The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Well, wow.
You see, originally at the beginning of this summer, I had a little plan. I was going to update Lamentations weekly, and therefore be able to view somewhere sparkling in the far distance a potential ending to The Never-Ending Fic.
. . . As you can see, that didn't go so well. As a matter of fact, I went through a two month period where I was quite sure I'd never update it again as long as I lived. (Buffy the Vampire Slayer is horribly obsessible like that. Rupert Giles and Jenny Calendar have taken over my brain, darn them. At least drama-princess suffers alongside me. Expect collaboration fics. *dun dun DUN*)
But last night I was suddenly hit by inspiration after reading the new chapter of my dear friend Shell (Cashelle-gone-crazy on Ff.N)'s beautiful, epic, and utterly twisted romance, Their Crazy Love. (It happens to be a Harry/Dumbledore. Disgusting? Yes. Disturbing? Terribly. But it is also utterly brilliant and hilarious. Read it. There will be much laughing involved. Oh, don't tell me you're not intrigued.)
And so . . . yes. I was overcome with a strange wave of adoration for my own fic (pathetic, yes, but what's a girl to do?) which involved much giggling and proclamations of 'my poor girl, I do torture her terribly, don't I?'. I did, however, manage to refrain from hugging the computer screen. (Sadly, it was a close thing.)
So, yes. I realized just how much I missed my baby, and so surfaced twelve new pages of torture for dear Auriga. :)
Enjoy, and thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and has put up with my utterly lazy writing habits. I do so dote upon you all. :-)
Sunday, September 15, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
6:15 P.M.
Perhaps I'm just paranoid now (and really, after an incident like that, who wouldn't be?) but it seems like everyone is . . . looking at me strangely.
Surely my reputation as the Hogwarts Whore hasn't spread that quickly?
. . . Though I suppose it would explain why one of the seventh year Slytherins winked at me earlier as I passed him in the hall.
6:17 P.M.
Ugh. Children these days.
6:18 P.M.
And I don't think it was just me when I saw Percy Weasley on my way to the staff room and he practically dove out of my way. Honestly - what does the boy think I'm going to do, pounce on him in the middle of the hall?
Shudder.
6:20 P.M.
Puh-leeze. As if he's such an angel to begin with. I've seen him staring across the Great Hall at Penelope Clearwater during meals.
6:21 P.M.
My God, I don't want to be known as the whore of Hogwarts! It's awful! Awful! I am as un-whorish as one could possibly get! The only man I've kissed in the past two years is the perpetually-acrimonious Professor Snape, for God's sake!
. . . And then there's Wimmy.
But I'm really, really trying to forget about that.
6:23 P.M.
I think that I need a psychiatrist.
6:24 P.M.
Or a boyfriend.
6:25 P.M.
Or a psychiatrist boyfriend.
Hmm.
Intriguing.
Monday, September 16, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
7:36 A.M.
Oh God. I've just thought of something. I have the third year Gryffindors tonight. That means the Weasley twins.
These are the kind of things that the Weasley twins dote upon. And I know that somehow - somehow - they'll have heard about this. Those boys are quite apt to wind up in the exact place that you don't want them to be. Like last year, when I was trying to sneak a pint or two (or six) of ice cream from the kitchens during the dead of night because I was feeling a bit glum about my seemingly perpetual state of misery; the Weasleys were there, and they had the last of the ice cream!
They did, however, give me a pint out of it after I informed them just how pathetic my life was.
So they're not completely heartless.
7:40 A.M.
They will, however, give me absolute hell tonight. Of this I am quite sure.
7:41 A.M.
Why me?!
7:42 A.M.
Why not . . . Snape?
7:43 A.M.
Though he was quite involved in that little incident as well.
So surely I won't be the only one getting tortured.
7:44 A.M.
Teehee.
Friday, September 27, 1991
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
4:35 P.M.
I'm dead.
I swear it, I'm dead and I've gone to hell.
There's no other explanation.
Oh well. At least I've regained the power of coherent speech.
. . . Or as coherent as I ever am, anyway.
Which isn't saying much.
4:39 P.M.
You're probably wondering what I'm doing at St. Mungo's.
