The Diary of a Nobody
Tuesday 1st November
17:00 — Withernsea.
My father passed away this morning.
Or maybe it was last night—don't really know.
In any case, I went into his bedroom this morning, as I always do, and… he simply wasn't breathing. As soon as I saw him, I knew he had gone.
It's not like I've never expected this occurrence. Many a time, especially during his very bad days, I wondered what I might find on entering his bedroom. But… I don't suppose I really expected it to happen for some time yet. It's a shock, then—as much as I can ever be shocked anymore.
The initial daze is beginning to pass, now, but I'm not really sure what it is I am left with. Is it nothing? In every possible sense of the word?
There has been an odd, pervading sense of calm as I have gone through the motions. The doctor and the undertakers have been. I only nodded when they offered their condolences. What is there to say?
They must have thought me a cold fish, indeed, but well, it's none of their business.
He's gone, then; just like that. One minute he's there, and the next he's not;, and what remains is just eerie quiet and stillness. It's unusually disconcerting.
I suppose part of me is relieved. To slip away quietly… His condition would only have worsened as time went on. And yet… I don't know…
Don't know what to think.
Saturday 5th November
18:15 — Home. Proper home.
Have finally left Yorkshire behind.
No need for me to step foot in that county ever again. No need for me to trudge over those barren cliffs. No need to for me rattle about that empty old house. No need for me to put my own life on hold…
Like there was anything to put on hold…
Saw Granger today, before I left. She has timing, I'll say that for her.
I was clearing out the house of my father's possessions. He owned very little of note, and I left most of the furniture where it was. Not like I'll ever have need of it. I filled up several bags full of his clothes and threw them out the front, ready to be disposed of. Not like I will ever have need of them, either.
Sifted through a desk full of letters; none of which were anything important—bills and junk that could have been thrown out years ago, mostly. I lit a fire out in the garden and threw all the papers onto it.
I went through his bedroom, pulling out drawer after drawer and finding very little apart from a selection of photographs. I rifled through these with a certain amount of interest; there were photographs of him as a boy; photographs of him as a young man; photographs of his brother; photographs of people I didn't know, and… nothing else. That was it.
Nothing more.
I stormed downstairs and poured myself a drink.
Of course, I stupidly expected to find something that showed… that he…
Ridiculous. Well, not the first time I've been misguided. Likely won't be the last.
I marched outside, dumping the whole lot on the flames and then sat on the wall to watch it all burn.
There was little or no satisfaction to be had, and that only made me even more angry.
I left the wall, turning my back on the fire, and went to the end of the garden. I took out his last packet of cigarettes and lit the final one. I sucked on it a few times, before crushing it underfoot with a noise of frustration.
Don't even like the damned things.
I told myself there was no earthly point in getting so wound up. This was nothing new. I'd always known he was a selfish bastard. And he's gone now; that is the end to it all—the final full stop.
I threw an Aquamenti charm over the fire and simply looked at the blackened remains.
And it was then that Granger appeared around the side of the house, completely unaware of what she was walking into. 'Afternoon,' she said, looking quizzically at me, the bags, and the smoking embers. 'What's going on?'
I glanced heavenwards, silently cursing whomever it was that deemed I should be tormented in this fashion. I did not want company on this day, and hers even less so.
I moved to open the garage doors.
'Where's your—'
'My father is dead.'
She was silent for several moments, during which time I set about rummaging through the junk my father had accumulated and subsequently dumped in the garage.
'I'm so sorry,' she said finally.
'Don't be,' I replied flatly. 'I'm not.'
I froze in my search through an old tool cupboard, wishing I'd bitten through my tongue before allowing those words to come out. I sighed heavily, fully expecting her to march off in a fit of disgust.
'And it was natural causes,' I added, digging myself deeper into the hole I'd created. 'A heart attack—in case you were wondering whether I'd had enough and decided to help him on his way.'
As soon as the words had dissipated into silence, I felt ridiculous. What had possessed me to say such a thing? My frustration began to drain away to be replaced with a sense of disappointment.
'Why on earth would I think that?' she asked, sounding rather astonished.
'Not as if I don't have form…' I muttered, wishing fiercely that she would go away and leave me to my misery.
She appeared to ignore my admission, and, instead, only said: 'You should have said something, you know… Told someone…'
I shrugged my shoulders and walked past her, back out into the garden. Said what, exactly? And to whom? To her?
Right… I could see myself taking that course of action…
She followed me and I ventured a glance at her. She was staring at the vestiges of my fire, and more specifically, at the photographs I'd burned. I had an urge to defend what would seem to her a, no doubt, callous act. But then I thought, why do I care what she thinks?
Of course, it's becoming painfully obvious that I care more than I should, but I've not the energy to dwell on that difficulty at the moment. So I shall just ignore it.
Seems I underestimated her, though… again. There was no reproach on her face, but there was curiosity, and I sighed inwardly to see it.
