiding Behind the Shadow

Part One
"He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learned it later." A Farewell to Arms Ernest Hemingway.

I looked in my father's private stores for his powdered rat's spleen. I was surprised that he could find anything in his cabinet. The mass chaos of his cabinet was known for its efficent storing of ingredients, but that did not automatically mean that I knew exactly where it was. Which often caused short, wild tiffs between my father and I.

"What's taking so damn long?" my delightful father (can't you tell the sarcasm?) yelled from across the house.

"I'm coming, Dad!" I could hear his mutters about how it would have been easier if he just went and got it himself. I might have taken it in truth if I was not looking for the bottle. Lucky my prayers were answered, and I found the dusty jar of a greenish-brown powder. I knew it was the rat spleen, didn't need the label, if there ever was one. But Dad was not the one to need to read labels. There was a reason he taught Potions at one of the most prestigious wizard schools in Britain.

I took the steps up from the basement in threes, and as I ran past old, rarely-used rooms in our immaculate house, kept tidy by the multitude of house elves to the spare room Dad used as his laboratory, I could not help but feel a bit lucky that I was allowed to learn from such a master. It was our way of...bonding, I think. I had shown an affinity to Potions at an early age, and he took me under his wing, letting me help him cut ingredients, stir potions, and sweep up. Once I progressed in my studies, and learned more about the scientific reasons behind reactions, theory became the topic of our discussions. It was nice, at times, to have a mind to come home to and discuss such deep provoking thoughts.

"Damn it Sylvia! If I have to get up..."

I opened the door and walked in, careful to avoid the miscellaneous equipment on the floor. I handed it to my dad, who unscrewed the lid and smelled the contents.

"Is this it?" he asked, looking up from the potion which was bubbling a nice dull green.

"Yes. That was the only one I found."

He looked into the container again, inspecting the contents with a trained eye. He turned to another table and took a small spoon to measure an amount.

"Can I do it, Dad?" I asked, always liking to measure out the materials.

No verbal acknowledgement, just handed me the rat's spleen and the spoon. "Remember, only two level scoops."

"Right, Dad. I know." I had done this potion many times before, and it annoyed me that he didn't trust me to remember how to make this particular potion.

I measured out two scoops of the rat spleen, and threw them into the cauldron. After the second scoop,
it turned a bright orange, still at a frothy boil. It was almost done, but required to boil at this temperature for at least an hour.

I braced my hands on my hips, while Dad leaned his hand upon one of the tables. We stood like that for about a minute, eyes concentrating on the boiling potion, critically watching it. Neither of us left the room. The only sound was the gentle boil of the potion and the rush of the magical fire underneath it.

Eyes still on the potion, Dad spoke.

"How would you feel about coming to Hogwarts?"

I looked up, and saw my father's figure standing there. He looked at me too, and we had eye contact.

"Well....what about my schooling at Keaton?"

"What about it?"

I stopped. What was holding me back? I did not like Keaton, and I felt I had exceeded its potential for Potions advancement. How Dad knew this, I did not know.

Another pause where the only melody was the boiling potion.

"I have talked to Dumbledore, and he says you would be more than welcome. You would enter as a 6th year."

"Well....I don't see a problem with it. I'm quite sick of all those idiots in class, and would enjoy the
challenge of a new environment," I finally stated.

Another pause. Dad reached for a glass stirring rod and stirred the mixture. Brief splotches of green showed up, then disappeared. I was intrigued.

"Why did the green show up again?" I asked.

"The cauldron was not cleaned properly after making this solution last time, and the potion was allow to dry and crust." He looked at me accusingly.

"Sorry Dad."

He sighed. "Clean up the table," he commanded.

I did, taking all the tools to the sink to wash off. It occurred to me that I could have easily used a spell to clean up the debris, or had one of the multitude of House Elves clean it. But I felt a sort of...perverse pleasure in the manual manipulation of the items, feeling the grit of the sand wash off my fingers, the slick feel of the corn oil on the instruments....the tried and true instruments of my father, held between my very hands. It was an honor to even touch the tools of his trade, and I knew it.

