Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: The new chapter of Diaries was very motivational. I'm just sayin'.
Sooo, the weather has been uncharacteristically gorgeous and warm as of late, considering this is Alaska, and I was honestly going to go outside today. I was. But then Dia posted the new chapter of Diaries, and I felt oddly compelled to write a bit of Lamentations. Unfortunately, Aur was feeling rambly, and a bit turned into a lot – thirteen pages, to be precise. And so I spent the afternoon sitting in front of a computer screen. J (I know it's a J. Deal.)
And let it be stated that I cannot control Auriga. I simply can't. I have tried before and failed. So, you know, the Friday entries are not my fault. It's allllll her.
Thanks to my Snape Translator (also known as one Miss Gedia Kacela) for basically everything the man says in this chapter. :-D Don't let the hiccups get you down, luv.
(I did not proofread. I am lazy. Do not hate me.)
-Part 14-
Friday, November 1, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
12:02 P.M.
I'm not sure I can stand to live like this.
All around me, my colleagues are babbling about how Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger beat the hell out of a mountain troll last night and managed to win a grand total of five points for Gryffindor. Oooh, ahh. They don't understand. They have no idea of the true evil that walks within our midst!
He's sitting at the end of the table, writing. Occasionally, he'll glance up and sneer at everyone. And let me tell you, these are evil sneers, too – he's probably envisioning the lot of us hanging from our fingernails from the dungeon ceiling, screaming out in agony and begging for him to let us down. He won't, of course (evil bastard) – instead, he'll just laugh triumphantly. I expect he'll be pacing back and forth, very slowly, tapping his fingertips together. (That's what evil bastards do, you know. Scientifically proven fact.)
"You expect me to release you?" he'll ask, his voice dripping with malice. "How quaint."
And then I suppose everyone will turn their attention to me, because, let's face it, my relationship with him is far more advanced than anyone else's. Except maybe Dumbledore's, but I doubt even Snape would have the nerve to hang Dumbledore from the ceiling by his fingernails. He'll probably just buy Dumbledore a ticket to Jamaica and tell him that he's been working too hard and deserves a bit of a rest. "Go on, buddy. Take the weekend off. I'll keep an eye on things around here."
And Dumbledore, of course, will oblige, because the idiotic ridiculous stupid stupid STUPID old man does not recognize that he has employed a homicidal maniac. He'll probably be so busy sucking on Fizzing Whizbees that he won't even bother to glance up and see that Snape's eyes have gone red and he keeps bursting into random fits of evil laughter.
"Yes, of course, Severus. Do make sure to remind Hagrid to chase the Weasley twins out of the Forbidden Forest every so often."
"Of course, Headmaster. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!"
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing."
"All right. Everything seems to be in order, then."
Oh, dear. We'll never even stand a chance. The man may be the most powerful wizard in the world, but Snape knows his ultimate weakness. Dumbledore doesn't exactly attempt to hide it, after all. I doubt anyone in this castle doesn't know that for a bag of Honeydukes sweets he'll sell his own Aunt Bertha. (I don't know whether Dumbledore has an Aunt Bertha, actually – and, I suppose, even if he did, she wouldn't be alive anymore. But she's a figurative Aunt Bertha, mind, so you can just stop looking at me like that.)
Oh my God – I wouldn't be at all surprised if Snape bought the Fizzing Whizbees for Dumbledore, perfectly aware of the docile state into which they would render him!
(Not to mention that it probably amuses him to the point of no return to see the old man hovering a few feet off the ground. Just watch – he'll go and get the best headmaster Hogwarts ever had addicted to Billywig stings. Sick bastard.)
And so, of course, Dumbledore will have gone to Jamaica, leaving the rest of us to attempt to fend off Snape. Only the rest of us won't be aware of his true nature – only I am! And I'm hardly a match against a powerful dark wizard. I mean, I never properly mastered Stunning spells, for God's sake.
Oh dear, oh dear.