'It's obvious you and your father did not see eye to eye…' she began.
I snorted.
'But, you shouldn't underestimate the significance of you being able to put all that aside to stay with him, and to reach some sort of—'
'Nothing was ever resolved between my father and myself, Miss Granger,' I interrupted shortly. 'The man you met was not the man who grew to despise both me and my mother.'
I scowled at myself for saying so much.
'Why did he despise you?' she asked quietly.
The immediate thought to cross my mind was that there was no way I was saying anything more on this front. It was none of her business—nothing to do with her.
But… then I wondered if it would really be so bad if I did talk. Maybe I needed someone to listen and tell me that I was right, or that I was talking crap, or that I'm unreasonable, or that I'm selfish, or… whatever. At least then I'd know where I was.
It's not something that must be hidden, really, either. There's nothing shocking or dramatic about it. No dark secret.
'He was… afraid of me,' I muttered eventually. 'He was afraid of my mother, as well. It's only something I came to understand in later life, but yes, it all stems from the fact that he grew to be afraid of magic.'
That's where his bitterness had originated. Born out of his inherent view that magic was unnatural—that magic went against everything he had ever known. But that was only one part of it.
'Never underestimate the fragility of male pride, Miss Granger.' I looked at her and there was a pensive expression on her face. 'He felt emasculated by his wife who could do things he felt were against the natural order of things; things he could never dream of doing. And then he had a son whose only interest in life was magic.'
I never showed any interest in the ways of Muggles. And he, being the stand-offish, resentful man he was, never tried to ignite any interest for me. Quite the opposite, in fact.
'It was me he was really afraid of, especially when I finally got my wand. He knew he could handle my mother. She'd never use magic against him in anger. He couldn't be so sure with me—he was the recipient of much of my uncontrolled bursts of magic as a child.'
Made all of his cigarettes disappear once; he'd loved that. He'd loved it almost as much when I'd locked him out of the house as a five year old. Tip of the bloody iceberg, mind.
I sighed. 'Anyway, there came a breaking point. I arrived home from my sixth year to find he'd upped sticks. Never heard from him again until some Muggle social worker turned up on my doorstep four years ago. So you see, nothing was ever resolved between us, for we never spoke of it. '
And maybe, despite myself, I always hoped we would. Maybe I'd hoped he'd show some sign of regret, or… a sign of any feeling towards me, really. But I honestly think my father never saw himself as being in the wrong. Because surely he could not have been unaware of the ever-bloody-present elephant in the room these last few years? Might have been a bloody herd of elephants, as far as I'm concerned.
Her next words seemed to indicate she was reading my mind.
'He can't have been entirely oblivious to the significance of you being here, after all this time. Even if he never said anything; it can't have meant nothing…'
Well, she's obviously an optimist, isn't she? She doesn't realise that conjectures, and let's face it, baseless ones at that, are not enough and never will be.
'It's all moot now, isn't it?' I dismissed, feeling it was time to abandon the subject.
Things may not have been resolved, but I suppose I've had chance to put them into better perspective, and that, actually, is more than I'd ever anticipated. Maybe that will be enough to be getting on with. And if not, well, I'm sure one more piece of emotional baggage won't kill me.
She looked around at her surroundings. 'What, ah, are you going to do now? What'll happen to this place?'
I looked at the house and still felt absolutely nothing for it. 'I'm going home and nothing will happen to this place. Can hardly sell it, can I? Who, in their right mind, would pay money for this condemned pile of bricks?'
'Suppose you're right.' She looked over to the cliff edge, no doubt lamenting the fate that awaited. Her sentimentality doesn't surprise me any more.
I shoved up my sleeves and headed back into the garage. I was about to start looking through some more boxes when her voice filtered in from the doorway.
'Are you keeping the car?'
I paused and nearly smiled; nearly, mind. 'Don't see why not.'
She did smile; a small one.
I shrunk it down to the size of a toy car and shoved it in my pocket.
'If you, ah, ever decide to learn to drive, legitimately, I mean, with a proper licence and everything, I would be happy to help…'
As if! She's the last person I'd go to for driving lessons! Can just see her smiling to herself while I fiddle and fumble about like the novice I am. 'I'll bear it in my mind,' I said, nodding.
She looked pleased and then proceeded to look around the garage keenly. I knew what was coming next; an offer to help.
'Miss Granger, forgive me, but I wish to finish this before it gets dark…'
'Oh,' she said slowly. 'Right, of course, I'll leave you to it, then, if you want. See you around, maybe…'
She wouldn't "see me around;" not around here any longer, anyway.
She hurried off and I tried not to dwell on the fact she might think me rude. There's too much for me to think about without adding her to the equation. Feel enough like shit, as it is.
I soon emptied the garage of anything that needed disposing of, and anything else I left in situ. I placed Locking charms on the doors to both the house and the garage. Why I bothered, I don't know. Not going to make one whit of difference if the place gets broken into… Still, seemed the right thing to do, though.