It was between the sound of the rushing water in which he talked again.

"You would have to take my class."

I looked up into the mirror that was placed above the sink. I could see Dad looking at me. I continued to wash the tools as I responded, "So?"

No response from Dad.

"I mean," as I scrubbed at a scalpel with some dry crud on it, "I wouldn't expect you to treat me any different than your students. You are their Potions Master," I couldn't help but smile at his epithet, "and you do have a reputation to uphold."

I had turned around to dry the scalpel, and was able to see a bare smile flit across Dad's face. It was always nice to see him smile.

I returned to my job of cleaning the table, putting stuff away in a crazy organizational system that only he and I knew. He was silent, always observant, sometimes looking out the windows to the expansive yard of our house.

"So," I continued, wanting to further the conversation. "When do I go?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" It was Sunday afternoon. School at Keaton started a few weeks from today. I had planned on a few more weeks of rest....

Oh dad. You sneaky manipulator you.

"You seem pretty sure of my answer to have already set this up."

"You were going to go anyway," he said, his black eyes boring into mine as I stood there, brass scale in
hand. But I for one was not intimidated.

"Hmmm. Well, thanks for letting me give my opinion."

"You're welcome."

Uneasy pause, but only a bit. This sort of talk was normal for us. We were always biting back on each other, because we were so similar. And I didn't mind one bit. I just had to watch so I don't cross the fragile line between Daughter and Father. Sometimes we fought with brilliant virility, next moment we were on the same plane, almost as if we had one mind. Extreme ends of the intellectual spectrum. The duality of the relationship intrigued me, and I had gotten used to living with the occupational hazards of such a relationship with my father.

I finished in silence, wiped my hands off, and went to sit in an empty chair, facing dad, who now leaned against the wall, right arm against the decorative columns, drink in hand. I felt immediate relief when I sat. I had been standing for about two hours.

"So, what House am I in?"

It was more of a joke than anything, and I expected it to be taken as such by my father. But he looked away from the window and stared at me, giving me the look that said Why are you insulting me by even asking?

"Right, right." I responded, out loud. Of course I would be in Slytherin. It would be a great insult to our family for me to not be in Slytherin.

I looked out the window at the summer afternoon. I almost regretted not being able to "frolic" (if you call reading multitudes of books and writing random essays "frolicking") for another year. It was more like a freedom of the mind. I had spent my summer at home, helping Dad, reading, and writing. My only companions were facts: my only hobby, logic. And I suppose I was truly becoming my father's daughter, when I chose long afternoons mixing draughts over swimming or Quidditch. I smiled at the ideal, as if that was the only thing that mattered.

The potion soon was done and we worked, in silence, in finishing up the task.
***
The next morning, we both woke early to leave. I walked around the manor, watching the elves clean it up, and I tried to hide my excitement. See, I had only seen my father on the holidays; I lived at Keaton during the school year. The idea that I was going to be able to spend more time with my father.... I couldn't get to sleep that night. My walk through the house was wide, smooth, but my nervous energy was evident in the way I traversed all corners of the house, from my room, to the lab, to the formal living room and the kitchen. Several times the house elves tripped me, getting things ready for their Master's absence. Perhaps it was because I almost tripped over an elf that I went outside.

When I exited the house, I could see the elves securing my trunk to the top of the carriage. I noticed my trunk too, dark green and black with a "SS" lock. Dad's black but much plainer trunk was secured up there already.

"Hey!" I yelled to a house elf. "That's not enough rope to secure my trunk!. It'll bounce off the second we hit the road!" They ran around, climbing up again to tie my trunk up tighter.

Dad joined me soon after, and we both entered the carriage. We sat across from each other, on a diagonal. I could not help but sigh a bit as we left the place where I had been happy for the past two months. I was leaving personal study for regimented learning. But it really wasn't that different. The school year just added the annoying interaction of others.

We rode in silence. Where others might have talked, we were more comfortable in silence, more content with our thoughts. But halfway to Hogwarts, Dad broke the comfortable silence.

"You are to address me as Professor Snape when we are at school," he said, after no apparent outside influence.

