The Diary of a Somebody

All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Sunday 1st July

14:30 — Home.

No word from Hermione. How many days is it now…? Nearly a week, but there has been nothing. Lovely.

Perhaps I'd hoped she would come to me and say she'd made a mistake—that she'd changed her mind. Suppose I really am that pathetic.

On second thought, maybe I'm actually not so very pathetic. Otherwise, I expect I should have been banging on her door by now. Or lurking outside her chambers in the Wizengamot, perhaps. Ha. I've never shied away from playing towards creepy, after all.

No, I'll not go to her. Stuff her. I've got better things to do.

17:35

God.

Minerva turned up on my doorstep this afternoon. Felt ridiculous, because when I heard the knock on my door, I thought… Well, doesn't matter what I thought.

Can't say I was overjoyed for Minerva to turn up unannounced (can't say I'm ever overjoyed when she turns up announced, either). But I should have anticipated her arrival at some point. Ostensibly, she came to see how I'm faring, yet, I do wonder whether there was an element of 'I told you so' on her behalf. Can't deny that in some way she has been vindicated.

I told her I'm fine; she, however, frowned sceptically.

'Did you expect to find me passed out on the floor, overcome with despair?' I put to her. 'Balancing on the cliff edge, preparing to jump? Never mind a whole week has gone by — nice to know how long I'd have to wait for someone to come and save me from myself.'

I hid a smirk at her half-sheepish, half-exasperated expression.

'If you were going to commit suicide, Severus, you'd have done it years ago.'

Have to give her that one.

'We can't pretend neither of us didn't anticipate this might happen.' I shrugged my shoulders in a measure of indifference that wasn't a fair reflection of my true thoughts.

'Well, I confess, it went on longer than I thought it would.'

'Then I shall go to my grave a content man; forever satisfied in knowing I proved you wrong.'

She frowned disapprovingly but made no comeback. When she spoke again, it was to say: 'Maybe if you give her some time, she might—'

'Stop right there,' I interrupted. 'I'm not hanging around interminably; putting my life on hold whilst I try to anticipate her bloody incomprehensible whims.'

Thankfully, Minerva had the grace not to point out that I actually have no life to put on hold. Instead, she looked at a little taken aback at my vehemence. She wasn't the only one. I very nearly believed the words myself.

I really didn't want to dwell on the subject any further, so I questioned her about how things were at Hogwarts. She went on and on about how fabulous this year's exam results were and I sat there, trying to care, but failing miserably.

21:00

Bored. Going to have a drink.

Monday 2nd July

07:50 — Late for work.

Oh God.

Note to self: need to curb my drinking. Need to nip it in the bud right now.

First weekend back on the shelf turned into boozy free-for-all. Have had to swill down some Sober-Up because my words from yesterday took on a new meaning when coloured by several brandies. Began to think it really would be best for me to demand an audience with her. Actually decided I would go and seek her out. It was only because in my drunken haze I'd misplaced my wand, and didn't think to Summon it, that I didn't Apparate straight to her house.

Now, that was luck.

Seems there may be someone up there looking out for me, after all. I can only wonder what they were doing for the first forty-five years of my life.

I dread to think.

Wednesday 4th July

12:29 — Work.

Saw Potter this morning. Was walking down the Alley to the Apothecary, to open up, when I saw the back of his scruffy head in front of me. He was peering greedily into the window of one of the Quidditch shops. Arse.

I've been waiting for just such an opportunity to see him. Quickening my pace, I bore down on him, yanking the hood of his robes so that he might face me. Some bloody Auror he is; didn't even notice me coming.

'Did you bloody well tell Weasley where Hermione and me were going to be that night?'

He yelped in surprise and frowned when he saw me, flinching himself from my grip.

'Hang on—'

'Didn't quite work out for you though, did it? Weasley didn't get what he wanted.'

Have been wondering, haven't I, whether Potter has developed a cunning streak. Whether he'd orchestrated all the pieces together and told Weasley where we were going to be that night. For all I know, Hermione had told everyone her doubts, bar me.