There was one more thing I needed to do before I left. I took my father's ashes and scattered them out over the cliff-top. He'd not left any specific instruction, but I knew he'd rather be there than anywhere else.
So, that was the final underscoring of my relationship with my father. An unfulfilling and inadequate relationship, but maybe Granger was right. Maybe there is something to be said for the last few years. They may not have redressed all that went before, but at least they created an interesting juxtaposition.
And before I Apparated away, I took one last look over the grey sea, deciding that I wouldn't miss this place.
But I was struck by one thing.
Am now the very essence of a free man—free from all duty; responsibility… family…
Strangely, it's actually not that liberating; if anything, it's distinctly unnerving.
18:50
Nice to be home, though.
Have neglected my plants something terrible.
Monday 7th November
9:00 — Home.
Rather strange being back in my own environment again. Keep expecting to see a barren waste-land out of my window, rather than a busy street. Keep expecting to hear a brusque shout from my father. Or even just the sound of the waves against the cliff.
Have something to occupy myself with today, though.
I've received a note from Minerva asking me to go up and see her as soon as possible. I might fear the reason she wants to see me is because she has heard of my father's death.
Except… I think Minerva knows me well enough to realise I would not want to, God forbid, talk about it in any way.
So, I think it must be about some unrelated issue. In which case, my curiosity is well and truly piqued.
Must remember to buy some supplies on the way back, too. Bugger all here to eat.
16:00 — Hog's Head.
Hmm…
Am not sure what I have just done—what I have agreed to.
Well, I obviously do know, but I'm not sure as to the consequences, and I expect there will be some; there always are. If I didn't know Minerva better, I'd say she's just deliberately taken advantage of me in my compromised state.
Anyway, I arrived at Hogwarts during the afternoon; Minerva was waiting for me in her office.
'Severus!' Dumbledore's portrait exclaimed upon my appearance in the office.
'Dumbledore,' I stated flatly, sparing him only the briefest of glances.
'I was sorry to hear of your father's passing,' said Minerva immediately, and I groaned inwardly, fearing I'd misjudged her after all.
'Why didn't you tell me? I had to hear it from Hermione Granger, of all people.'
She must have seen my expression darken, for she said: 'Don't worry; she's not been blabbing to all and sundry.'
'I take it this is not the sole reason you wished to see me?'
'No…' she trailed off and looked indecisively at me. 'It's a bit… I have a problem, you see… um—'
'Clearly,' I muttered under my breath at her dithering.
'It's about Horace. He's been taken ill—'
I'd heard enough. I got to my feet, prepared to simply walk out.
'Oh, Severus—'
'No, Minerva,' I interrupted firmly. 'I'm not interested.'
She sprang to her feet and came out from behind her desk before I could reach the door. 'It would only be for a month or so—till the new year, probably.'
I shook my head.
'Please, I'm desperate. I can't find anyone appropriate at such short notice, and most of the staff here don't know one end of a cauldron from another, else I'd split the duties between them!'
'I'm not a teacher, Minerva. The job was never me. You don't think I took on the position because I wanted to, do you? You know it was all part of his ridiculously incomprehensible machinations.' I looked towards Dumbledore who watched us silently.
'You did enjoy it, sometimes,' she suggested; in a small voice, granted, but still entirely seriously.
'Has Pomona been growing special plants, again?'
'Your results were always some of the best, Severus! And have you forgotten how often Slytherin won the House Cup with you in charge?'
'Flattery will get you nowhere, Minerva. Furthermore, you are confusing my irrepressible need to succeed at everything I do with an innate love for the job and a desire to do right by the children.'
'So what else do you have planned, then? Anything? Have you found yourself a new job?'
Bugger; she had me there. Still haven't made any headway regarding my employment situation. Seems like I haven't had the time, which is ridiculous, of course, considering the hours of boredom I have collected over the last few months.
'You know the Ministry will pay well for a supply teacher. You can teach Potions with your eyes closed; it would be easy money for you, and you can use the opportunity to think more about your career long-term.'
I was beginning to fold; I could feel it and I struggled against it. 'Minerva—what if I don't want to come back here?' I gave her a hard look and she suddenly couldn't meet my eyes.
Wasn't an excuse, really. It's one thing setting foot in the castle now and again, but having to spend days on end within it's walls… Wasn't sure I'd want be amongst all those reminders.
'Yes… you're right; I understand. I apologise for putting you on the spot, Severus.'
That was surely my cue to leave. But I hesitated, already thinking that I could manage a few weeks back in the castle. Already thinking that I did not anticipate the prospect of being at home and bored out of my skull, with only my destructive thoughts for company.
I hesitated for too long. Minerva evidently saw her new opportunity and she took it, speaking to me with only a slight air of desperation.