"Yes, sir," I said, clear and distinct. I didn't expect to find much problem with that requirement, since at Keaton I had called my uncle by "Professor" all the time, and never thought twice about blending that epithet with the "Uncle" I called him at family gatherings.

We sat afterward in stoic silence, each looking out their own window at the passing scenery. I held in my lap one of my books, Archaic Uses for Toads' Warts , one well-read, much marked, and thoroughly memorized book. I wondered how different my father was in the classroom, where he is the dominate figure. Even as I looked upon his profile, his aquiline nose and pale face, observant, crucial black eyes, watching the scenery, I deduced that he could not be much different. I imagine that he would not suddenly break into song, or start complimenting everyone on their "nice try." It was going to be interesting to see how my father conducts himself in front of others. I wonder if the students realize, as I do, that his cold demeanor is only a front? I wonder if they will realize (like I did, but after much work) that he's only trying to help them, teach them?

He turned toward me suddenly.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, Dad." I turned toward my window, and could see a magnificent castle upon the horizon. That must be it, I thought, as our carriage drew closer.

We reached the gate, where a few elves were there, ready to take our luggage. We got off the coach, and started walking toward the impressive front doors. I straightened my back, and looked straight ahead of me, (unknowingly copying my father's movements). Without turning my head, I asked Dad-

"Do those elves know what they're doing?"

"Of course they do," he said, still walking. I had a feeling he was a bit sterner and colder now, because he was at work. I knew I shouldn't expect anything less.

He opened the door, and we walked in. I followed closely on the heels of my father, not wanting to get lost in this huge place. I kept my eyes open and my senses on alert; I didn't have to think, I automatically took in the information and analyzed it, knowing that bathrooms were located on each end of the ground floor; staircases led up to other stairs, and seeing that I should avoid the 6th step on the northwest flight of stairs leading up to what was probably more classrooms and a dormitory (seeing as trunks and animals were being hauled through that entryway).

We wove through the halls, until we reached an impressive griffin statue. My father muttered "Lemon Drops," and the statue moved, to reveal a door. I had never seen anything like that before. Keaton was a run-down place where we had nothing of this sort.

Dad opened the door, and entered. Unsure as to whether I should follow, I paused a moment at the door until the condescending look from my father beckoned me inside.

We entered upon a circular room, with all sorts of pictures of people on the walls, and various knicknacks scattered among the room. Besides the beautiful phoenix sitting on a stand (Fawkes, I believe Dad once mentioned was its name) there were two other people in the room. One was an old woman, hair tight in a bun atop her head, dressed in a green robe. She was standing, and greeted my father by first name when he entered. An old man, sitting at the desk, seemed almost the archetypal wizard. His eyes twinkled between his spectacles as he also addressed my father by his first name. I stood in silence, waiting to be introduced.

The lady in green noticed me first, and approached. I stood as tall as I could and made eye contact.

"You must be Sylvia! My, how you've grown since the last time I saw you! You were about nine or ten, right?"

"Yes ma'am," as I shook her hand quickly and efficiently, two strong pumps, then release. I didn't remember ever meeting this woman. She reminded me of my grandmother on my mother's side, always smothering me with kisses and saying "Oh honey." Ugh.

"Yes, Severus, she has definitely matured into a young lady," the man noticed, as he got up, went around his desk and came to shake my hand. Even as I shook his hand, I felt awesome power flow through him. And yet when I made eye contact with him (that's something Dad taught me- always make eye contact whenever you first meet someone) his eyes seemed to emanate kindness, a feeling that I only feel subtly with my father.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Sylvia," the man said. I nodded my head in silent acceptance. I could feel my father's presence on my left side, almost waiting for this to be over. But the man continued:

"We hope you enjoy your stay here. I am Albus Dumbledore and this is Minerva McGonagall. I am the headmaster of this school, Professor McGonagall teaches Transfiguration."

McGonagall nodded.

"And you know what your father teaches..." I turned to Dad. He turned from Dumbledore's gaze. It was a bit of an insult to him as well as me to have my father pointed out as one of my teachers, I could tell.