'No,' he pressed firmly. 'I didn't tell Ron. Look, I was as surprised as you. In fact, I don't know what she's playing at. She won't talk to me about it.'

He managed to meet my eye, so I had no choice but to believe him.

'I'm sorry for what happened. Ron's been a first class arse, if you ask me. And Hermione, well, who knows what's going on inside her head?'

I half wish there had been some conspiracy on his behalf. At least then, I could have had someone to hex. Or shout at. And Potter's always been good for that, if nothing else.

'Have you seen her much, then?' I found myself asking reluctantly.

Potter shrugged his shoulders. 'Not particularly. Think she's been staying in her chambers in the Wizengamot till all hours.'

'There we are, then.' I said dismissively.

'You're, ah, remarkably calm about all this,' he ventured. 'I, ah, actually expected a visit off you much sooner than this. Still, if you want to talk—'

I simply told him to fuck off. When the hell did he ever become my therapist? Merlin. There are some depths to which even I shall never fall.

I do wonder though if Potter might relate back to Hermione that I'm 'calm'. What does it matter? I'm quite sure I don't want her to know the real frame of mind I'm in, because I'm afraid she wouldn't even care.

20:45 — Home.

Just found a pile of her books; an intrepid selection of Statutes and Decrees. Shall have to Owl them to her. Not going to be sad enough to hope she might turn up to collect them herself. No; shall get rid of them post-haste.

21:12

Or… I'm told they're rather expensive books.

Perhaps I should flog them in Diagon Alley and make myself a few Galleons?

Ha.

Friday 6th July

Some young girl came in today to apply for the job I've advertised. Unfortunately, I haven't been in the right presence of mind lately (wonder why?) and so when she offered me her C. V. I was rather short with her.

'Hufflepuff?' I questioned, skimming the parchment. 'Sorry; you're unsuitable.'

And that was that. I glared at her and she fled.

Half debating whether to remove the advert, because I can't be arsed now. Can't be arsed with the hassle. Can't be arsed with anything.

14:00

I'll leave it there. Can't let everything else go down the pan simply because one area of my life is buggered.

Monday 9th July

14:34

Did something stupid today.

Went to Gringotts' earlier to deposit some money into my vault, and something in there caught my eye. It was my diary from last year. That stupid, pathetic volume. Probably even more pathetic than this one is. Why do I bother with them? But as much as I wanted to ignore it, I could stop myself from pocketing it.

Now, some hours after finally dismantling all the wards, I've read it. Read it from cover-to-cover. And, naturally, I only feel increasingly more pitiable and stupid. Anyone would think I was some young, naïve idiot from reading it back; not a forty-five year old former Death Eater for crying out loud.

Why did I ever let myself be bothered by her? Why did I get involved? Why did I bother with any of it, for that matter? Why did I bother writing it all down? Did I have — do I have — nothing better to do with my time?

Shan't do it any longer. Going to burn last year's diary, and I'm going to burn this pile of rot, too. Who the hell do I think I am? Samuel bloody Pepys? Nicholas Flamel?

There is no point.

19:45

Clearly, am addicted.

Haven't made good on my vow. Can't do anything. Am useless.

Wednesday 11th July

17:00

Have had a setback.

Came out of the stockroom today to find Hermione standing in the shop. Nearly dropped a whole vat of Armadillo bile on the floor.

Wasn't prepared. Hate not being prepared. Bet that's why she chose to turn up unannounced—to catch me on the back-foot. She was standing there in her Wizengamot robes and, on seeing them, I wished for the days when she'd been nothing more to me than an up-herself, self-important old cow.

'Good afternoon,' I said blankly, praying that someone else might come into the shop and vie for my attention.

'Hello,' she replied, her lips quirking into a half-hearted smile. 'How are you?'

'Fine.' I endeavoured to look directly at her. To her, I most definitely am fine. Bloody perfect. Bloody marvellous, I am.

'Did you require something?' I forced out, picking up my quill and pretending to be absorbed in something important.