'Look, I'm willing to listen to any stipulations you might have. If you want to leave the castle of an evening, that's fine. If you want to someone else to supervise your detentions, that's fine. If you want to be excused from dinner in the hall, that's fine—'
'How about a bottle of Ogden's for every week I'm here?'
Her expression soured. 'Excuse me?'
On second thought, I might never leave if she agreed to that set-up!
'How about I write you a list of desirables and you can provide me with a gift each week I'm here, to really show your gratitude. There's this silver cauldron I've been fancying—'
'I'll teach Potions myself before I resort to buying silver cauldrons!'
'You know the budget can take it, Minerva.'
She laughed then. 'Are you going to agree or not? And I'll buy you one bottle of whisky if it will ease the way for you.'
A hundred and one thoughts passed through my head at that moment as I deliberated over what to do. But really, the decision seemed simple enough. Didn't have any better offers coming my way, did I? Not as if people were knocking down my door to employ me.
'Till the end of the year,' I warned.
She clapped her hands together. 'Wonderful! That's a real weight off my mind!'
I thought, with no little amount of horror, that she might entirely forget herself and embrace me, so relieved did she look. However, I am happy to say, Minerva can always be relied upon to not get too carried away, and she was soon retreating behind her desk.
I dread to think what might have happened, otherwise. Our vague friendship would have been effectively ruined, as far as I'm concerned.
'And it's two bottles of whisky, mind,' I said as I left. 'One for each month of my stay.'
Wednesday 9th November
12:30 — Hogwarts!
So, here I am. Have not been home for two minutes and have now packed bags again and, this time, relocated well beyond Yorkshire for the Scottish Highlands.
And yes, part of me is unsure that this is the right thing to do, but actually, having something to put my mind to might be beneficial. I'm not sure how much sitting around I can take, and probably more than anything, I need the money, as well.
Who knows, it might be the best decision I've made in a…
Wait… When the hell am I going to bump into Granger now that I am holed up in the castle?
She's hardly likely to turn up in this neck of the woods!
Humph.
Have clearly not thought this through.
19:00
I must say, there is a lot of enjoyment to be taken from being back here.
Walked into the Great Hall for the first time this evening and took my seat to the sound of stunned silence. The silence was then followed by a cacophony of hurried whispers. Minerva made an announcement detailing my purpose in being there, and there were varying degrees of reaction from the students.
Most, it has to be said, looked horrified.
The ones who were smiling at their stricken counterparts are clearly those who have dropped Potions for their NEWTs.
That's fine. I'll find some other way to terrorise them.
The Slytherin's looked very smug. Which is also fine, except, they'll probably rethink their position after I've finished with them. I've seen the state of their House points, haven't I? Horace has been letting the side down very badly.
No surprise there.
Tomorrow, then, I shall be stepping into my first lesson in five or six years. A lesser man would be intimidated. I, however, am not. I may even be looking forward to it.
On a side note, I feel sick. Over extended myself at dinner, I think. But in fairness, I calculate it's been about three months since I've sampled the fare of a house-elf.
Thursday 10th November
9:57 — Dungeons!
First lesson is over.
Seems I'd forgotten just how ignorant some people are. Merlin.
Is it too much to ask for at least one child to step into the classroom with more than one brain cell at their disposal?
First-years next. This will surely be the highlight of my day.
I mean this sincerely.
11:00 — Staff room. Morning break.
First-years cannot look me in the eye, it seems.
I wonder what stories the older students have been telling them about me? Or does my reputation really precede me that much?
Clearly, am Hogwarts legend.
17:00
First day over with, then, and it has been all right. More than all right, actually. Felt good to be doing something practical—useful—all day. Makes a change. I've no doubt I'll be ready to rip my hair out by the end of the month, but still, I'll manage.
Suppose it's a change to be around people again, too. Am currently sitting in the staff room with a few of the others.
That Charlotte, mind, is a funny one. She doesn't seem to want to come near me; not even with a ten-foot barge pole. She was standing by the sideboard when I went to pour myself some tea and she shot across the room! Have a terrible feeling she fears I'm going to jump her, or propose marriage, or Merlin forbid, talk to her.
God knows what Minerva, or one of the other crones, has said to her about me.
Feel like going up to her and telling her 'Relax; you're not my type.'
But let's face it; the idea that I have a 'type' is laughable.
Friday 11th November
If I've missed anything about teaching, it's hissing 'Ten points from Gryffindor!'
The satisfaction to be had from such diversion is not to be underestimated. Especially when one witnesses Minerva McGonagall's pursed expression every time she passes the hourglasses.
She had the temerity to take me on again, she must deal with the consequences.
Dying to hand out my first detention; but no one has yet dared to put a foot wrong with me. Shall continue to bide my time. Once the novelty of my presence wears off, they'll be committing transgressions left, right, and centre.
Saturday 12th November
23:40 — Bed.
Have had such a good night I am in danger of waxing lyrical.
Shan't though, obviously.