"Well, here's your schedule," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "I'll exempt you from the courses the other students took in their earlier years, due to the advanced courses you have taken."

"Thank you sir." I bowed my head in respect and looked toward Dad again. His hands were behind his back in an act of...submission? servitude? Certainly not his usual adjectives of dominance, power, influence.

"Well, if you have any questions," the Headmaster was saying, "feel free to ask me. In the meantime, let's go to the feast. It should be starting now. I heard that the elves have been perfecting a wonderful duck saute that I've been waiting all summer to try."

He left the room, glowing with blissful content. McGonagall shook my hand again. "It is such a pleasure to meet you at last, Sylvia. Your father keeps boasting about you and your progress in school."

I blushed, looking toward my father for some sort of encouragement. But he merely held an inscrutable mask as she left the room. He and I waited for her to leave, then just as I was heading for the door--

"Sylvia."

I turned around to see my father. He paused, meaningfully.

"Be careful what you say around here."

I looked at my father concernedly. The tone of his voice said it all; warning, warning, warning screamed in his subtext, though he had merely removed his hands from his back. There must be something deeper here, I thought. People I had to watch out for.

"I will." I matched his low tone almost perfectly. I had learned long ago to take all the advice that my father gave me seriously.

With that we left, feeling the polyester robes swish around my body as I followed my father into the Great Hall.
***
The gluttony of the school! People eating all this food, a whole catalogue of sensual delights. I wondered why they fed them this much food, when they know it won't all be eaten. It was a waste. I helped myself to a bit of chicken, and observed the inhabitants of the school. I was not spartan enough to deny that the food was excellent, though.

Many of them were fat. Weak physically. I suppose this would have been fine, if they had intellect to compensate. But they didn't. They sat inactive, allowing themselves to get bigger with every day, while they bickered and complained about the classes. I didn't need to even sit in a class with them-- their syntax, the casual manner which they talked about education, the latest McGonagall-bashing joke.

It was with a certain relief that dinner ended, and I followed a bunch of Slytherins as they took the trip to their dormitory. The dungeons got colder and colder, the torches casting odd shadows on the walls. But I merely followed them, remaining silent, observant.

I entered the Slytherin common room, and from the moment I entered, I felt like I was at home. I personally liked the room, with its reading chairs, and green lights illuminating the room, and the ornate fireplace. Reminded me of the one at home, where I would sit and read. The people, however, did not like the new addition.

The others looked at me, startled at this stranger walking into their common room. A silverhaired boy spoke up first.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in here?" he demanded of me, like he owned the place.

"I am a Slytherin. See?"

I held up my robes, where the dim lights illuminated the Slytherin snake.

The stupid git walked over to me, and went to reach for my robes. I grabbed his wrist and forced it away.

"Don't touch me." Low and threatening. I was not trying to imitate my dad, I felt generally threatened by this moron. I also wanted to seem imposing. He backed away. The guy smirked just a bit, as if he approved of my behavior, and held out his hand.

"The name's Draco Malfoy."

"Sylvia." I shook his hand, strong grip, two pumps, release. I couldn't believe that Malfoy was so daft. He didn't ask for any proof; I could have been a random person, or even worse, a Gryffindor who stole some
robes. Eh, I thought. I can play upon his stupidity.

"What's your surname?" He enquired, after he let go. Everyone was now paying attention to our conversation, still close to the door.

"You don't know?"

"Should I?"

An ugly pause. I remember what dad said about watching what I revealed. I looked further at his face. Smooth , pale, a bit round, reminiscent of a spoiled childhood. I decided to speak enigmatically.

"I don't know. You have met my father." I crossed to an empty chair, sat, and crossed my legs, very theatrically, I thought. Poor guy, he was confused. I could see him searching his memory for any clue. I could not help but smile at the probability that the first influential adult he passed over, besides his father, was his precious Professor Snape; it was people like Malfoy who always amazed me how fallible the mind really is.

He gave up, and reverted to insults.

"Well, why won't you tell us? Are you embarrassed of your lineage? Do you know of a Muggle in your family tree?"

The others laughed. I however, remained as blank as ever.