Dumbledore will disappear, and Snape will probably do something grotesque to all of the children. I don't even want to think about that. Except, of course, Draco Malfoy, whom he is probably so fond of that he'll buy him a collar and a nice fluffy pillow and have Draco trail around after Snape like some twisted . . . lapdog, or something.
And then, of course, we humble educators will be banished to the dungeon, and Snape will somehow manage to hang us up by our fingernails. This will probably result in everyone losing their fingernails, which really is unpleasant, but on the plus side, it'll get me to stop biting mine. But this will hardly matter once Snape's terrifying reign has begun.
And . . . where was I to begin with?
Wait. Let me go check.
12:10 P.M.
All right, got it.
"You expect me to release you?" he'll ask, his voice dripping with malice. "How quaint."
And then he'll stop in front of me, and we'll exchange a look. Not just a look in the way of 'oh, hum dee dum, there's Auriga; I do wonder how nasty her cuticles will be after this, ha ha!' but a real, genuine look. Maybe even a Look.
. . . Yes, definitely a Look.
Because we share a tangled and impassioned relationship, he and I. Beneath all the loathing and the scathing comments and the occasional coffee mug, we've always truly had a connection, Snape and I have. And beyond our mutual detesting of one another, he probably truly, purely cares for me, the one genuinely good feeling he possesses amidst all the darkness and evil and random 'mwahaha!' attacks.
He did do that victory dance, after all.
And so he'll pause for a moment, and I'll stare down at him, knowing that it is my duty to weave my charms around him as best I can in order to save my colleagues, the students, and the entirety of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. (Where Harry Potter is throughout all of this, I have no clue. A bit bratty of him, really, to leave that kind of responsibility on my shoulders.)
"Auriga," Snape will say, very softly, and there will, for the first time, be a flicker of doubt in his darkened eyes.
"Severus," I'll then reply evenly, but in a tone that implies that I, too, sense the endless underlying longing between us.
And he'll simply stare up at me, caught between light and darkness, heaven and hell, the blackened and addictive power that comes from serving You-Know-Who battling against the naïve and genuine sweetness in my eyes.
"Auriga," he'll say again, his voice raw with emotion. "I
12:20 P.M.
certainly wouldn't dream to doubt that you're writing something of . . ." sneer, ". . . utmost importance, but in case you were far too swept up in a description of your exploits with your . . ." sneer again, ". . . ever-so-charming paramour, the headmaster just requested that we leave the teacher's lounge."
I hate him.
Bedroom Quarters
12:26 P.M.
And I honestly haven't a clue where any of that came from. Probably the lack of sleep last night. After all, when one finds out that one's longtime sworn enemy is evil, disappearing into a land of dreams is slightly difficult.
But, you know, it's certainly not too far-fetched.
12:27 P.M.
All right, all right, it is a bit far-fetched.
12:28 P.M.
Fine. I admit it. I'm completely insane.
12:29 P.M.
Don't see why it's any of your concern anyway, you stupid notebook.
12:30 P.M.
And you can just quit sitting there all docile like you didn't do anything.
12:31 P.M.
What, have you been taking nasty bastard lessons from Snape?
12:32 P.M.
What was that???
Yes, well, so's your mum, you rotten little wretch!
12:33 P.M.
Er.
12:44 P.M.
Um. I've just reread all of what I've written today, and . . .
Oh dear. I'm beyond insane.
. . . or perhaps . . .
12:45 P.M.
Good Lord.
12:46 P.M.
I could be Moira K. Mockridge.
12:47 P.M.
(Though admittedly with worse hair.)
12:48 P.M.
(And yes, I am aware that that doesn't account at all for the little . . . row with the notebook.)
12:49 P.M.
(Oh, sod off.)
AstronomyTower
9:23 P.M.
I have determined, after much consideration, that maybe it would be best if I were to give up writing in here for a bit.
I think that finding out Snape's true nature has sent me off the edge. I can't be blamed for it, of course – I mean, it's a horrifying revelation.
But that simply does not change the fact that I had an argument with an inanimate notebook.
