Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Haha, let no one say my spring break entirely lacked productivity. (Ignoring the fact that I only actually got around to writing hardcorely on the last day.)
Thank you so much for all the support you guys give this fic; I don't even know where to begin. The reviews for chapter 20 just completely reminded me how wonderful you are and how lucky I am to have you, especially considering how horrible I am about updating. Your feedback is so valued, and just . . . thanks. Very, very much thanks. You guys rock.
-Part 21-
Sunday, December 22, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
5:42 A.M.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .
5:48 A.M.
Okay. It's all right. I'm fine. It was just a dream. All just a dream.
Even the part where my mother single-handedly took over Hogwarts. And had everyone on her side. Everyone. Even Trelawney. Even Quirrell's iguana. And we all know that Herman has something going on that isn't quite right! Can you blame him, when he's owned by an evil person? Oh God. Oh God oh God. My mother with an evil iguana. And the house-elves! All of them! Well, I'm not quite sure about all of them, because the last thing I saw before I had to wake up lest I otherwise go entirely mad from fear was Wimmy staring at me, his gigantic eyes all wistful and brimming with tears, as he was forced to choose between his people and his one true doomed love.
Not that I'd really particularly care if he didn't choose me, of course. Because he is a house elf. But that isn't the point here! The point is that my mother – my mother, she can do that sort of thing. And isn't it true that dreams can be prophetic? The thing is, this is very much unlike other kinds of dreams. You know, like that dream with Snape and the neck-kissing. That's the sort of dream that is very clearly just a dream (er, that approaches on nightmarish, of course) because it's got that hazy surreal feel about it and your senses all become oddly heightened until the littlest graze of flesh against flesh is enough to make you feel like every single part of your body is composed entirely of little sparks that exist solely to drive you mad with precisely how aware you are that unless you want to go completely out of your mind you really quite need to be much, much closer to—
Well, you know.
Those kinds of dreams. That are . . . dreamy.
And . . .
Bad.
Disturbing.
Alarmingly vivid.
It's that sort of thing that scars you for life, you know.
What with the . . . lips, and . . .
5:50 A.M.
What was my point again?
5:51 A.M.
Ah! Right!
It wasn't a dream like that.
With my mother, you see, it could happen. She could make it happen. She could turn every single aspect of my already not-precisely-enchanting life against me, even my dearly devoted house elf. Don't think she couldn't, or that I'm exaggerating because she fills me with unnatural levels of bitterness, or anything of the like! Because Notebook, truly, you know nothing. Did you grow up with her? I think not! Why, I bet she could turn even you against me! And you, as I am perfectly aware of (um, honestly), are an inanimate object!
She just has that kind of power.
And she's coming here.
5:53 A.M.
Well, this is sure to be nothing short of holly jolly.
Teacher's Lounge
9:15 A.M.
All right, I'm here. I'm ready. I've got my coffee mug and I am entirely prepared to approach this particular problem in a calm and logical manner.
Because, really, how hard can it possibly be to pick out an ideal Christmas gift for Slatero Quirrell?
So he's evil. I refuse to let that detain me! After all, I've dealt with Snape for years, and he is far more utterly, maddeningly unpleasant than some measly You-Know-Who minion! I bet I could come up with the perfect Christmas gift for Severus Snape in about half a second!
Um, not because I fancy myself a Snape expert, or anything. Not because I pay any sort of unnatural amount of attention to him. Just because . . .
But is this really even the time to be talking about Snape? I think not!
This is all about Quirrell.
So.
Here we go, then.
POTENTIAL GIFT IDEAS FOR SLATERO QUIRRELL
-A new turban
Well, honestly, the old one does seem a bit worse for wear. It never looks precisely sharp, you know, and perhaps it'd help him out quite a bit with that stutter and inability to look anyone in the face if he were a bit more confident about his appearance! Besides, it always smells a bit . . . off. And I'm not one to judge – although to my knowledge I don't smell – but it's always just a little unpleasant when one winds up sitting next to him at meals or staff meetings or the like. It makes it especially hard to focus on whatever tedious thing McGonagall is saying. So maybe if he just scrapped the old turban, then . . .