"Not at all," I said, clasping my hands across my stomach, looking at Malfoy. "My family is perhaps one of the oldest pure wizarding families that exists."

"Then what is it?" he said.

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes!"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, dammit! Tell me!"

I paused, feeling my power over the room increased as everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to my response. I spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they heard every word- I was like my dad in that way. I did not try to hide my bare smile as I told them my surname.

There was dead silence in the room. Malfoy was taken aback-literally, taking a few steps into two big goons which only vaguely resembles people. I could sense them comparing their images of their beloved Head of House to myself, as I sat in the chair. I could feel the moment of recognition, when they saw the similarities in our carriage, our smirks, the voice, down to the same hair, pale face, and black fathomless eyes. I could see my power in the room increase.

I waited for them to voice their disbelief, to offer counterpoints, but they said naught a word. They believed me. Every word.

I got up, and theatrically feigned dusting myself off. "Well, if you don't mind, I'm a little tired from my journey. Which way is the girls' dormitory?"

Malfoy pointed to a door. "Second floor," he muttered, still dazed.

"Thank you." I left in a blaze of glory, congratulating myself on a splendid first impression, going a little faster than normal so that my robes billowed like my dad's.
***
The whispers were encouraging. As I moved through the halls on our first day of classes, they seemed as natural to me as Potions were to Dad. I enjoyed it, actually, the tension that others lived in around me. At Keaton no one ever found out I was related to a teacher there because there was never any need to divulge it. But here- they feared me. Sure, it was because of my dad, but they would never know if I told him anything, right? So I could lie, cheat, and steal, pilfer information, create trouble, and they would never find out. Ooh, even as I opened the door to my first class, transfiguration, I could feel the air pregnant with possibilities. Possibilities that I knew I would never take, because I did have a sense of morals, thank you very much.

But they didn't know that.

McGonagall was quite different in front of her students. Shrewd, demanding, observant, she could have
been paralleled with Dad in demeanor. I had my other classes, and they too kept up with the level of expectations from their students, though many were able to even be comical and crack jokes and be -dare I say-popular with their students. Professor Flitwick, with his easily excitable personality and unique mannerisms, was still able to answer our advanced questions about the nature of Concealment Charms. Madam Trelawney, who might be a bit too aloof for my tastes, still was a favorite among the others, because everything she said seemed to come true (or else the students convinced themselves it came true). And even Professor Binns, though I did find myself occasionally dozing off in his class, rattled off the information in such a smooth and logical manner to bring awe of History to this little Potions student. I am amazed even now that such an eclectic group of people, who had the same level of expertise and dedication to their subject, just as Dad has to Potions, and yet their personalities were so...different.

And then, well, I had dad's class. It was a double Potions, and my first class with the Gryffindors. The Gryffindors whispered and looked at me as I walked, straight and proud, to the only remaining seat- one next to a rather fat, terrified Gryffindor. I shuddered with disgust at the weak will of the boy I had happened to sit next to. I sat, quiet, while others talked in low voices, as if they didn't want me to hear them. I didn't need to guess that the rumor had flown through the school that I was here.

Suddenly the door opened, and my father walked in. Everyone stopped, brought out their books, and became silent. I was immediately impressed. Such power to have a whole class go silent at his mere entrance! Wow.... I was in awe. He went up to the board, turned toward us, and stopped. He looked at me, hiding whatever he was thinking so well, then swerved to the board to write and lecture.

Apparently we were to do a vision-clearing potion. I obviously had an advantage because I had helped dad make his so often I could do it in my sleep. I could not but help to think of the irony of that particular potion- it was the one we were making only yesterday, when he told me I was going to Hogwarts. I think he even chose that particular potion for that reason. I smiled innerly and hope he knew I got the allusion as he finished the instructions.

He swept around the room, and as I watched the poor boy make the potion (he really had no business even touching a cauldron) I kept an eye on my father. He literally swept around, same cruel critical eye telling the students what they were doing wrong, docking grades (and House points). In his wake I saw the Gryffindor students fume with pent-up anger, and I couldn't help but feel pity. If they got mad at their professor for telling them they were wrong for 2 hrs a few days a week and couldn't deal with it, then, I noted with some satisfaction, they had no chance of surviving the criticisms I get from him.