'Severus, I really am sorry about what happened.'

I suppressed a flinch at the fact she was prepared to rake it all up in the middle of the bloody apothecary. When I returned my attention to her, her earnest, wide-eyed expression suddenly made me inexplicably angry.

'Sorry?' I heard myself whispering, in a tone that may have erred on the wrong side of disgust.

What I was going to say further, I'm not quite sure, but I think I should be grateful for the interruption that forestalled me. The door swung open and in walked a man, who said:

'Oh, excuse me, but is the vacancy still open?'

'It is,' I replied, approaching him, and entirely taking the opportunity to ignore my other visitor. 'Are you interested?'

We talked for a few minutes, but, of course, I was not unaware when Hermione took her leave.

Have tried to ignore all thought of the incident, but… have felt like crap all day.

21:00

Still feel like crap.

Probably why I agreed to hold an interview for the post I advertised; that bloke who came in was enquiring for his son. Shall be unmitigated disaster, I expect.

Like my life.

Saturday 14th July

07:15 — Home. Bed. Disturbed.

Am worried.

I think… No, it was a terribly disturbing night.

Have just woken up and I'm trying to work out if I imagined it all, but—

What the…?

07:30

Oh Lord. I can hear movement downstairs — it really did happen. I think… I think I must be losing my grip on sanity, because I can't fathom how I would allow myself to… Why would I allow myself to…

God.

Fragments of the night are still filtering back to the front of my mind and I just can't comprehend what I allowed myself to do. Think, no, I definitely should book an appointment with a Healer, maybe.

Because I…

Oh dear, I can't even bring myself to physically transcribe it. Perhaps I should simply pretend it never happened? Who could I ask to administer an Obliviate?

Because I was at the Leaky last night, nothing unusual there, and from the pounding in my head, I got piss drunk, nothing unusual there, either. What is problematic, however, is that I got piss drunk with… Weasley the Wanker.

And I brought him home with me because he was so pissed he couldn't remember where he lives.

How shameful is that? Clearly, I've really hit rock bottom this time.

Need to sort this out now. Need to get rid of him. Now. Before anyone finds out.

7:44

Think I'll wait five minutes. Stood up and there were suddenly three new doorways to choose from.

11:00 — Work.

My God; it's bloody days like this when I need assistance in the shop. Think I must be developing a tolerance to Hangover Cure.

More importantly, I successfully dispatched Weasley this morning. I went downstairs to find him sitting on the settee with his hands over his face and breathing loud, steady breaths.

'Am I dead?' he croaked hopefully.

'Unfortunately not,' I replied stiffly.

Perhaps seeing me brought home the reality of the situation and he lurched to his feet awkwardly. 'Um, I…' He closed his eyes for a moment, looking green. Then he tried again. 'Um, I, ah… Thanks—'

'Just piss off, Weasley.'

He'd better not mention this incident to anyone, otherwise he's going to be on sale in the Apothecary before he can blink.

From now on, going to think twice before stopping off in the Leaky of an evening. Can't let this happen again. I trudged in last night, after closing up the shop. I'd already ordered my pint, before looking down the length of the bar and seeing him sitting there — staring morosely into his glass. I had to quickly decide whether to leave, ignore him, or throw a volley of curses down the bar, followed by any objects I had to hand. Unfortunately, it was while I was imagining lobbing stools and tankards at his head that he looked up and clocked me.

I opted to ignore him. I'd drain my glass, I decided, and then I'd leave. No harm, no foul. Except… I'd nearly made it to the bottom of my pint, when I sensed a movement at my side.

'What the fuck do you want, Weasley?' I hissed.

He'd sidled nearer, looking shifty and slightly worse for wear. Actually, very worse for wear. 'Do you want another one?' He nodded towards my drink.

I slammed my glass onto the bar and turned to leave, deciding he'd be head-first in the slops if he wasn't careful.

'Wait, Snape,' he called with a slur. 'I know I've been a prick; everyone keeps telling me so. But, it was nothing personal, all right? '

I turned around slowly. He'd teetered back to the bar and was slumped on a stool. Feeling a burst of ire, I stalked up to him and placed my fist suggestively on the bar. 'Nothing personal?' I whispered.