4:40 P.M.
Oh, no you're not. You're a notebook. How can you wonder anything at all?!
4:42 P.M.
I've gone completely mad.
4:45 P.M.
This will surely result in an everlasting house-elf phobia. I'll never be able to face one again.
4:47 P.M.
House-elves.
Shudder.
4:53 P.M.
Snape looks rather irritated. I guess he doesn't want to be here. He keeps shooting death glares at me, but hasn't actually said anything.
. . . Is Severus Snape actually feeling sorry for me?!
It appears that way.
Which should tell you something. I mean, it takes a lot for Severus Snape to feel sorry for someone.
And I have definitely been through a lot.
5:02 P.M.
I suppose I should tell you the whole story.
(Ignoring the fact that 'you' are an inanimate object.)
It all started at about one thirty in the morning on the seventeenth, at which time I was incredibly torn between killing either the Weasley twins or myself. (Both options, you see, were wildly appealing, but I finally chose myself, as Dumbledore would no doubt get a bit shirty with me were I to murder a few of his students.) But really. Am I supposed to be able to deal with homework that sings 'First Professor Quirrell and then an iguana | The mere thought really makes you wanna | Cover your ears and somehow escape | Before the arrival of Professor Snape | She's the heartbreaking whore of Hogwarts!'?!?
I am quite thrilled to announce that I plucked up the courage to give them both detentions and take ten points from Gryffindor.
Unfortunately, this did not stop the entirety of the class from laughing their heads off.
And I thought it was bad then. Sigh.
I had no idea.
So I was running a bath in the hopes that it would cheer me up a bit (or that it would be deep enough that I could successfully drown myself in it), all the while entertaining deep and philosophical thoughts along the lines of 'why me, God, why?'. Basically, the same as usual.
I was so busy drowning in self-pity (but thankfully not bath water - I had worked up the will to live, at the very least) that I didn't happen to notice a certain something until I got out of the tub. (Though in retrospect, I honestly don't know how I could have missed it. I like to think I'm not that daft.)
Upon making my way over to the mirror, I made a highly unpleasant discovery:
I was now a lovely, Gilderoy-Lockhart-Would-Certainly-Approve shade of lilac.
Yes, lilac.
As in, my skin - gone is that wonderful fleshy color that I've come to miss most desperately ever since. In replacement -
Lilac.
Envision, if you will, a perpetually-frazzled-looking woman standing at an unimpressive five foot three with what appears to be a chunk of swamp dyed auburn for hair. Not exactly a Veela to begin with. But then throw in a very lilac complexion, and you have something that makes a troll look like the epitome of perfect beauty.
Oh, and this was only the beginning.
So after shrieking a few times and attempting to charm my skin back to its original state, I finally decided that it wasn't going to work and it would probably have disappeared by morning, anyway. (I had used Muggle bubble bath, and apparently there are traces of magic in the Hogwarts water, and they can have negative reactions when combined with Muggle products.)
Feeling like I should have drowned myself in the bath when I had the chance, I climbed into bed--
And felt the most terrible, excruciating pain ever.
You know that sitcom, I Dream of Jeannie? (Of course you don't. You're a notebook. But humor me - I'm in physical and mental distress.) Well, I distinctly remember watching one episode with my sister in which Jeannie turned Major Nelson's bed into a bed of nails.
I laughed when that happened. Laughed.
I have since discovered that it is not a laughing matter.
As a matter of fact, it hurts like hell.
So I grabbed a blanket and curled up on the floor and did not sleep at all; instead, I was purple and in an extreme amount of pain as I wondered who on Earth would do this to me. I concluded that it wasn't Snape, as extremely obscure torture isn't quite his style - he's more into the whole verbal-insulting-to-the-point-of-no-return thing. It was more Weasley twins, but they wouldn't be that cruel about a few measly detentions, would they?
And so it came to be that I had an enemy - someone out there who wanted to see me suffer, who laughed at my excruciating pain.
