The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Hello, all. :-) Thanks so much for the reviews. I'm sorry that it took so long to get this up...I suffered a bit of writers' block, but am attempting to make up for it with a ten-page chapter filled with Auriga Torture.
Bwahahaha.
My thanks to Rachel for Wimmy's name.
Monday, September 9, 1991
7:30 P.M.
Astronomy Tower
Am in hiding.
Snape keeps...looking at me. And his eyes sort of dance, and you can tell he's trying not to smirk.
Though I don't know why he refrains from humiliating me in every way possible.
Perhaps the bastard has finally grown a heart, like that peculiar green creature in that book by a doctor that Muggle children love so much.
...The Grunch?
The Grinch.
Yes.
The Grinch.
Let me tell you, if anyone's heart is two sizes too small, it's Severus'.
But something tells me that it's going to stay that way.
And I am not at all disappointed by that fact.
7:35 P.M.
No. Seriously.
I'm not.
7:36 P.M.
Quit looking at me like that.
7:37 P.M.
Yes, you.
7:38 P.M.
Oh, dear Lord.
7:45 P.M.
And you know what's really sad?
It's been only a week. A week. I'm flipping through this notebook (which, by the way, cannot look at me. Sweet stars, I'm going mad) and in my first entry, I completely detested him. I didn't even suspect that I could ever...like him.
Because I don't.
I can't stand the bastard.
I just happen to be in lo...
No.
No.
NO.
NO!
Kill me first.
Kill me before I say...that.
Just...kill me.
7:49 P.M.
...Please?
8:01 P.M.
Maybe I should just stop writing in here.
If I had never started in the first place, I wouldn't...care about Snape.
Not that I do.
...Dammit.
I swear, denial has grown downright instinctive.
But seriously. This notebook is doing something to me. Before I got it, I never underwent embarrassing experiences (sans Sandersought seduction). I just went about my own business.
But oh, no more.
I get this notebook, and now I'm forgetting how to spell 'star', flinging coffee mugs at not-so-innocent bystanders, and seducing demented men with stutters and iguana fetishes.
Well, no more.
I refuse.
I am officially hiding you.
8:03 P.M.
...No, really. I am.
Ciao.
Wednesday, September 11, 1991
12:25 P.M.
Dungeons
So.
Auriga.
This is quite the quaint little chronicle of your fascinating life; I assure you, I've found it wildly amusing.
But really, your fixation on me is almost frightening. I also suggest that you invest in a thesaurus: your word choice is rather poor. I attempted to keep track of your use of the word 'bastard', but lost count after fifty-eight.
Oh well.
You will no doubt again use it countless times after you discover this little note.
Just felt like leaving a greeting for you.
12:28 P.M.
Oh, yes.
And the notebook.
I simply cannot risk its feeling neglected, on account of the fact that you apparently shower it with so much attention - even going so far as to hold conversations with it.
Hello, notebook.
Thursday, September 12, 1991
3:24 P.M.
Bedroom Quarters
That.
Bastard.
That BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD!!!!
(Wouldn't want to let the BASTARD down.)
I hate him.
I hate him.
Forget these ridiculous 'feelings'. I want him to rot in hell. I want him to burn.
I will laugh.
Hysterically.
Because I really, really loathe him.
All right.
And now I will attempt to relay to you the entire story.
So.
The whole without-the-diary-I'll-be-sane-again theory didn't quite work. I kept . . . thinking about him. And I really, really didn't want to.
And so I decided to take ultimate measures.
I decided to disgust myself thoroughly at the mere thought of him.
This, of course, would be easy for most people.
But I am not most people.
So therefore, I must go to the extreme.
Yes.
I devised a plan I thought was brilliant.
It turned out that I am just, in fact, a larger idiot than I ever imagined.
Yay.
Quite the self-esteem booster if there ever was one.
Yes.
Anyway.
I decided to...
You don't really need to know this. I don't need to relive the humiliation.
Goodbye.
3:32 P.M.