And seem to have composed a rather questionable mini-romance novel featuring Snape, myself, and a potentially Billywig-sting-overdosing Dumbledore.
No good can come of this.
God, I need Algernon to come back. I honestly felt about a hundred times more sane when he was around.
9:30 P.M.
Sigh.
Tuesday, November 6, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
5:52 P.M.
All right. I think I may be a bit saner now. I've had time to embrace the fact that Snape is evil, and I've come to terms with it.
I've also accepted that it does not seem to be his style to hang all of his coworkers from the ceiling of the dungeon by their fingernails.
For you see, I've been watching him more closely than ever lately. I figure that if no one else knows about him, then it makes it all the more important that I really know him – all of his little mannerisms and the way he reacts to certain things. This way, if he ever does choose to snap and kill us all, I may be able to foresee it. It's a bit like Divination.
Auriga Sinistra, Snape Seer.
. . . Okay, perhaps I won't bother with an official title, because that's a bit stupid.
But anyhow. I've been watching him over the past week, making little mental notes of things. The first is that he's been limping around everywhere rather than walking properly, which either means that he didn't make it past Fluffy unscathed – or, more likely, he didn't make it at all – or that he just wants sympathy and attention from the rest of us and will go to great lengths to get it.
And that just seems downright unlikely.
He's also, I've noticed, been in an even nastier mood than usual lately. While casually walking behind him in the hall (and no, I am not stalking him. Being a Snape Se— ahem, doing this particular job – just requires such things) I've witnessed him take a total of one hundred and eighty two points from assorted houses. He's even been snapping at the Slytherins, which is rather unnatural. Perhaps You-Know-Who is putting a bit of pressure on him; something of a deadline to get the Stone so he can rise again and wreak general havoc over the entire wizarding world before Christmas.
Why, isn't that jolly.
Lastly, I've noticed that Snape seems to be keeping a particularly close eye on Quirrell lately. He keeps shooting him menacing glances at meals and when they pass in the corridors and such. Quirrell, of course, seems terrified. I haven't the faintest clue what's going on there. The only thing I've been able to come up with is that maybe Quirrell suspects him too, and somehow has worked up the courage to tell Snape that.
In which case, I'm not alone, like I'd thought.
Quirrell, too, is suffering the same plight, completely unaware that I know exactly what he's going through. I suppose that we could join forces – share the woes of being so thoroughly detached from every other inhabitant of the castle; try to work out exactly when Snape will try to strike, growing closer and closer all the while . . .
6:03 P.M.
Ugh.
6:04 P.M.
Give me solitude any day, thank you.
Friday, November 8, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
10:12 A.M.
Oh my goodness. That was terribly close. Too close.
This sort of lifestyle honestly doesn't work for me. I honestly think that stress does odd things to me. Besides the obvious occasional psychotic episode in which arguing with a notebook in a way that implied the notebook could talk back takes place, I also think that my hair is getting increasingly frizzy. Now, I know that this sounds absolutely ridiculous. Who ever heard of stress causing someone's hair to rebel? But I swear to God it's true. I mean, even Snape's noticed. He made one of his signature scathing comments about it earlier at breakfast.
Of course, that could be because I turned my head and accidentally managed to hit him in the face with my hair, but still. Aren't men supposed to be completely oblivious about that sort of thing unless it's painfully obvious?
At the rate this is going, by the end of the month I am going to be sporting an afro.
I do hope Algernon doesn't show up for any romantic surprise visits, because if he saw me like this, he would probably die on the spot. And I really wouldn't be able to blame him.
But back to the horrifying instance that has caused my hair to frizz yet more.
So, I was simply sitting and enjoying a cup of coffee and Moira K. Mockridge's most recent novel when Victoria came in, claiming she needed a caffeine fix before facing her fifth year Arithmancy class.
This, of course, was fine with me. Things were going perfectly well – she asked whether the book was any good, and then began talking about how much she'd loved A Dangerous Spell (you know, the one that paralleled Algernon and Narcissa Malfoy's nonexistent relationship), and we had a bit of a pleasant conversation before she went silent.