And let me tell you, I considered everyone as a potential suspect. (Really. Everyone. Even down to Hagrid's dog, Fang. I don't like the way that thing looks at me.) Some may call me paranoid, but I think my reasoning was utterly justified. I was, after all, purple, mind you, and that's hardly a thing to be taken lightly. I spent a particularly long time musing over Quirrell, as he had the third largest amount of evidence, being that his turban was a similar shade to my skin. (Okay, not exactly lock - 'em - in - Azkaban - for - a - life - sentence proof, but I was desperate. What a surprise, as it's me and such.)
But then I had to stop and get ahold of myself.
I mean . . . Quirrell? The man is afraid of eating utensils. (Sad, but true. Hooch was brandishing a fork while talking to emphasize a point, and the guy practically went into convulsions.) Oh, yes, I'm sure that he's some dark wizard intent upon making my life hell before aiding You-Know-Who to his glorious return.
Hah. Right.
That's plausible.
(Note my sarcasm. Or I would ask you to, if you weren't a notebook.)
And so I there I was: pained, purple, and with no idea as to who my attacker could be. At the time, I didn't even consider the true culprits. After all, who would even begin to suspect . . . house elves?
-----------------
5:14 P.M.
Sorry.
Shuddering fit.
So anyhow, as you, the inanimate notebook, can clearly see, I was in quite the predicament. I also had that pesky problem where I was supposed to be around other people, so I didn't starve to death. There was also the whole teaching dilemma.
After many horrifying mental pictures, in all of which Snape was laughing himself stupid, I determined that it simply couldn't be done. I couldn't show my fuchsia face.
. . . All right, it wasn't fuchsia. It was, as I've already made quite clear, a lavender-y violet sort of shade which I fear shall send me back into St. Mungo's if I ever set eyes on it again. But I couldn't resist a bit of alliteration.
And so my plan for the first hour or so was to sit around in my quarters until I eventually withered and died. (Not the most brilliant thing I could've come up with, I suppose, but it had a certain element of Shakespearean tragedy to it.)
Then I started getting hungry.
And, because I'm just bright and intelligent in this manner, the only edible thing I happened to have in my room was a three-year-old box of Cockroach Clusters that Snape gave me for Valentine's Day in what he apparently thought was a very wry and witty gesture.
Hardly.
(Don't ask why I kept them. I honestly don't know. Besides, I don't want to waste a ridiculous amount of ink and five pages or so proclaiming exactly how much I'm not in love with him.)
But by the time noon had rolled around, those Cockroach Clusters were looking pretty tasty.
. . . Do people ever actually eat Cockroach Clusters?
I mean, I suppose someone somewhere out there has to, because otherwise they wouldn't keep making them, right?
And yet I certainly haven't met anyone who could stomach them, besides an old hag that I ran into on a third year Hogsmeade trip inside of Honeydukes.
Cockroach Clusters: considered a delicacy by hags everywhere.
. . . Hence Snape's little gift.
I hate him.
So around twelve thirty, I was sitting there having a staring contest with the Cockroach Clusters, torn between starving to death and eating them, therefore cementing my hag status in society.
And then someone knocked at the door.
Naturally, the first person I thought of was Snape.
. . . Not because I'm eerily obsessed with him, or anything. Just because he has a history of stopping by my quarters at thoroughly inopportune moments.
And so I shouted (or attempted to shout - I was so weakened by hunger and emotional distress that it came out more like a slightly forceful wheeze), "Go away, Snape! I'm hardly in the mood!"
Be dazzled by my fabulous word choice.
I mean, really. Feel free. Go ahead.
Victoria sure was.
Because, just my luck, it was her and not one greasy potions master.
She swung open the door with this awful, infuriating smile on her face and asked, "I hope I'm not . . . interrupting any plans you've made, Auriga."
I'd covered myself with a blanket in the nick of time, so my death glare and bitter reply of, "Sod off. You've got a sick mind." didn't exactly have that much influence on her.
Instead, she just laughed. "You know, you really are quite the promiscuous one."
Which was, of course, the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard, considering I've slept with one person and am quite possibly the least promiscuous thirty-one year old on the planet.
I didn't bother to dignify this ludicrous statement with a reply, and instead flung myself on my bed (which had, thankfully, grown devoid of nails) and hid under a few more blankets. Better safe than sorry, after all.