The fat boy eventually quit his efforts, and sat down, letting me do all the work. And I let him, because I hated unneeded baggage weighing down and slowing my progress. Besides, I couldn't help thinking cruelly, he was probably afraid to say or do anything wrong for fear that I could react like dad. It was probably true.

I was ahead of the others by the time dad came to our table. At the approach of dad, the fat boy jumped up.

Dad looked at the potion, which at this stage was a bright green, looked at me, looked at the boy, looked at me again. Then, looking directly at the boy, he spoke.

"Why is this potion green, Longbottom?"

Longbottom proceeded to blather and shake with ignorance. I could have found his act hilarious, and rather did in reflection later that day, but then, in front of my father, on such a simple question , I could not resist.

"It's because the henna is reacting with the mashed millet under the presence of the iguana's blood," I recited, for it was something that Dad had asked me so often at home. Instead of praise, he gave me a stare, a dirty stare which spoke of contempt, similar to the one I noticed he gave Potter a few moments ago.

"Is your name Mr. Longbottom?" he asked me sardonically.

"No sir."

"Then do not answer for him."

I had the sense that Longbottom was bewildered- perhaps he had never seen anybody look Dad in the eye and not blink, as I did that moment. I let my look say it all- my disgust of his blatant ignoring me, his apparent disregard for the right answer.

He looked away from me, toward Longbottom, and then left. I was rather surprised that he didn't dock points. I would have, had someone spoken out of turn. I hoped he wasn't playing favorites.

Longbottom crept toward me, as I kept my concentration on making a scoop of rat's spleen level. He spoke hesitantly, quietly, as if he was afraid of speaking in from of me.

"A-a-are you really...."

I paused, not visually acknowledging him, amazed that someone was actually stuttering in my presence.

"Yes," I said, finishing off the level and dumping the scoop in to the cauldron, and watching the potion turn a bright orange.

"Wow..." Longbottom said. "It turned orange."

As if the concept of orange was foreign. Or that he's never seen a potion turn out right.

I was unimpressed. I was definitely going to have to talk to dad about this kid. I didn't deserve to work with this idiot. I thought this school was selective....

"We have to wait an hour for it to boil," I explained patiently to the kid. I sat down, and started work on the work Dad had given us to do while the potion was boiling. Of course, stupid Longbottom and their cohorts (mainly everyone else) talked and socialized. Ugh. Such a vile word. Of course, dad caught half of them socializing, and gave them a rather eloquent tongue-lashing (and docked a few points).

I could not help but smirk as I dipped my quill into my ink, and hearing Potter yell something. Something about work, and this being unfair. I just looked into my potion, which was almost done (you could tell when the orange turned red-tinged) as dad yelled at Potter, and gave him a detention. I wrote a final figure on the finished work, turned down the fire, and ladled the potion into an awaiting bottle to be graded.
***
I waited outside the door as I heard Dad yelling (properly, I thought) at Potter. After awhile, he exited, cussing out my father. I said nothing as I entered.

I was risking it, yes, I know. But I talked anyway. Looking back, it seemed that I had forgotten not to talk to my father after he gets mad. It always takes him a while to come down.

(I laugh when I hear people say that my dad is angry all the time. His vindictiveness is a cycle, and some days are definitely better than others.)

I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to look up. He didn't. How typical. Leave the students waiting- he was the important one. I knew him like the back of my hand. I didn't wait for a signal, I just spoke.

"Professor-" I said, remembering the epithet, "Is there any way to move Longbottom?"

No response.

"I mean- I hate to say it- but he's an idiot. I can't stand working with him- he couldn't find his way out of a cauldron if his life depended upon it."

He looked up. Again, the same unreadable expression.

"Is that all?" he replied, but I could tell I was to infer Are you really here to complain about Longbottom?

"Yes," I answered the unspoken question. He looked at me, finally, furrowing his eyebrows in disdain.

"What do you want me to do- remove him from the class? Have him kicked out of Hogwarts just because he annoys you?"