Okay.
Fine.
I'll tell you.
But I'm not going to like it.
So.
I am going to relay this incident in a concise and professional manner.
...
I HATE HIM I HATE HIM.
DIE, SNAPE, DIE.
DIE.
3:35 P.M.
You know, there's nothing quite as utterly satisfying as tracing over the word 'DIE' about twelve times, cackling maniacally all the while.
Just thought you'd like to know.
3:37 P.M.
All right.
Fine.
I'll tell you.
It was all with the most innocent of intentions, you know. I simply wanted to go have a word with Snape about...potions. Yes. Because...I've been tired lately, and I need something that will keep me awake during my lessons. Because I teach at midnight, and all.
Innocent, right?
Yes. Exactly. I thought so.
Let us just temporarily forget the fact that I happened to know that Snape wouldn't be there, on account of the fact that he's teaching today.
It really doesn't matter, after all.
So I floo'd - innocently, mind you - into his office, only to find that, quite unfortunately, he wasn't there. A tragic discovery, I assure you, as I simply dote upon spending time with that bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, BASTARD-
Yes.
Sorry.
Where did I leave off, now?
Oh, yes. So Snape wasn't there. And I looked around his office a bit. Casually, you know. Innocently. Upon doing this, I promptly made the conclusion that he must have a very twisted mind to be able to work with lots of sickly green pickled things floating in jars all around him.
Shudder.
This was, in fact, a good start. Because I did find it rather disgusting.
And I suppose I should fill you in on my little 'ingenious plan' around now, shouldn't I?
Well, it all sprung from the conclusion that Severus Snape is a most unpleasant man. (Brilliant discovery, I know.)
And then I realized that if I see how he lives and observe his surroundings, I'll certainly discover just how unpleasant he is, which would hopefully be so unpleasant that I'd be cured of my ridiculous unfortunately-written-in-the-stars infatuation immediately.
Sigh. It was rather clever, if I do say so myself.
And it started out rather splendidly, too! After all, I could certainly never pursue a serious relationship with a man who keeps deformed pickled cats in jars to add to the atmosphere of the room. It's simply disgusting.
Rather encouraged by this, I then decided that it was time to move onto the next step.
It was time to....
Break into his quarters.
And so I floo'd - innocently, still - back into my quarters, only to find that Wimmy the House Elf was in the middle of cleaning my bathroom.
Ah, yes, I haven't yet mentioned Wimmy, have I?
I do prefer to forget his existence. Because he rather disturbs me, you see.
Wimmy the House Elf...
Is in love with me.
(I'm cringing as I write this, just in case you'd like to know.)
It is, I am aware, the ultimate low. No man is romantically interested in me, and with good reason. But a house elf - a house elf is.
And he's not just any house elf, either.
He's the Don Juan of the house elves. The James Bond of the house elves. Let me tell you, if he had a last name, when he talked to me, he would do the entire "[Insert last name here.] Wimmy [Insert last name here.]" routine.
Naturally, I find it thoroughly disturbing.
(And just as naturally, Snape finds it hilarious. Bastard.)
But for once, I could use Wimmy's adoration against him.
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Auriga Sinistra, Super (House Elf) Seductress.
I may be the lousiest seducer-of-men on the planet. (All right, not just on the planet. In the universe, in the history of mankind, etc. etc. Must you really rub it in?)
But let me tell you something.
I can sweet-talk a house elf like nobody's business.
So ha.
"Wimmy," I said, veeery smoothly, "Could you...help me with something?" (Again with the Destiny-esque pauses. They do tend to sneak up on you. I can only hope that if I am ever placed in the most unlikely situation in which I do seduce a man, I'll refrain from using them. Have concluded that everything Destiny-esque is downright frightening on many, many levels.)
Now, at this his huge blue tennis ball eyes widened to the point where it was rather frightening. (Let me tell you, there is nothing as scary as a horny house elf. Nothing.)