"Is it true, what they're saying about the house-elf?" Victoria persisted, completely oblivious to the fact that I was seconds away from poisoning myself with an expired Cockroach Cluster.
She really is horribly insensitive sometimes.
"No, of course not!" I snapped through the two sheets, three blankets, two comforters, and one quilt I'd taken refuge under. (I have a tendency to compulsively buy bedding. So sue me. It certainly comes in handy, after all. Look at the situation I was in! I don't know what I'd have done without my vast collection.)
"Ohh, good," Victoria continued, still utterly clueless. "'Cause I'm as open-minded as the next girl, but even I was going to say that you'd taken 'kinky' a little too far--"
"Victoria!" I shrieked, feeling very much in the mood for an Unforgivable or two. "Just don't!"
She chose that moment to ask exactly why I was covered in blankets.
Which, of course, proved to be a very difficult question to answer. How does one go about explaining that they've somehow been mysteriously turned purple? Do you attempt to use a subtle approach, so the person's not scared out of their wits when they see you, or do you just tell them straight off?
Well, since both 'Victoria, you know how sometimes people set out to make your life hell . . .' and 'I'm purple' sounded a bit stupid, I decided not to say anything at all. Instead, I merely pulled away the blankets and allowed her to bask in my grape-like glory.
She stared at me in silence for a minute (I really couldn't blame her) before promptly asking, "Is this some weird side-effect to a new STD, or something?"
If anyone needs to get their mind out of the gutter, it's her.
I mean, Arithmancy teachers are supposed to be dull and boring and do things like count their own socks for fun. And then alphabetically arrange them. (I'm not sure that this is possible, but Arithmancy professors are supposed to make it possible. That's the point.) I know that my Arithmancy professor didn't think about sex all the time, that's for sure.
. . . Or at least I really, really hope not.
Ew. Bad. Bad mental images. Have already suffered an eternally-scarring amount of psychological distress; do not need the thought of Professor Wigglewamph doing . . . ugggh, bad.
Anyway, back to slightly less distressing topics--
So then I felt compelled to inform her that someone was setting out to drive me insane, that no one was safe, and that I didn't dare leave my quarters because who knew if I'd ever be able to come back again? There was someone with a dark and twisted mind out there, and they very well may want me dead.
"Besides," Victoria had replied to this, snickering, "You don't want Snape to see you with purple skin."
Wench.
Luckily, she's got at least a bit of a heart amongst all that wenchiness, and she gave me all of her Muggle concealer. I mixed this with mine and managed to cover my face.
. . . Unfortunately, her skin's a few shades darker than mine, so I now had a strange fleshy-camouflage look going on that wasn't exactly flattering.
At all.
But on the bright side, I was no longer the color of one of Gilderoy Lockhart's carefully chosen outfits.
And that had to count for something, right?
So, clothed in a particularly huge set of robes and a cloak (I wasn't about to let anyone see my face unless absolutely necessary), I set off to the Great Hall for a lunch that I figured I really did deserve. Victoria couldn't stop snickering, and even made some comment that was apparently supposed to be funny about my looking like a dwarf Dementor. Some friend she is.
Luckily, lunch was almost over and most of the students had cleared out, but Neville Longbottom managed to let out a small squeak and fall onto the floor when he saw me. Not exactly the most flattering response I've gotten from a man, but definitely not the worst.
. . . I am so pathetic.
Most of the teachers had gone as well, but Quirrell was still hanging around, clutching that damned iguana whom I'm still set upon pressing sexual assault charges against. When he saw me, he started stammering some nonsense about dark forces and dropped Herman into the mashed potatoes.
Mwahaha.
Comeuppance is a beautiful thing.
So I ate enough of everything to about double my weight (sans mashed potatoes), careful not to let my sleeves slide up enough to reveal the fact that my hands were slightly purple. Victoria rather laughingly told me she was sorry and that she hoped I'd find a solution for my little dilemma (I really doubt she meant a word. Hmph.), and I set back off for my quarters.