I went back to the book, figuring she was going to leave in a minute, but instead she just kept sitting there and staring at me. This caused me to panic a bit – maybe she had noticed that I'd been keeping an eye on Snape and wanted to ask what the hell I was doing and if I was going to contemplate cheating on Algernon with him or something ridiculous like that, and then of course I'd feel compelled to share the true story because otherwise she wouldn't give the infidelity idea a rest, and then she wouldn't believe me and she'd probably tell McGonagall I'd gone crackers, and then McGonagall'd pass it on to Dumbledore straight away, and . . .
Well, anyway.
"Aur," she finally said, "are you okay?"
Considering the thought process I'd just gone through, I wasn't exactly able to reply nonchalantly. "What?? What do you mean, am I okay? I'm good. Splendid. Brilliant."
I am sometimes an idiot.
Victoria, however, didn't seem to pick up on that. "You've just seemed so distant lately."
"Yeah, well . . ."
Unfortunately, I ran out of reply after 'yeah, well…', quite simply because I didn't particularly want to follow it up with "you see, Snape is evil, and I'm the only one that knows this, so naturally I've got to keep an eye on him for the good of all of this school."
Victoria, thankfully, did not seem to pick up on my unspoken desire to say this. Instead, she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, sympathy all over her face. "Missing Algernon, huh?"
And then I realized, feeling quite overjoyed indeed, that this seemed entirely plausible.
"Yes, yes," I agreed, nodding fervently. "You know, because he's gone, and I'm here, and I really quite miss him, because he's really a wonderful man."
Victoria nodded in agreement. "Yes, he is." She squeezed my hand again before standing up and smiling at me. "Hang in there, Aur."
You know, when she's not being sex-obsessed or enjoying my seemingly perpetual embarrassment, I really do love her.
And I was struck by this as I watched her head toward the doorway, and for a second I was overcome with a desire to tell her what, exactly, was really going on. She hates Snape, after all, and I'm her best friend – why wouldn't she believe me?
But I couldn't, for some reason.
I suppose I just don't want to drag anyone else into this.
Lord knows it's driving me insane enough as it is.
Bedroom Quarters
1:11 P.M.
You know, perhaps he's not evil after all.
I mean, yes, he's awful, as it is. Aiding You-Know-Who in his return generally makes one a disgraceful excuse for a human being. But just because he's made a few shoddy choices doesn't necessarily mean that his soul is blackened and he lacks the slightest trace of humanity.
If such were the case, the events that just took place certainly wouldn't have happened.
Though maybe I've just gone crazy again. Lord knows it was incredibly peculiar. I was just walking out of the teacher's lounge, having finally finished Moira K. Mockridge's new novel (absolutely excellent, by the way), only to find that Snape was heading towards me, looking deeply annoyed.
"Auriga," he said, in this very terse tone, "we need to talk."
And before I even had the chance to so much as respond, he grabbed my arm and began leading me very forcefully out into the courtyard. There were students mingling around everywhere, chatting and apparently enjoying their bit of free time before the afternoon lessons. I, for one, couldn't even begin to see how it was the slightest bit enjoyable – it was absolutely freezing outside, to the point where I could see my breath and my fingers stung from it and everything. Of course, I didn't even have a cloak, but it's hardly surprising that Snape managed to completely and entirely not give anything even faintly resembling a damn.
Still, he kept on walking, and didn't stop until we reached a rather deserted little corner of the courtyard that's almost entirely blocked off by interweaving vines of ivy. It is, of course, universally recognized as the second most popular place to snog at Hogwarts (the first being the Astronomy Tower. Lucky me.) so, naturally, I began to panic a little.
Although, admittedly, not as much as Marcus Flint and Tara Nott did upon being caught by Snape.
"Out!" he snapped.
They were gone before I could even properly register how disturbing it is to witness two of your students apparently attempting to eat one another's mouths.