He flinched and leaned away from me. 'Yes. It was stupid, I know, but I was desperate. All's fair in… in, whatever it is… I had to take a chance.'

I scoffed to myself, only feeling contempt for his self-righteousness. 'You should have thought about this before you played away, shouldn't you? Who do you think you are to—'

'All right, Snape,' he interrupted irritably, 'I've heard this all before. I've promised not to trouble Hermione again. Not my fault she didn't want to stick around with either of us.'

I started to sneer at him with disgust, but even as I did so, I couldn't ignore his point. This wasn't all Weasley's fault. Whether he'd turned up to the restaurant that night or not, Hermione still would have had her 'doubts'. Maybe I should even be grateful for his interference. Who knows how long I'd be labouring under the misapprehension that my relationship with Granger was fine, otherwise?

I studied him; his head lolled forward and was supported by his arm on the bar. Admittedly, he looked a sorry sight, and though I felt no sympathy, I was able to curtail any desire to cause him physical harm. Feeling myself deflate, I requested a Firewhisky off the barman and (here my behaviour must be called into question) sat down.

'I'll get that,' Weasley put in, standing and stuffing a hand into his robes. He rummaged through a mountain of coins before shaking his head and dumping them all on the bar.

I watched him speculatively; perhaps, strangely for me, trying to fathom him out. He turned back to his forlorn contemplation of his glass.

There was, has been, something I've wondered about for some time. Something I've never got to the bottom of because I came to believe Hermione wouldn't welcome talk of it — she never offered up any chance to discuss it, after all. Now I know I probably should have at least broached the subject.

'Why did you do it?' I heard myself ask.

Weasley stirred and glanced at me blearily. 'What?' he grimaced. 'I told you, I still love her—'

'Why did you have an affair?' I stated firmly, not wanting to hear any more of his lovesick spiel. 'Why would you do it?'

He groaned a little, straightening up and tugging at his hair for a moment. 'Look Snape, I'd rather not talk about it. I'm sorry if we can't all live up to your measure of loyalty.'

I'm glad he wasn't looking at me, because I nearly flushed. A bubble of rage prickled within me and I was getting ready to blast him to pieces when he sighed extensively. 'Would you believe me if I said I don't know?' he murmured.

'There must have been a reason.'

'Won't justify my actions, though, will it?' He smiled bitterly.

'No.'

I thought he'd fallen asleep for a time, but then his voice sounded quietly.

'Hermione and me are rather different people. It didn't matter so much when we were younger. But as we got older, we seemed to have less in common. To her credit, it never seemed to bother her as it did me. Going to sound selfish, I expect, or self-absorbed, but sometimes I couldn't help feeling a bit inadequate.'

I frowned and he rushed to say: 'It was never consciously done on her part…'

He looked indecisive, slugging down a gulp of beer and the appearing suddenly animated. 'I mean… There was… Well, take this for an example. We went for a walk once, over some cliffs down Kent way, I think, and she started explaining all about how these chalk cliffs had formed over thousands and thousands of years…'

Uncomfortably, I was reminded of my own trip there with her.

'And do you know what, Snape?' His arm shot up and he shook his head so vehemently, he nearly toppled sideways. 'I didn't have a bloody clue what she was talking about. Not a bloody clue! I asked her how she knew all this. How could she know so much? And do you know what she said? She said she'd kept up with her Muggle education whenever she could over the years, just for her own amusement.'

His expression of complete incomprehension might have been amusing under other circumstances. 'That's the difference between me and Hermione right there,' he burst out, jabbing his finger into the bar. 'She has an insa— insationable—'

'Insatiable.'

'Right. An insationable curiosity about the world that I will never have. And though she never appeared to resent my level of sophistication, I always felt she wished to have someone who shared her… thirst for knowledge, I suppose.'