I was perfectly content with the prospect of curling up in bed and sleeping until my lesson that night (one perk of teaching in pitch black - the students can't tell if your skin has suffered a slightly conspicuous color change), but fate had other things in store for me. Lying on my pillow waiting for me, terrifying in its nondescript, was a folded piece of parchment.
I reached for it with shaking hands, fearful as to what horrors its unfurling might release . . .
Oh, dear. This is sounding a bit like a suspense novel, isn't it?
It's all this hospital air - making me a bit batty.
Anyway, basically, there was a note scribbled in some sort of red substance proclaiming the following:
'THERE SHALL BE NO MERCY.'
I suppose it's safe to say that I was slightly unnerved.
. . . All right, perhaps that's a bit of an understatement. I actually screamed, flung the note across the room, ran over, stamped on it repeatedly, and then caught it on fire with a few rogue wand sparks.
But really! I was terrified! It was quite clear that my life was in jeopardy; I think I was allowed to be the slightest bit dramatic.
Or . . . really dramatic.
Either worked.
And it was then that Snape chose to make his presence known by clearing his throat.
. . . I don't think that 'eh ehm!' is exactly meant to strike fear into the hearts of millions, but I was already on edge! Sudden noises and I weren't exactly skipping along hand-in-hand, which I think is perfectly understandable.
Snape, however, seemed to find it strange when I shrieked and leapt about eight feet into the air before brandishing my wand and announcing, "Come near me and I'll kill you!"
Who knows what goes on in his mind, really.
Doesn't spend enough time with other people. It's turned him funny.
But anyway, back to my tale of agony and distress.
"I assure you, Sinistra, I have no intention of coming near you, alluring as the prospect undoubtedly is to your house-elf paramour," he replied in that awful, silky-smooth voice that has this unstoppable gift for making me feel idiotic.
. . . Well, all right, more idiotic than usual.
And then--
"Are you perhaps aware, Auriga, that your skin tone happens to consist of three different shades at the moment?"
Damn him and his observation skills.
"I don't know what you mean," I returned as loftily as I could. (Which, unfortunately, wasn't all that impressive.)
"A mirror may be convenient at the moment," Snape continued smoothly. "You see, not only is there ivory, but also a rather bold tan, and, to top it off, a bit of purple."
"Purple?" I repeated, trying very desperately to sound as though the mere notion was crazy.
"Yes," he hissed in this awful snakelike way that was eerily Slytherin-esque. (Hence his . . . Slytherin-ness, I suppose.) "Purple."
"And I suppose you think that's funny?" I challenged, deciding arguing with him wasn't gonna get me anywhere.
"I won't deny that the situation holds rich comic potential," he returned, sneering a little, "Though at the moment, I'm more curious as to finding out how, exactly, this happened."
A bit of advice to you, even though you are a notebook and inanimate and yada yada blah blah--
Never, under any circumstances, pour your heart out to Severus Snape.
It just isn't wise.
It doesn't matter if you're emotionally distraught and facing potential death. It doesn't matter if your only confidant chose to laugh hysterically at your predicament. It doesn't matter if you're secretly infatuated with him, and if word's gone 'round that you're Hogwarts' resident hussy, and if you've been sexually assaulted by both a house elf and an iguana within the same week. It doesn't even matter if you're purple, for Merlin's sake. Just don't do it.
I did.
And no one has suffered like I have suffered.
"You want to know how this happened? Do you really want to know, Severus Snape? Well, I'll tell you! Someone's out to get me! Yes, that's right! Someone in this very castle wants to steal every shred of my sanity and stomp on it! And so what do they do? They curse my bathwater so it turns my skin purple and torture me with beds of nails and leave me threatening notes written in blood! And what did I do to deserve this?? Nothing! I mean, yes, I may have thrown a coffee mug or two at you! I may have handed out a few detentions, and scared a few defenseless first years, and led on a lovestruck house-elf so that I could sneak into your quarters, but that's not my fault! You wanna know who all of that comes back to? Well, I'll tell you who it all comes back to - you, that's who! You're driving me crazy, you unbearable bastard! You're mean and callous and sardonic and you have no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but the stars and the obsession and the journal entries and why won't you just get out of my head?!? What did I ever do to you? What?! I mean, yeah, I threw a coffee mug. I admit it! I threw the blasted coffee mug! But does that truly mean that I deserve this torment???"