. . . Of course, there's the troublesome little part where he's evil. I'd kind of forgotten about that. And, honestly, if he's able to tap into a bit of self-confidence, it would more likely than not just make him feel more diabolical, and then he'd probably start killing first years and feeding them to Herman just because he could.
Besides, I haven't the slightest idea where one would find a turban.
Next!
-A hat
Well, turbans are a bit passé.
But I don't want to offend him. He does seem rather fragile.
You know, for an evil person.
-That new Flourish & Blotts bestseller about the history of the dark arts
. . .Oh, right, Auriga. Because it would be ever so clever of you to provide him with a veritable fountain of evil inspiration.
Next.
-Socks
Shut up. Stop looking at me like that. It's worked out quite well in the past, for your information! A few years ago, I got Dumbledore's name, and – well, what do you get for Dumbledore? I figured I should attempt to find some really intellectual book worthy of his genius, and such, but it turns out that's a fairly daunting task. Instead, I finally settled on some Muggle chocolate bars and a nice pair of wool socks, and wouldn't you know, he was thrilled. So there. Socks can be quite an effective gift.
Except, well, it seems a bit maternal in this instance, doesn't it? Like I'm mollycoddling him? It almost seems too innocent. Why would one get a grown man who wasn't Albus Dumbledore socks? It'll be glaringly obvious – I'll be trying so hard to treat him like he's not the Dark Lord's faithful servant that my "oh, of course you're perfectly innocent!" approach will tip him off at once that I've been onto him for sometime! And I'm not like Snape, you know. I can't just glare at people and immediately have them groveling in submission. In fact, I'm rather vulnerable! He'd kill me before the wrapping paper hit the floor!
But I'm all right. Just because my trusty fallback gift has failed me is certainly no cause for concern.
Um.
I . . .
9:29 A.M.
Aack! Oh, dear Lord, I've got to tread carefully now.
Quirrell, fittingly enough, just came in and asked me if the coffee was fresh. (Well, not in so few words, of course. Or at least syllables. By the time he got the message out, I had practically passed out.)
I don't know. Something about the way he was staring at me just suspected that he knew something. That he suspected.
And, all right, I suppose this could technically be attributed to the fact that when I looked up at him I kind of yelped slightly, slammed my notebook closed with all the force I could muster, and then elbowed my coffee mug off the table for good measure.
But still. There was something in his eyes – some dark glint that couldn't solely be attributed to caffeine deprivation. That man is onto me. He knows something.
This gift has to be perfect.
It's becoming grave. A matter of life or death.
I believe it's time to take desperate measures.
10:11 A.M.
Sweet stars. You'd think that going to Diagon Alley with me is something akin to a death sentence. Can you believe that the only way I could get him to agree with it was reminding him, quite pointedly, that I am a woman and therefore probably far more equipped to pick out a gift for Trelawney?
And still he had the nerve to have a downright field day with the whole me-being-a-woman proclamation.
Bastard.
The Leaky Cauldron
4:14 P.M.
Hah! Victory is mine!
Of course, I'd probably be feeling much more victorious if I hadn't just been forced to spend several hours with Snape. I somehow suspect he harbors similar feelings, considering he's currently at the bar ordering liberal amounts of firewhisky. Because I am not an idiot, I just requested a butterbeer. I know what happens when Snape, alcohol, and I all put in some quality time together, and let me tell you, Notebook, it's not pretty!
Honestly.
It's a good thing that he's always acted, with steadfast devotion, as though that Yule Ball punch incident never happened. Otherwise, I don't know what would have happened.
Something unendurable, to be sure.
Yes.
And bad.
As unendurable things tend to be.
But anyway. It's not as though any of that matters anymore. Or ever did.