Being as it was a Saturday evening, a few of us went down into Hogsmeade, to the Three Broomsticks, for a snifter or two (five). An hour into our session, however, who should walk into the pub?
Potter, Mrs Potter, and Granger. Thankfully, no sign at all of Weasley.
Can't say I was entirely pleased to see the Potters. Have been avoiding all contact since Granger made that ridiculous comment about parental figures. Ugh. Still, I didn't mind being proved wrong in doubting she would ever come this way.
As soon as they were spotted, my fellow colleagues were waving and shouting them over. I, naturally, remained unmoved. I half-hoped they would utter a greeting and then toddle off to their own spot, but, unluckily, they were more than happy to join our little gathering. I say unluckily, because the most convenient place to pull up some extra chairs was next to me. And Potter got there first.
And oh my good Merlin, the first thing he said to me was: 'Alright mate?'
Alright mate?
Christ almighty.
'I will be if you never call me that ever again,' I muttered.
He just laughed—right in my face.
Granger, I could see, was talking to Minerva, so I was clearly stuck with the boy wonder. 'What are you doing up here?' I asked, not particularly interested in the answer.
He took a sip of his… Butterbeer (when will he ever grow up?)… before replying that 'the kids are with Molly and we've come for a night out.'
I went silent then, my list of conversational topics with Potter exhausted. Of course, he was more than happy to pick up where I left off.
'Was surprised to hear you'd gone back into teaching.'
'I haven't gone back into teaching,' I refuted immediately. 'I am merely doing Professor McGonagall a favour.'
'A favour, eh?' I swear he lifted his eyebrows sceptically.
'You don't think I enjoy being surrounded by hordes of self-obsessed, ignorant, disrespectful, and ungrateful dunderheads, do you?'
Fear my tone might have become a little heated, for Granger, clearly having overheard, was now shamelessly eavesdropping. Suddenly felt a little self-conscious…
Potter just shrugged.
'So what on earth would induce you to agreeing to return—for however short a period?' asked Granger suspiciously.
Why is everyone seemingly trying to get me to admit to a secret love of being a Potions master? Surely the evidence speaks for itself? For God's sake; they were my students! If I'd felt I was doing my life's work through moulding young minds then I wouldn't have treated the majority of them like shit, would I?
I treated them like shit precisely because I was pathologically frustrated and bitter about my situation in being a sodding Potions master!
It's that simple!
Clearly, they don't believe I'm capable of doing people favours.
Thought maybe they'd believe this of me, though: 'Not going to pass up the opportunity to be looked after by house-elves, am I?' I answered plainly, sipping my whisky. 'Toddy, one of the elves, is a little marvel.'
To my surprise, Granger froze—an expression of disbelief on her face. I looked at Potter and he appeared to be on the verge of laughing.
'Hermione is very passionate about house-elf liberation,' he explained to me in a conspiratorial voice.
I nodded in understanding. How typically Granger is house-elf liberation? I mean, really; could she be any more of a cliché?
Her expression now was as stony as any I had witnessed during the period of our re-acquaintance.
'Well, relax, Granger, eh?' I said calmly. 'It's not as if I ask Toddy to wash my feet every night…'
Potter spluttered into his glass and then openly laughed when he saw Granger's pinched expression. It's not often that I laugh at my own wit—devalues it, in my opinion—but I nearly did this time.
'I know you're having me on,' she remarked dismissively, raising her shoulders in a flippant gesture.
'Am I? Well, why don't you ask Toddy? Once she's finished buffing my cauldron collection, that is…'
'That's not funny,' she said disapprovingly, but I saw her rub a smirk from her lips with her hand! Ha!
'I'm not laughing; Potter is.'
'Harry should know better.'
At that point, Hagrid lumbered in, and Potter excused himself to go and join his wife with the half-giant. While Granger, to my secret horror and, yes, satisfaction, slid into Potter's empty seat. Wish Weasley had been there now.
'So, how's things?'
I knew there was another layer to this otherwise innocent, but probing enquiry, and it was to do with my father, of course.
'Fine,' I said curtly, hoping she would not insist on delving into the matter further. I don't know whether she wants to believe I am painfully cut-up over my father's death—whether she wants to see proof of an upset that, I do regret to say, just isn't there.
The manner of my father's demise, of course, rouses within me a certain grimness of feeling, but his passing has not affected me adversely. The simple truth is that all the damage caused by that man manifested and hardened itself years ago. To say nothing of what else I have been through over the years.
Perhaps I should have implied some level of inner hurt to her. I wonder what she would have done had I solemnly delivered some trite inanity like 'I am taking each day as it comes,' or 'I'm bearing up'?
Would have been unforgivable of me, I'm sure, but still… Probably would have scored a few brownie points.
Have never tried to get people to like me through inciting pity, have I? Let's face it, I could probably spin out an enthralling tale of misery and woe, and it wouldn't be entirely too far from the truth, either.