At this point, I had to stop, 'cause I'd delivered the entire speech with very little breath and now felt a bit smothered, and didn't want to add blue to make a fourth skin color.
And then it dawned on me what I had said.
To Snape.
Whoops. Big whoops.
In response, he stared at me. And stared at me. And stared at me some more.
And then the sneer surfaced.
"Auriga, touched as I am by your maudlin lamentations, I'm afraid I don't want to spend another minute in your presence, as you are truly the most psychologically unhinged creature I have ever met." A pause. "Including the Dark Lord."
And then he was gone, with a bunch of scowling and swishing black robes and bat comparisons involved.
Understandably, I was a bit . . . stressed. I'd just accidentally as good as told Snape that I fancied him, I was purple, I was tired, and there was still that unfortunate going - to - be - murdered - when - I - least - expected - it problem.
And so just as I was sinking into bed looking forward to a good cry and a Gilderoy Lockhart-reading fest . . . they invaded.
Completely silently, might I add. (Though I suppose that's part of the whole house-elf thing, so as not to bug your rich and snooty masters.)
All of a sudden, they were just there.
House-elves, at least twenty of them, all sporting expressions of rage as identical as their tea towel uniforms. The lead one held a feather duster as though it were a sword, and proclaimed in a way that was quite formidable considering he was the size of a small child, "We is to avenge the evils Miss has done!"
To which I could only reply, very blankly, "What??"
I do wish now that I'd known when I'd broken Wimmy's heart that house-elves are unnaturally loyal creatures. Apparently, this sense of loyalty is supposed to apply only to their masters, but when a large number of them work together for an extended amount of time, the devotion spreads to their fellow elves as well.
Which, basically, was bad news for poor me.
"You is breaking Wimmy's heart, Miss!" the elf squeaked. "He is your faithful house-elf, Miss, and you is lying to him!"
I got by then that I was supposed to be scared of them.
And I kind of was. You know, just a bit.
. . . All right, I was absolutely terrified. But really, a pissed off house elf with a feather duster is far more frightening in person than it sounds on paper.
Honestly.
And then the house-elves were closing in on me, everywhere, with their huge eyes surrounding me and their high, squeaky voices echoing through the room and my head, and I could see Wimmy's heartbroken face in my mind - 'Miss Auriga Miss! Wimmy was thinking we is having something between us! Wimmy was wrong!' - and then I did the only thing that someone in my position could do--
I passed out.
The next time I woke up, everything passed in a strange sort of blur: I can vaguely remember the hospital wing and grabbing Madam Pomfrey by the collar and informing Dumbledore that she was 'one of them'.
. . . Oh, God. I'm fired. So fired, on so many different levels. I must be. I mean, Albus no doubt thinks I'm a complete nutter.
I mean, he's not the sanest man to begin with, but accusing the nurse of being a house-elf in disguise is a bit eccentric, even for him.
And so then I wound up fainting again, and the next thing I knew, I was in a room in St. Mungo's with Snape sitting by my bedside, looking as though he'd rather be eating expired Cockroach Clusters.
Dumbledore's orders, I suspect.
He probably thought the situation held delightful matchmaking potential.
Hah. As if.
. . . Though on the plus side, I'm no longer purple. Yes, I'm back to being all nice and me-colored.
However, on the minus side, I've just been driven nearly insane by house-elves, I opened my heart to Severus Snape, of all people, and there's a very large possibility that I might lose my job.
Suddenly, not being purple doesn't exactly seem a life-illuminating prospect.
I've never really been one to see the glass as half full.
And Snape's just snapped at me to 'stop scribbling in that ridiculous notebook', because apparently I'm free to go.
Back to Hogwarts.
And house-elves.
Shiver.
. . . Maybe I'll ask to stay another night.
5:39 P.M.
Ouch. Have just been hit with full-fledged 'defy - me -and - I'll - pickle - your - brain - and - display - it - in - a - jar - in - my - office' Snape sneer.
To Hogwarts it is, then.