So, yes, Quirrell! After three and a half hours of searching, during which time Snape contemplated killing me at least sixty-seven times (it has reached the point where I can see it in his eyes), I finally triumphed at the Magical Menagerie. It was actually completely unintentional; I was just feeling a bit morose about how Quirrell was sure to kill me because the perfect Christmas gift clearly did not exist, and Snape was feeling a bit murderous because we'd managed to find Trelawney's gift (a very pretty purple scarf with little moon and star embroidery which he sneered at with flourish and actually refused to touch until it was in the bag) in about fifteen minutes. He finally stormed off to the apothecary without much explanation beyond a sneer and an eye twitch when I began describing all of the things I'd always rather wanted to do before I died.
(I suppose revealing my desire to have some sort of romantic encounter with Gilderoy Lockhart was faintly foolish, but by that time I felt rather dazed and wasn't quite paying attention to distinguishing between what just flitted through my mind and what actually came out of my mouth.)
So after I'd been rather heartlessly abandoned in favour of newt's eyes, I found myself wandering on over to the Magical Menagerie. I figured that looking at kittens might at least be able to slightly ease the pain of my certain impending doom, even though I've always been more of a dog person. In times of such desperation, I know well enough to take what I can get.
I spent a bit of time rather morosely looking at kittens and thinking about how I'd always rather wanted to get a cat and now certainly wouldn't be able to – that is, until one scratched me and my thoughts rather transitioned to something along the lines of how I'd never particularly liked cats anyway.
While I was shooting a rather offended glare the kittens' way, a display of rather stylish collars caught my eye. They had everything from a rather intimidating spike collar to one covered entirely in very classy-looking rhinestones, and then, quite all at once, it hit me.
Herman.
Poor, poor Herman, with his pink collar.
I mean, admittedly, he's not precisely my favourite creature in the world. In fact, I still kind of feel kind of compelled to shudder every time he crosses my mind. But the point is, Quirrell seems to like him. Quirrell seems to like him in the manner that Filch likes Mrs. Norris, in fact, but I don't precisely want to go there.
What matters is that every single collar, even the frightful spiked one, suddenly seemed to sparkle with the possibility of my salvation. I figured that it would seem a rather sensitive gesture indeed, to show that I knew enough about him to understand how much his faithful reptile meant to him. And what's more, I would be doing Herman quite the favor as well. You know, perhaps his . . . slightly aggressive sexual behaviour can all be attributed to the fact that that pink collar is such a blow to his masculinity. Maybe, with a nice handsome leather one or something of the like, he'd feel less pressure to . . . prove himself.
And, well, needless to say, Notebook, that was enough to sell the idea to me. I picked out the most gentlemanly non-spiked collar I could find – brown leather, and not the slightest bit feminine – and bought it right away, overcome with a very pleasant sense of mingled relief and victory. (And, all right, also a sense that I'd gone a few galleons over the spending limit, but after what I'd been through, that hardly seemed important.)
So, in conclusion, Notebook, it looks as though I'm not going to die after all!
In fact, everything would be something approaching utterly wonderful if it weren't for . . .
4:24 P.M.
My mother. Oh, God, my mother. Somehow I'd managed to forget for a few glorious hours, but now it's all just come rushing back.
So, really, my thoughtful and sensitive gift for Herman won't matter in the slightest, because she'll seduce him over to the side of darkness anyhow!
That is, after she's managed to fully criticize every aspect of my life. Because, let's face it, Notebook, I don't really have a lot going on for me. At least before there was Algernon, but . . .
4:25 P.M.
Algernon.
Whom she thinks I am still dating.
And, well, I can't very well explain to her that we had to split up over a pesky little near-death experience. She would never let me live it down. Never. It'd be worse than the forty-seven minute lecture I got concerning how to keep a man's attention after I moved back home when Paul dumped me for that wretched secretary. (Barmaid? Knowing him, probably both.)
Oh dear.
He's . . . out of town. Yes, that's it. Out of town. He's a busy man, after all. One can't expect him to stop his entire corporation simply because of a little thing like Christmas! What is he, Tiny Tim?