Snape watched them go for a moment before turning to face me.
I wondered vaguely if he was going to kidnap me and hang me by the fingernails from the ceiling of his dungeon.
"Now," he said, sounding more than slightly formidable.
I absently brought one of my hands to my mouth and began gnawing on my left thumbnail. I figured I may as well take advantage of our last moments together, after all.
"I--" he paused and looked down at me. "What are you doing?"
I pulled my hand away from my mouth instantly. "Nothing."
He gave me a look that clearly expressed he was questioning my sanity – what else is new? – before beginning his speech again.
"Firstly -- I know that you are so apt to jump to ridiculous conclusions, Auriga, but do try to restrain yourself this once."
I blinked. "Er."
My second impulse, after the inevitable complete bewilderment, was to deny this – where did the bastard think he got the right to make those kinds of judgments, anyway??
But then I remembered that he was, in fact, evil, and was therefore able to remain quiet.
(See? Quite the un-ridiculous thing to do, thank you very much!)
"I really care little how you choose to ruin your life," he informed me. "That is rather your own choice. You could throw yourself from the Astronomy Tower in some demented lover's leap and I certainly wouldn't stop you." (I was at this point very tempted to mutter 'Gee, thanks,' but refrained. Evil, and all that.) "I wouldn't even bother speaking to you about this and thusly wasting my time if it were not for the fact that this matter concerns . . . other . . . people."
It was then that I started to suspect that I wasn't the crazy one there.
Unfortunately, I also started to suspect that I was going to die of hypothermia.
"Furthermore—" he stopped and glanced at me again. I found myself wishing that he would stop doing that; the sooner he finished his psychotic babbling, the sooner I could get inside. With every pause-filled second, I was wasting away, but damned if he seemed to care.
Or so I thought then, anyway.
"You're shivering," he observed, sounding slightly annoyed by this.
"Yes," I replied, unable to keep some level of irritation out of my tone. A bit unwise, yes, but I was dying, for God's sake! I think I was allowed a bit of foolishness. "People often do that when they're trapped outside in frosty, freezing weather without a cloak."
He narrowed his eyes at me, a rather nasty sneer making its way onto his face. I'll tell you, I honestly thought he might kill me right then and there. I attempted to comfort myself by reasoning that he wouldn't exactly attempt blatant homicide in a courtyard filled with young and impressionable children, even if none of them could exactly see us on account of the ivy. This, however, was cut short when he reached toward his cloak, obviously about to grab his wand and murder me for my insolence. Bystanders be damned! He was going to . . .
. . . take off his cloak and put it around my shoulders.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Auriga," he said, managing to sound impressively exasperated considering he was behaving somewhat nicely. "Perhaps if you would be so sensible as to wear suitable robes . . ."
I was aware that it was my turn to offer a sharp remark, but was a bit dazed on account of the fact that I'd just almost been murdered and then given a cloak. Instead, I just stared rather blankly up at him.
"I would like that back eventually, you know," he informed me after a moment, in this way where it seemed like he was trying to sound cruel and scathing but couldn't quite manage it.
I nodded weakly, slightly consumed by the fact that an evil man's cape was wrapped around my shoulders, and then something dawned on me.
"Yes, well," I said, and allowed myself a rather wicked smile. "You'll get it back when I get my sweater."
He blinked, looking utterly taken aback. I, meanwhile, was overcome with triumph at the fact that for once the tables had turned and I, Auriga Sinistra, had made him, Severus Snape, feel like an idiot and not vice versa!!
. . . and yes, I'm aware that stating our names was a little unnecessary, but it added to the glory, so you can just shut up.
Notebook.
"Now," I said, smiling – being the blink-inducingly clever one for a change was incredibly empowering, "what was it you wanted to talk about, precisely?"
He sneered. "Nothing that concerns me any longer, I assure you."
And then he turned and disappeared across the courtyard. I stared after him, still quite unnerved by the whole bizarre exchange, as he stormed over to Harry Potter and his friends and started pestering them about something. He grabbed a book right out of Harry's hand and limped on back towards the castle.