He was surprisingly eloquent, for Weasley. I suspected his new-found loquacity was a product of his earlier lonely deliberations. All seven pints of them.

He slowly raised his head to look at me. 'I bet you know about cliffs. I bet your idea of fun isn't watching Quidditch.'

I smirked cynically. 'And yet, here I am,' I muttered, offering my glass up to be rejuvenated.

'Yeah,' he sighed. 'My fault; I've hurt her probably more than I shall ever know.'

Think he had that perfectly right.

'You might still have a chance, Snape., but I don't. I don't even have my career, anymore. Haven't been able to keep my mind in the game, they said.' I glanced at him as he screwed up his face in an exaggerated expression of disbelief. 'I gave that team six years of my life.'

His fist landed on the bar with a thump. 'There's your reason right there. Was it selfish of me to wish she'd have shown an interest in my Quidditch matches?'

'I asked her to go to a Quidditch match once,' I remarked, and by now, I think the alcoholic-induced haze was beginning to descend.

'Wha' she say?'

'No.'

He scoffed and shook his head. 'No' right, is it, eh?' His head teetered ever closer to the bar and his eyes drooped. 'Wha' am I going to do?' he slurred glumly. 'How'd things get so bad?'

'Get a grip, will you? You're only in your twenties, for fuck's sake.'

Merlin. Wait till you're forty-fucking-six like me, I felt like saying.

Somehow we were still there when Tom was closing up for the night, and then we had no choice but to leave. I was still able to walk, but I'm not sure how Weasley made it out into the courtyard, because I only recall seeing him slumped across a barrel once there.

'See you, Weasley,' I said, desperately trying to find some brain cells that weren't so addled that I couldn't Apparate home.

There was a rather alarming noise from him then. I think he was trying to talk, but I can't be sure.

'Can you Apparate?'

'Aye,' he said, pushing himself up and clinging onto the wall. 'Got my wand.'

The fact, however, that he was holding his wand at the wrong end gave me pause.

'Weas—'

'S'fine,' he mumbled, trying to stand unaided but failing miserably.

'Where d'you live, Weasley?' I muttered with a sigh.

He was a while in answering. 'Dunno,' he replied morosely, his cheek pressed against the wall. 'Don' 'ave a proper home, anymore. Who cares? 'Cause I don't.'

I could have left the mournful old sod there. I could have, but…

I didn't want to be the one implicated when his cold, lifeless body would eventually be found, did I?

Been there, done that…

20:00

Been thinking about Weasley's words from last night (I must be disturbed). He seemed to suggest the breakdown of his marriage stemmed from a lack of common ground with his wife.

Now, if Weasley, who was friends with Hermione for years, shared many life-endangering experiences with her, is the same age as her, moves in the same social circle as her — I could go on — doesn't have much in common with her anymore, then what the fuck do I have in common with her?

Me: a forty-six year old, bitter, dissatisfied, unfriendly apothecary who finds pleasure in very little apart from drinking and contemplating my own uselessness.

On paper, my odds should be far worse than Weasley's.

Wait… 'Should be?' That should read 'are worse' than Weasley's — because at least Weasley got a few years of marriage out of her, after all. I had six months. And now I even wonder about the reality of them. I don't know how many times she looked at me and second-guessed herself, do I?

Now there's a pleasant thought to get me through the day.

A chance? For me? No. I'm not even sure I want one anymore.

Tuesday 17th July

Interviewed someone for the job today — the son of that wizard who came in the other day. Bloody pointless exercise. I asked him to mix me a headache powder in fifteen minutes. Not, I would say, an unreasonable task for an Apothecary's assistant. Anyway, I watched him closely, my frown, I'm sure, deepening with every passing minute. When he handed me the finished article, I stared between him and the mortar in my hand.

'If I consumed this,' I said bluntly, 'I'd be dead.'

His jaw slackened and he spluttered.

'Yes; first rule of working in an Apothecary is never to rely solely on the labels. You entirely failed to notice the presence of powdered water dropwort in the wrong jar.'

He seemed speechless.

'I think we can safely say you've been unsuccessful.'