. . . Of course, then she'll just reach the conclusion that he doesn't exist.
Good God, I'm doomed. Doomed. What am I supposed to do? I somehow doubt owling Algernon and politely requesting that he meet my mother will do the trick. I suppose I could just beg the next man who walked by to pretend to be my boyfriend for a few days.
Hah.
4:44 P.M.
GAH.
Some people have no Christmas spirit, Notebook. Believe you me.
It's not as though it would be so terribly hard. And it's not as though he doesn't owe me, because I'm completely sure he does! After all, no one puts up with him nearly as well as I do. The fact that he's an utterly detestable and soulless bastard doesn't stop me from interacting with him on a regular basis! In fact, he's damned lucky to have me!
But does he recognize that?
Oh no.
Honestly.
And it's not as though I made it sound as though it was some great and terrible endeavor, either! Hardly! When he came back with the drinks and immediately began downing the firewhisky at a downright unhealthy speed, I took a few sips of butterbeer and then very casually said, "Hey, d'you think perhaps you'd be able to pretend to be Algernon for a few days while my mother's visiting?"
Hah. I don't know why I bother.
He didn't even say anything! Just stopped drinking and sort of stared at me for a very prolonged amount of time before taking a rather violent sip.
Which is a perfectly childish way to behave, if you ask me.
Well, except for the whole alcohol aspect.
"It wouldn't be that hard," I went on, because I am stupid. "You'd just have to act as though you were a gentleman who adored me."
As soon as I actually heard it out loud, I realized that it would, in fact, be immeasurably hard.
Snape, meanwhile, was now staring at the ceiling whilst bearing that charming and all-too-familiar 'someone please do deign to grant me the ability to resist killing her' expression.
"Never mind," I grumbled, and took a very irritated swig of butterbeer which immediately left me wishing I'd gone for a bit of an edgier beverage.
"Dare I suspect," he began after a moment, something in his tone making me wish very much for a coffee mug, "that this means you haven't informed your mother about your unfortunate little . . . lover's quarrel? How very peculiar, Auriga," he threw in, smirking slightly. "You, who seem so very keen to inform everyone of every distressing aspect of your tormented existence."
"Shove off."
Hah. I might as well have instructed him to adopt Harry Potter.
"What could prompt you to conceal such a – forgive me – juicy tidbit from someone so very close to you?" he went on, the very picture of idle curiosity. For a moment, I found myself wishing I had purchased the spiked collar instead. It seemed undeniably more useful.
"Oh, how I'd love to kill you," I muttered darkly, figuring any actual response I attempted to craft would just be used against me anyway.
He arched an eyebrow. "Aren't we touchy?"
"Are you ever not unpleasant?" I inquired, rather uselessly.
"I wouldn't worry, Auriga," Snape went on, apparently not in the slightest bit unnerved by the fact that I'm sure I was sporting quite a homicidal glint in my eye by that time. "After all, when one is gifted with the grace and charm with which you are so generously endowed, their power is virtually limitless. Why, I'm certain that if you asked very nicely, your feminine wiles would be enough by far to cause the very man himself to fall right back into your arms."
That Godawful smirk grew even more pronounced as he stood and said, "Now, if you don't mind, I've a bit of business to tend to that doesn't involve the purchasing of flowy scarves and animal apparel."
So here I am, then: all by myself, fuming, and doomed.
I hate that man.
I hate all men.
Really, they're just a fantastic waste of time. So what if I don't have a boyfriend? Mum can just deal with that. I mean, granted, my dad tends to be far more tolerable than the others I've met, but he still never wears matching socks to formal occasions, and goes mysteriously deaf whenever she talks about him accomplishing any kind of housework, and forgets their anniversary with something approaching steadfast devotion.
So really, why the hell should I have to impress her?
She should be envying me.
So there.
Case closed.
4:49 P.M.
I wonder how many years older Christopher might look with a fake moustache.