The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note:
Look! Look! It's not dead! I would never abandon my precious Lamentations!Er. Sorry.
I get a bit emotional about this fic.
Sorry for the, er, teensy little four-month lack of updates.
And I'm also sorry for the shortness of this chapter. But . . . I wanted to update, gosh darnit, and the next one should be lengthier. So . . . yay?
Thank you so much to everyone for all the reviews. You guys rock. :-)
Tuesday, October 1, 1991
Astronomy Tower
9:12 P.M.
Hmm. Things have been eerily peaceful ever since my little . . . episode with the house-elves.
Is there the faintest chance that I might begin to regain my sanity?
Somehow, I don't think so.
It could be because my eye twitches in a frighteningly Snape-esque fashion every time I say, write, or even think the words 'house-elves.'
Lord help me, I'm turning into Snape.
Whom, coincidentally, I cannot look at anymore. Things were all right while I was still at St. Mungo's and slightly delirious, but then it registered in my mind just what I had said to him.
Why do I do these things to myself?
In any case, eye contact is no longer an option.
Sometimes I'm completely tempted to give up this teaching business and all the humiliation that comes along with it, and just . . . join a circus.
God knows I would make a delightful attraction with my hair.
You know, in the circus freak category.
It's a shame my skin's not still purple.
Wednesday, October 2, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
7:35 A.M.
Strange. I can't find my sweater.
7:37 A.M.
Snape.
7:38 A.M.
The bastard stole my shirt.
1:16 P.M.
AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!
. . . Ehm.
Sorry.
But really. How is it, I ask you-the-notebook, is it that one man could be so utterly . . . so completely . . . so totally . . .
Well, all right, I'm a bit too peeved to think of a word right now, but I assure you, it's not anything flattering in the least bit.
So there.
I mean, he acts as though he is a being above us all. Not only is showering beneath him. Oh, no. A girl can't even retrieve her sweater without feeling like a complete dunderhead.
. . . His word choice. Not mine. Believe me, I would never say anything so ridiculous.
And the sad part is, he actually makes it sound rather formidable.
Pleasant, Severus Snape is not.
And he is also a sweater thief.
Yes, you heard me. Or read me. Or . . . let's not go into technicalities. The point is, it's true. Why, exactly, he wanted my shirt was beyond me. I mean, yeah, sure, so we were a little too preoccupied during the whole sexually - assaulted - by - Quirrell's - iguana - and - breaking - the - hearts - of - house - elves - everywhere escapade to pay attention to little things like who left with whose shirt, but didn't he realize after the chaos had died down that something made out of pale pink angora was, in fact, not his? Unless he has some creepy effeminate side that he hides especially well, I can't begin to figure out what the man would want with my sweater. Unless, of course, he's secretly and subconsciously in love with me and wound up absently carrying it back to his quarters with him, and then kind of . . . kept it there, glancing lovingly at it every once in awhile and then growing repeatedly overcome with disgust at himself.
. . .
Ha. Right.
. . .
1:20 P.M.
. . . Sigh.
1:21 P.M.
Ahem.
So anyway, I marched on down into that dungeon, thoroughly intent upon attacking him with full-on 'hell - hath - no - fury - like - a - woman - whose - shirt - has - been - stolen - by - a - slimy - bastard' rage till he collapsed into a twitchshuddersneering mess on the floor for Filch to clean up.
I've got a devious side that's really not allowed to flourish often enough.
Pity.
I so could have been a Slytherin, and a rather good one, at that.
Unfortunately, while suffering aforementioned rush of anger, I managed to forget that he was kind of in the middle of teaching a class.
And let me tell you, there are going to be "Professor Sinistra's really gone crackers" whispers flying around the halls for a few days.
Children are so narrow-minded. It's not as though it's so incurably odd when someone bursts into Snape's dungeon and shouts, "Damn it, you overgrown bat of a bastard, I don't care if you want to keep a little something to remind yourself of our kinky iguana-filled house-elf-heart-breaking rendezvous - give me my bloody sweater back!"
But did the first-year Gryffindors even consider that it might not be what it sounded like? (What did it sound like, anyway? Sweet stars. Children these days are so wretchedly corrupted.)
Of course not.
They just think Professor Sinistra's a great big hussy.
But at least now Snape gets to suffer with me.
Mwahaha.
(Again with the could-have-been-quite-the-diabolical-Slytherin idea.)
Ron Weasley's mouth was hanging open in horror, Harry Potter looked as though he'd much rather be The Boy Who Died, Hermione Granger looked rather scandalized by the idea that two teachers could be so horribly unprofessional (I like her a bit less than usual at the moment), and Neville Longbottom was just plain bewildered.
And Snape, in a very serpentine hiss, responded, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
I (quite understandably, I should think) wanted nothing more than to turn around and run as fast in the other direction as I could, but now that I'd made that rather . . . violent proclamation, I figured I had to stand my ground.
And so I replied, very composedly, "My sweater. You still have it, I believe?"
At this, Ron started snickering until Snape unleashed one of his more lethal glares on him. The poor boy looked positively terrified. (Really, I can't blame him.)
"Perhaps you were taken out of St. Mungo's a bit too early, Sinistra," Snape said smoothly. "I suggest you see Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible."
"Oh, no, Sev, you are not--"
"Auriga. Get. Out."
I'm not a coward. Really, I'm not. I mean, I'm no Gryffindor or anything, but I don't exactly cower under the blankets at night because I think the Lethifolds are going to get me. (Er. Or at least not so much anymore.)
But those three words were enough to kind of make me whimper in fear.
Just in case, you know, my students don't think I'm enough of a complete psycho already.
Y'know, I honestly can't wait to teach them tomorrow.
Not.
Astronomy Tower
7:45 P.M.
All I wanted was to have supper. Is that really too much to ask?
Apparently, because as soon as I sat down, my dear, dear friend Victoria felt just compelled to greet me, sweetly as can be, with, "Why, if it isn't the whore of Hogwarts!"
And then some of the other teachers laughed. Laughed. My colleagues find it humorous that some higher being out there is having a regular field day making me miserable.
Even McGonagall's mouth did a bit of a twitchy thing that I strongly suspect was a poorly hidden smile.
Or maybe a smirk.
Good Lord, Snape isn't the only one smirking at me now. I'm a universal cause of smirking worldwide!
My life is a slightly less pleasant version of hell.
7:51 P.M.
. . . but, y'know, it doesn't have to be.
I could easily change that. After all, this is my life. I can control my own bloody destiny, thank you very much!
And I say that I'm not going to take any of this nonsense any longer.
Oh, no.
It's time for some change around here.
7:54 P.M.
. . . and a bit of a Lockhart-reading fest.
Now, where is Voyages With Vampires?
7:55 P.M.
When all of this change takes place, I don't have to give up my Lockhart books, do I?
Because, y'know, this can only go so far.