But that recourse is completely too pathetic for even me to seriously contemplate.
Am patently not that desperate!
Getting back to the point, Granger's reaction to my clipped remark was, actually, no less intriguing than if I had painted some sorry picture of myself. In fact, she smiled in such a way as to make me think she knew something I didn't.
Something pertaining to me, that is.
'What?' I asked suspiciously.
'Nothing,' she replied lightly, smiling into her glass as she sipped her drink.
'What?'
'Men,' she stated simply, with a small shake of her head, as if she despaired of the gender in question.
Bit sick of her disdain for mankind, now, to be honest. Weasley really must be a first-class arsehole to have skewed her perspective in such a way.
'Granger—'
'Call me Hermione.'
'What's wrong with Granger?'
'Just thought we'd moved beyond surnames, that's all.'
'There's a threshold for that sort of thing is there?'
'In my experience, yes.'
I fought not to groan aloud. Hate being put on the spot. Especially when I'm not prepared for it, and when there are others present.
And, ah, she was sitting awfully close, it seemed to me. Half wished Potter had stayed where he was. At least then I would have been in no danger of losing my grip on my wits. As it was, I felt I might become compromised from her proximity. There was no question of me shuffling in the opposite direction, either; there's only so close I ever want to get to Argus Filch.
'So what will you do when your two months here are over? Assuming they will be, of course.'
'What do you mean by "assuming"?'
'Well, the best-laid plans and all that…' She actually smirked.
'Horace will be back in January, Granger, I assure you. And if he's not, I will not be hanging around.'
'And what will you do, then?'
I tightened my grip on my glass, pretty fed up of everyone asking me this. If I fucking knew what I wanted to do, I wouldn't have had to lend myself to Hogwarts would I?
'Oh, well, my overall goal is to stand in the next election for Minister for Magic,' I said blithely.
Ha! That shut her up!
Not for long though. 'Very funny. So you don't know, basically.'
'Yes; I don't know.'
This was going well, wasn't it? I was getting right arsey with her for no particular reason. I frantically sought to smooth things out.
'How's Yorkshire? My father's house not in the sea, yet?'
'Er, I don't know, really. Haven't been there lately. Been thinking about finding somewhere different to go walking, actually—nice to have a change, now and again.'
Oh. That was interesting.
'My father would be ashamed to hear you say such a thing.' I grimaced sardonically. 'Ther's nowt betta than God's own county, tha knaws.'
She smiled. 'I expect he was right. Tell me, if you grew up in the north, where's your accent?'
'You mean, why did I not stand at the front of the classroom and say "Ah can teach yer 'ow ta bewitch t' mind an' ensnare t' senses"?'
She cackled loudly, and when a few of our companions looked to see what was so funny, I tried to look like I wasn't responsible.
'I never picked one up,' I explained, when she'd recovered herself. 'Maybe if I'd gone to a Muggle school, I might have.'
Thank God I didn't; all I can say.
'I see.'
She was quiet for a moment, before speaking again. 'Any suggestions where I might try my feet next, then?'
Had a distressing urge to suggest she try the highlands! And so, to compensate for my unease, what I actually said to her was that she might do well to try the south west coast.
Great.
Basically told her to try as far away from here as possible. Hopefully, she didn't see it in that light, of course, but… I think it's well established that my luck doesn't run very far.
I wonder if she'll return to the Three Broomsticks anytime soon?
Let's just pray it's minus that bloody irritating Potter next time.
Tuesday 15th November
13:00 — Lunchtime.
Nearly got into a slanging match with Rolanda in the middle of the staff room today. Wasn't my fault. The stupid woman has only gone and invited fucking Weasley to come and run a selection of Quidditch sessions. Granted, it's only for one day, but Merlin, is it necessary to have that layabout roaming the castle?
'Weasley is a crap Quidditch player,' I said to her. 'You'd have been better served asking Moaning bloody Myrtle to give instruction.'
'He's not crap, Severus,' she answered, clearly offended by my dismissal of what she obviously deemed a wonderful idea.
'The Cannons' slow descent down the league is nothing to do with Weasley's mediocrity, then? Flattened by the Harpies last week, were they not?'
A result I had very much relished.
'Admittedly, he has not played well recently, but he has had some very distressing personal problems—'
'Distressing?' I scoffed. 'I'm sure he found it very distressing falling into bed with another woman. He was so distressed he conveniently neglected to inform his wife of his despicable behaviour.'
The look she gave me suggested to me that I may have been a little too vehement in my disgust.
'Since when have you become all moral and noble, eh? Is this prudish side to you new, or has it always been there? Do we really need to judge him—'
'He's making out he's the victim—'
'No he's not—'
'Open your eyes, Rolanda; he's a self-absorbed piece of—'
'It's nothing to do with you, Severus, actually, so why don't you just keep your comments to yourself?'
She marched off in a huff then, probably because she knows I'm right.