I was startled. He was getting hostile- and it sounded like he was annoyed.

"No sir, but-"

"Then leave."

I headed out the door. However, dad (as he was prone to do) called my name (my first name) right as I was heading out the door.

I closed the door gently and met my father's gaze, looking mighty vindictive. Why the change in epithet?

"I wonder," he asked, not with an air of curiosity but with the air of one who knows the truth, "if you
had heard certain rumors floating 'round the school."

"Rumors fly around here all the time."

"I mean in regard to a certain student."

Oh. So that's what this is about. I hate when he pulls this.

"I've heard things," I responded as ambiguously as he did. I can play the game too, Dad. I thought, savagely. I knew rumors were often spread so thickly and liberally like jam on a piece of toast, you didn't wonder at the absurdity of the amount at this school, but either he is more watchful over his students as he appears to be, or it must have been consistent....

He didn't respond immediately. But when he did it was in exact rebuttal to my inward argument-

"Such rumors, Miss Snape, " he said, with the tiniest inflection, cementing the tone of the conversation, "usually do not reach my attention. But the one I'm referring to is particularly interesting, due to the amount of truth behind it."

I dropped my books to my side, knowing I wasn't going to go anywhere for awhile. I wondered what his problem was with me telling people who I was-

From the depths of my memory, a line emerged-

"Be careful what you say around here."

I felt my body twist away from him, feel the bubble of insight dawn upon my head-

"That's why you're mad." I mouthed, hoping that he heard it, fearing if he did. He hadn't though, because he had turned his attention to something on a table. But how could just my name bring so much controversy?

Well, I can't say he didn't warn me.

It was infinitely harder to read him with his back to me, but then, I suppose that was the point. I took a breath and responded:

"Sir, with all due respect, I wouldn't exactly trust the rumors that circulate around the school."

He however stood up, and was trying to figure me out- I wonder what he thought- if he thought I was blind about the topic, if I knew exactly what I was talking about, or something completely different.

"Mr. Malfoy spent the majority of the class discussing with his fellow Slytherins about a unique person who just entered this institution."

He gave me that same look, and continued.

"Seems he thinks that this certain person's presence will cause a certain instructor to favor whomever is acquainted with this....person."

I was a bit disturbed by his use of the term "certain person." But I started feeling a bit angry- this is enough.

"Stop it."

He was taken out of his diatribe by this statement. I was sick of dealing in this dance of superiority, so I struck.

"I told them, Dad."
***
Certainly what I said was unusual. I suppose out of common courtesy I should have let him finish his turn before knocking the board into the floor.

In the silence that followed I remarked upon the irony of the situation- a rumor proving to be true, not started from someone inconspicuous but from the person themselves.

He had turned to me again, his eyes burning with a hidden fury- he was angry, for some reason- I could not deduce why- he can't be angry for no reason- and yet those eyes burned with a fire-

I expected some long-winded assault, but he merely turned to me and asked:

"Why?"

"I don't know. I didn't see any harm in doing so."

I saw his head sag, in the act of concentrating on the floor, but his eyes were unfocused; his fast mind
lost in thought. The pause was immense, or so it seemed to me, while my father calculated and analyzed something far beyond my comprehension. I waited to see if I could find out how my component, however small it might be, caused him to stop in the middle of a diatribe and speak the most unsure-of word in the world--why.

I heard him breath a little sigh, and saw him move to a bookshelf, where he looked at the titles with seeming disinterest. Without turning, he spoke.

"Do not tell anyone else anything about your background. Anything."

"Yes sir," I said, though the calmness of my voice hid the incredulity of his request. . He kept his back to me as he stared at the titles- and I got the feeling that he didn't want me to see his face.

Did he realize that he was basically forbidding me to make friends? And yet, I noticed even as I picked up my books from the floor, that based on what I had seen that day, I did not want to be their friends. I didn't even want to be a part of their house.

I made my way for the door- sensing more than anything- that the conversation was over. As I picked up by books, I saw him pick out a volume with his long slender hands, hands which I'm proud to say I inherited.

Without another glance, I opened the door, and let myself out of the room.