Honestly. That was rather ridiculous, even for him. I imagine he told him that reading wasn't allowed, or something like that.
Which is really just a fabulous attitude for a teacher to project.
And so here I am, sitting here and wondering what on earth is going on in Severus Snape's twisted mind. Because, all right, he is You-Know-Who's mindless slave. But he also gave me his cloak. That can't make him entirely evil, can it?
Not that I'd mind either way, really.
I mean, it's certainly not as if I'm still wearing it.
Hah!
Ha.
. . . ha.
Saturday, November 9, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
1:12 P.M.
Oh my God.
I honestly cannot believe this. I honestly, truly cannot believe that –
Oooh, that bastard. That absolutely sick, twisted, disgusting homicidal awful wretched . . .
Er, anyway.
You get my point.
But really. You do not try to kill Harry Potter! It's practically sacrilegious! I mean . . . my God.
Okay. Breathe, self. Breathe.
I will attempt to explain things rationally.
So, today was the first Quidditch match of the season. Everyone was terribly excited, of course, and I'd finally put worrying about Snape and his evil ways out of my mind, for just a bit. After all, he seemed somewhat human yesterday, and I figured that he wasn't going to lash out anytime soon. And so Victoria and I headed down to the match, rather looking forward to it and fully intending to root for Gryffindor so obnoxiously that we would have Snape's eye twitching.
(This, of course, was Victoria's idea.)
We took our seats next to Snape (an imperative part of Victoria's aforementioned idea) and it promised to be rather enjoyable. And it was, for the first twenty minutes or so.
And then Harry's broom went insane.
Honestly – it started jerking around wildly, like it was a temperamental horse about ready to buck him right off. Everyone in the stands immediately began to panic, of course, and amidst all the chaos I noticed something—
Snape was muttering to himself.
I turned, as nonchalantly as I could manage, and discovered that he was staring straight up at Harry. Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what the source of his broom's sudden strange behaviour was.
I panicked. Though really, can you blame me? I mean, the boy's life was in my hands – I had to do something to Snape, and do it quickly.
And so I began to devise a spur of the moment plan, which consisted of – well, all right, and you cannot hold this against me . . .
Keep in mind that I knew I had to do something that would throw him utterly, that would break his concentration and render him completely shocked and distracted so that Harry could make it to the ground safely.
And really, I cannot think of a better way to completely shock and distract Severus Snape than by kissing him.
Of course, it would give him ideas that I couldn't even begin to reverse, no matter what my excuses were. He'd probably spend the rest of his long and evil life thinking I was madly in love with him. But it was a matter of life or death, and I simply had to push aside such thoughts.
And so I did. And I was about to lean over and grab him when suddenly—
He was on fire.
It really did cause a bit of a stir – one second, he was cursing Harry Potter, and the next crying out in surprise because his robes had caught fire.
Harry made it to the ground safely, thank goodness – and not only that, he'd also managed to catch the Snitch.
In his mouth.
I sometimes can't help but think that perhaps that boy has superhuman abilities of some sort.
So, thank God, everything turned out all right.
I didn't even have to kiss Snape.
But that doesn't change the fact that Snape tried to kill Harry, and I somehow doubt he's going to give up just because his first attempt ended with him being nearly engulfed by flames. Oh, no. He's going to keep on trying . . .
Unless I confront him.
And I have to, I've realized. I've just got to go to him, tell him that I'm fully aware of what he's up to, and that I'll go to Dumbledore unless he stops.
There's no time to waste. Not in a situation like this.
Wish me luck, Notebook. I'm off to the dungeons right this instant.
1:23 P.M.
I'm really going.
1:27 P.M.
Honestly.
1:32 P.M.
Okay. Yes. I'm going.
1:35 P.M.
If I never write again, it's because he's killed me.
Or possibly because I'm hanging from the ceiling of the dungeon by my fingernails.
1:40 P.M.
Going now.
1:41 P.M.
Promise.