In theory, I could avoid coming into contact with the ginger whinger when the time comes. However, have feeling I shall want to annoy him greatly.
We shall see.
Friday 18th November
17:30 — (Should be marking work but can't be arsed).
So much for it being pleasant to live amongst others again!
Was in the staff room earlier, minding my own business, doing a little writing, when Pomona pipes up, bold as brass:
'What's that book you're always scribbling in, Severus?'
There was any number of things for me to take offence at in that observation. I do not, and never have, scribbled. Neither did I appreciate her sticking her nose in my business; especially as there were several faces apparently intrigued at my answer. Comes to something when a man can't write in a book without an inquisition!
Was about to reply, very blandly, that it was somewhere for me to docket research ideas, when Minerva obliviously remarked:
'It's his diary.'
After a moment of stunned silence, Pomona let out a short laugh. 'A diary?' She looked at me in some surprise. 'You keep a diary, Severus?'
Minerva had better watch her back—that's all I'm saying.
'Yes,' I replied stiffly.
'What have you written about me?' Pomona asked eagerly. 'I dread to think!'
'Have you given your diary a name, Severus?' chimed in Rolanda, next. 'Or is it just plain old "Dear Diary"?'
They all dissolved into little giggles then. Think they're so funny, don't they? Minerva had the grace to appear a little sheepish, but even as she said, 'Don't tease him,' I could tell she was dying to laugh.
I was not amused by all this; of course I wasn't. And I could have quite legitimately stormed off in a huff, or indeed, taken pains to make Minerva, particularly, feel guilty for belittling my, what has turned out to be, exercise in much- needed self-reflection.
I dish it out to them, often enough, however, so I'm prepared to take it in return.
For now.
Tuesday 22nd November
12:30 — Potions.
There we are, then. My first detention dispensed.
Not before time, too. I have rather a black-log of dirty cauldrons building up.
Knew it was only a matter time before they'd start trying their luck with me. Caught a Gryffindor boy stuffing whizzbees into his mouth when he thought I wasn't looking. I crept up behind him and he appeared to have half of Honeydukes in his lap.
'Detention for you, Stevens!' I hissed in his ear.
He jumped and sent his whizzbees scattering all over the floor.
'Pick them up; every single one of them.'
He was on his hands and knees for nearly quarter of an hour, because the Slytherins kept kicking the whizzbees across the floor.
Accidentally, you understand.
Saturday 26th November
9:30 — Office.
Weasley the Wanker has arrived. Funny thing though—I don't think he realised I was back at Hogwarts, albeit standing in for Horace. I think he's beginning to think of me as his personal tormentor, turning up regularly at unwanted occasions. Good.
Anyway, he has had hordes of gushing children following him around all day, and the bloody prick is loving it, I can tell.
Hate people who seek attention.
And Minerva continues to fall way down in my estimation too, I'm sorry to say. Am very disappointed in her.
She stood up at breakfast this morning and made some prim, but sycophantic, speech to the children about how honoured they were to have such an illustrious former student back with them. When the phrase 'role model' passed her lips I nearly got up and left there and then; almost washed my hands of the bloody lot of them.
I fully realise we no longer live in the Dark Ages, but why can't anyone else see that Weasley doesn't deserve to be applauded? Adultery aside, all he does is sit on a broom and try and catch a few Quaffles. Why should that be a cause for admiration?
It's just what the wizarding world really needs, isn't it? A whole generation of children wanting to grow up to be like Ronald Weasley.
It's no good; am going to have to take myself down into Hogsmeade after dinner until he's gone, otherwise I don't know what I will end up doing.
For now, I shall hide in the dungeons. It's for Weasley's own good.
18:30 — Dungeons.
Going to Hogsmeade was a huge error on my part.
Oh God. Big fuck-up of the first order.
I was sitting in the Hog's Head, drinking a pint, looking out through the window aimlessly, when I saw Hermione Granger walking down the high street and disappear into Dervish and Banges.
Was on my feet before I knew what was doing, ashamed to say. Not often I leave a three-quarter full pint behind, let me tell you. I stood on the street, unsure as to what, precisely, I was going to do.
I was contemplating, as I knew I would, retreating into hiding and pretending I never saw her, when I saw Weasley hurrying through the village from the direction of the castle. Had he also spotted Granger?
I was across the road and in his path without even thinking about it. Weasley's expression darkened and his pace slowed. I think he was planning on just ignoring me, which was sensible, in hindsight, but I wouldn't allow him to simply pass me by.
'Weasley,' I said, possibly a bit menacingly.
He stopped in front of me and folded his arms in gesture both defensive and slightly threatening.
'What do you want, Snape?'
I said nothing.
'What's your problem? Just what is it that you're after, eh?' His eyes slid to Dervish and Banges and a flicker of comprehension passed over his face. 'My ex-wife, perhaps?'
Ah. Was a bit thrown then, wasn't I? Before I could muster a response, he was chuckling darkly.