"O'course Wimmy shall help you, Miss," he replied - I swear, I could practically see the hearts in his eyes. (Who knew I was so irresistible? To...elves, at least. It's better than nothing. ...I think.) "What is Miss wanting?"
And then....
He wriggled his ears at me.
In what was unmistakably a very suggestive house elf gesture. Let me tell you, I think it's safe to say that I've been sexually assaulted by a house elf!
...But let's not dwell on that. It rather creeps me out.
And so I (this is all in the name of sneaking into Snape's chambers and being cured of this detestable infatuation, mind you. It was by no means done out of my own free will) leaned down and whispered into his frighteningly large house elf ear:
"I need you to let me into Snape's bedroom quarters. I assure you, I'll be . . . eternally grateful."
This was apparently too much for the little thing. The sick-minded, perverted, foul, disgusting little thing. What can't he like another house elf, for God's sake?
Then he wouldn't go around kissing the Astronomy professor.
And let me tell you, that was the first kiss I've had for two years.
And it was from a house elf.
Excuse me while I cry.
3:54 P.M.
All right.
I'm back.
Please disregard the teardrops on the page. That's just me, lamenting over my own state of extreme miserable patheticness.
But a bloody house elf kissed me! I'm scarred for life!
I can safely say that Snape kissed better. Much better. I would spend my life kissing Snape every Goddamn day in exchange to erase that incident from my memory.
(Er. Not that I want to spend my life kissing Snape every Goddamn day as is.)
Now, back to this horrible recap of events.
Let me tell you, I was tempted to kick his little house elf arse. So tempted. Words cannot express how tempted. I wanted to see him suffer extreme pain for taking such advantages.
But I also wanted to get into Snape's quarters.
One may say I was ruthless.
So I forced the most painful smile ever (I could feel a vein throbbing in my temple. And my eye twitching, no less. I am turning into Snape. But with damn good reason.) at Wimmy and breathed, most coquettishly, "Will you help me, Wimmy?"
"Wimmy will do whatever Professor Sinistra is wanting of him, Miss. But Wimmy is wondering, Miss...."
Am cringing again. Just thought you'd like to know.
"...Does you love Wimmy?"
Now, I was desperate, mind you. Desperate.
And yet I still managed to feel like a complete idiot as I responded (TwitchShudderSneer-ing all the while, thank you), "Yes, Wimmy. I love you."
Why do I do these things?
Why?!
It's all in the name of Severus Snape.
He'd better be Goddamned grateful, that's all I'm saying.
"All right, Miss," Wimmy said (let me tell you, I was about ready to drop to my knees and give God my thanks right then. I was afraid the little twit would kiss me again), apparently satisfied with this. "Follow Wimmy."
And so I did, wiping my mouth madly and scowling all the while as he led me to the entrance of Snape's chambers and...
Touched the door.
I swear, those house elves have too much power. Really. All the thing had to do was touch the door, and it swung open.
Shudder. Imagine what he could do, using that power with malignant intentions.
No. I choose not to.
So then, he batted his eyelashes ridiculously at me and started blowing kisses, which was downright embarrassing, as Nearly Headless Nick and the Grey Lady happened to be passing by just then, and both eyed me extremely suspiciously.
Stupid ghosts.
"Can Wimmy see Miss again?" he asked.
Well, by now this was getting just painful.
"Yes," I said back, rather impatiently. "But now go."
His eyes immediately swelled with tears, which is really just too pathetic for words.
"I....er...love you, Wimmy," I forced myself to choke out, rather painfully.
And so the stupid thing grinned madly at me before skipping off down the halls, singing - get this - Spell on My Heart to himself.
It's disgusting, really.
Just disgusting.
And so I there I was, in front of Snape's chambers - and God knew I went through hell to get there.
So I stepped inside, tentatively, preparing myself to be thoroughly disgusted by the mere mention of Severus Snape.
And after all that, it didn't work.
It didn't work.
I snogged a bloody house elf, and it didn't work!