After he'd scuttled out, I disposed of the lethal mixture. I half debated to take some, just to prove Minerva wrong.

That's the type of thing I'd do; kill myself just to prove a point.

Ha.

Sunday 22nd July

Bored. Pissed off. Bored. Pissed off. Bored. Pissed off.

Bored.

Been a long time since a bottle of Ogden's was my only company.

Wednesday 25th July

Fed up.

Friday 27th July

Sigh.

Saturday 28th July

It's been another weird night.

Bored, as ever, I went to the Leaky to while away a few hours. The sight of a large table set aside with a reserved sign atop it, maybe, should have rang alarm bells. When taken in conjunction with the date, then certainly I should have been wary. I'll just say I haven't been my usual sharp self lately.

Sat at the bar, I didn't bat an eyelid when the sound of several patrons trooping in filtered to my ears. Was too contented with my wallowing to take any notice of my surroundings.

That was, of course, until someone actually had the front to clap me on the back and say over my shoulder, 'Snape! You all right mate?' Horrified, I looked to find Weasley standing at my side. Looking beyond him, I could see a multitude of redheads sat around a table. Not only redheads, mind.

'Harry's birthday on Tuesday,' Weasley explained, before reeling off an order of drinks to the barman.

Potter himself spotted me in due course and his eyes immediately flicked to his other best friend. The curly-haired one. I allowed myself a quick look, but she was talking to Potter's wife.

'Want to join us?' Weasley asked, levitating his tray of drinks into the air.

'I don't think so,' I muttered frostily, feeling an uncomfortable burst of jealousy.

'She's still not talking to me,' he carried on. There was no need to wonder who 'she' referred to. 'Never-mind, though. We'll show her, eh? Don't go running off—we've as much right to be here as she does. Us blokes have to stick together, remember?'

He elbowed me in some kind of, well, blokey gesture, I suppose, and meandered away.

I watched him go, frozen with terror, and wondered what the hell I'd unleashed. I think… I think I may have made friends with Weasley. Weasley the fuckwit wanker. What have I done with any self-respect I ever had?

I'd be getting out as soon as physically possible, I decided. I never wanted to touched by Ronald Weasley ever again in my bloody life.

When I came back to myself, I felt eyes on me. Yes, she'd found me. She didn't pretend to be looking at anything else, but her expression was unreadable. I raised my glass in a little sardonic salute and turned back to the bar.

Suddenly, I rather felt like staying for another one. There was a rather perverse pleasure to be had sitting there whilst she was only a few feet away. I hoped she was feeling uncomfortable about my presence, but I had to acknowledge there was a good chance she simply couldn't care less.

And as, deep down, I'd hoped, she approached me later on. She came to the bar and I nearly fell off my stool in response. I suddenly regretted my decision to stay.

'My round,' she said with a small smile.

'Oh,' I replied, stuffing my glass into my mouth so fiercely I nearly sent my front teeth down my throat.

'Do you want another one?' She nodded her head towards my empty drink.

'Thank you, no.'

'Oh,' she said.

Now it was time to leave. No perverse pleasure to be had whilst she was within touching distance. Oh no.

But when I stood up, she stuck out her bloody hand and spoke, saying:

'Severus, please, I'd just like to say something about… ah, what happened…'

I stared. 'What is there to say?'

She fidgeted. 'Well, I didn't intend to, ah… Um…'

Thought barristers were supposed to be eloquent?

'I mean to say, that I—'

She stumbled this time because Weasley appeared between us. Her expression settled somewhere between confusion and trepidation. I liked it.

'Sorry to interrupt,' put in Weasley, 'but George and I need your advice about something, Snape. Would you mind, for a few minutes?' He motioned towards where his brother sat.

'Not at all. Excuse me, Hermione.'

I nodded to her, enjoying her startled expression, and followed Weasley, who then muttered, none too quietly:

'Thought you needed rescuing.'

Oh my. Oh my.

Oh, the terrible, terrible, irony.

But is it awful if I say…

…that I love it?

Ha.