'Thought I hadn't noticed, did you? Oh Merlin; boxed yourself right in this time, haven't you? Do you think Hermione would ever turn her attentions to you?'
'Why don't you just—'
'Just what?' he interrupted loudly. 'Think I actually feel sorry for you, Snape. I mean, it's just plain stupidity to fall into the same trap twice, isn't it?'
He had the gall to pat my arm as he brushed past, and I couldn't help what I did. I was so infuriated with him that I grabbed him by the scruff of his ridiculous Quidditch gear and yanked him back in front of me.
'How dare you talk to me like that, you little shit.'
He shook himself free of my grip and when I saw his wand, I reacted instantly. A split second later, Weasley was lying in the gutter, ah, somehow looking very much stupefied.
Whoops.
What was I to do with him? I was considering levitating him into one of the narrow back lanes, to leave him there unseen until the spell wore off, when the doorbell to Dervish and Bange's tinkled, signalling the arrival or departure of a customer.
I knew who it would be, just as surely as I knew my own name.
'Severus!' she stated in surprise, stepping around to look at me. 'What—Ron?' she suddenly exclaimed, staring down at the prone form of her former husband. 'What the hell happened?'
I watched her bend her knees to turn Weasley onto his back, succeeding, as she did so, in bringing my blood to a very steady boil.
'Did you do this?' she asked, looking up at me with a frown of disbelief.
Considering I was standing there with my wand out, I felt she could have been rather more assured in her inference than she was.
'Might have,' I muttered.
Couldn't stand it any longer. I side-stepped them both and headed back in the direction of the castle. She could see to her precious Weasley; fine by me.
However, I'd only gone a few paces when I heard her call out:
'Ah, excuse me, but you cannot just go around Stunning people whenever you feel like it!'
I halted and spun around, prepared to tell her I could bloody well Stun who I bloody well liked! Except, I discovered she had abandoned Weasley to hurry after me. She hadn't even bothered to cast Ennervate on him yet.
Most importantly, however, she was hiding a smile by biting her lip.
'So what did he do to deserve it?' she asked next.
Was pleasantly surprised by this twist of fate. Expected her to get all hoity-toity about my actions. Still, I could hardly explain the reasoning behind my ire without giving myself away. 'He exists; isn't that enough?' I said instead, which, actually, isn't really that far from the truth of the matter.
She didn't say anything, but simply looked at me for several moments. Wasn't sure what to make of her appraisal, but unfortunately, the fact that I'd just felled Ronald Weasley in the middle of Hogsmeade made me a bit defensive, so I fear my expression may have turned a little obstinate.
'Well… I'd better go and sort him out…' Her words were very much in contradiction to her actions, for she continued to just stand there. I was beginning to feel a little bit self-conscious under her contemplation, so I sought to direct it elsewhere.
'Ah, Granger—Weasley is beginning to attract an audience.'
I nodded at the scene behind her, and she looked to see several people now standing over Weasley with concern.
'Oh!' she exclaimed, running back up the street.
Somewhat reluctantly, I pushed on back to the castle, wondering if Weasley would relate precisely how he'd ended up flat on his back in the gutter. I don't think he'll give her the actual details. It's hardly in his interest, after all.
What is in his interest, however, is to make out the attack was entirely unprovoked. Well, good luck to him, because Granger clearly won't believe him. Ha!
I hope not, anyway.
23:00 — Office. Slightly drunk.
I think… No, I am rather sure I would like to see Granger again.
Bah. How pathetic am I?
There is only one option open to me, really, because there's no way on God's green earth I am ever going to find the impetus to ask her out! I want to die just thinking about it.
I think… Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to request a driving lesson.
! ! ! !
It's asking for trouble, I know.
Will send a note asking for her assistance in setting me up with the legitimate means for learning to drive.
Hmm… where's my parchment?
Am fairly confident she will suggest some sort of meeting in response, and aim will have been achieved without me having to reveal even one card, let alone my whole hand!
Too cunning for my own good, sometimes.
23:45 — Owlery!
Oh fuck! Why am I such a stupid prick?
As soon as the owl took flight with my note to Granger, I felt cold sobriety creeping up on me and with it, regret for my hasty and ill-thought-out action. No! I don't want to meet up with her! I don't want driving lessons from her! I don't want to compromise myself further!
I even leaned over the parapet as if to grab the owl back. No such luck. I snatched out my wand, prepared to Accio the owl back, but…
I had just about enough sense left in me to realise saying 'Accio owl' in the vicinity of an owlery is a huge error of judgement.
Why couldn't I have waited until the cold light of day? What sort of idiot decides on an onerous trek to the owlery, late at night, to send off a letter about driving lessons?
An idiot who is under the effects of too much booze, that's what.
I just hope the owl doesn't arrive at Granger's until a civilised hour.
Can't even remember precisely what it is I wrote in the note… Oh God.
Shan't be sleeping tonight; know that much!