(Of course, I hate Snape now, the bastard. But I didn't hate him then, as I didn't have the information I have now, but let me tell you, I was quite ticked off then.)
After all, how could someone hate him when he has the entire works of Shakespeare?
As in, every thing that Shakespeare's ever written.
Much Ado About Nothing (which I've always been particularly fond of), Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Winter's Tale - every play the man ever wrote, in addition to a full collection of sonnets, poems, and ballads.
Now, Shakespeare is my weakness. It's right up there with Chocolate Frogs and Gilderoy Lockhart books.
And Snape likes it. Loves it, according to what I've discovered.
. . . Am currently trying to ignore the whole written-in-the-stars thing at the moment, as am attempting to be furious at the bastard.
Naturally, his quarters were immaculate. I would have expected him to be a compulsive neat freak.
Then again, that's not necessarily unattractive.
But it was the most unattractive thing I had about him, thus far.
The man even had a piano. A piano. For as long as I can remember, one of the traits of my (apparently nonexistent) Prince Charming has been that he played the piano.
But just because Snape has a piano doesn't mean that he actually plays it. He could just...have it....because.
Yes.
Right.
My reasoning is brilliant.
Go me.
And that's when I continued on over to his desk, only to find (under many a Gryffindor essay with big, flourishing 'F's scribbled across them) a beautifully drawn Star Chart that I recognized - I have the same one myself.
Now, I have to admit, my heart melted at this.
Melted.
But can you really blame me? I'd had an awful day thus far; I'd been sexually assaulted by a house elf!
And then, upon further inspection, I discovered that a certain star in the Ophiuchus constellation was circled.
Which happened to be 'Sinistra'.
I think that I squealed.
I actually squealed.
And not just any squeal, either. The kind of squeal that would have been reserved for meeting Gilderoy Lockhart in person, if that ever actually happens. (Dare I dream...?)
Now, this would have been wonderful, really. (Despite the fact that it's Severus Snape, and all.) I was almost thrilled, until...
I noticed something else on his desk.
A very familiar notebook.
I was very dazed, mind you - the first thing I thought was, 'Hmm. How interesting. He has the same notebook as I do.'
And then I realized that I, as a matter of fact, hadn't seen my own notebook for quite sometime. But how, I wondered, could Severus Snape possibly get his hands on my diary? I'd hidden it carefully!
Er. Well....if you consider hiding something carefully hurling it at the nearest house elf and shrieking, "Keep it away from me! I never want to see this again! It's driving me mad!"
Erm.
Yes.
But how could the blasted house elf give it to Snape?!
Surely, the stupid little creature knew how much I detested him! We're not exactly subtle about it! I threw a coffee mug at him, for God's sake!
But anyway. Will not go about mentally abusing house elves. The poor thing was probably drawn in by Snape's irresistible allure.
Heaven knows I can surely sympathize.
Anyway, a sinking feeling had come over me by then. I remember quite distinctly mumbling, "Oh no..."
But I opened it up, and sure enough, my own handwriting stared up at me.
And so I flipped through it, moaning in desolation (that BASTARD), and where I had left off writing, there was some unfamiliar handwriting.
His handwriting rather reminds me of him, actually - it's very sharp, and rather jerky, and yet at the same time, it's not at all unpleasant...
Oh, stop it, Auriga! You're mad at him, remember? He's a bastard!
I shouldn't have copied all of this down. Now all I can focus on is the Shakespeare and the piano and the star chart with Sinistra circled.
Why does the detestable bastard have to be so strangely likable?
Damn him.
I only wish he had caught me down there. He would have surely been a complete asshole about it, which would still have me angry at him now.
Damn him again.
And again.
And again.
4:17 P.M.
...And again.
Just for good measure.
8:25 P.M.
Bedroom Quarters
Hmm. It seems that Harry Potter has been made the new Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.
Excellent.
That vein in Snape's forehead was throbbing with reckless abandon throughout dinner.
...I really do love him.
8:27 P.M.
Harry.
Not Snape.