Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I am, I am. I have such updating issues, it's not even funny. I neglect everything, from the banes of my existence (glances pointedly at IR) to my most beloved story ever (which would be this one, for the record) and it's just awful.
I will honestly try to have a new chapter up in the next few weeks.
But in my own defense, I'm not at home right now and went for over a week without any computer access at all, and then managed to lose my Lamentations notebook once I got here, and it was all generally a-shambles.
But I shall fret no longer, since I actually managed to, ya know, update.
My apologies if I've used the 'finesse' thing before. I have this eerie feeling that I have, but I went to look for it and couldn't find it anywhere in previous chapters, so . . . shrugs If I have, then just blame it on Aur and her repetitive ways.
And . . . I believe that is all.
I'm sorry!
(Again.)
-Part 13-
Tuesday, October 29, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
3:02 P.M.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Honestly, I do get what Juliet was going on about now. Well, yes, okay, I always got it – I'm not that much of an idiot; I was in Ravenclaw, mind – but now I'm experiencing it. And I haven't even got the 'say goodnight 'till it be morrow' option!
Algernon just left.
It's not as though we won't still see one another, of course. It's just that he had to get back to work – some disaster with mothers complaining about some rather suggestive robes for teenage witches that were released last month (he got a Howler at breakfast this morning and everything; honestly, haven't they got anything better to do??). And, well, naturally, I'm forced to stay here, educating young minds and yada yada blah blah. Of course, I could go stay in Diagon Alley with him, catching glimpses of the glamorous world of robe-design (actually, he's told me it's a bit vicious – who'd have thought?) if only it weren't for the fact that I'm rather required to teach throughout the entire school year.
Damn it.
I would argue to Dumbledore that too much Astronomy has proven hazardous to one's social skills – case in point? Yours truly – except somehow I doubt he would listen.
Ridiculous old man. He probably doesn't understand the pains of being separated from your one and only true love.
Which I most certainly am.
It's dreadful! I miss him already! Now that he's gone, the only way I'll ever get flowers is if Wimmy decides to forgive me for my promiscuous ways, and Snape will go back to mocking me eternally, and if I give up with all that troublesome makeup business, everyone will know that I was only doing it to impress a man! How thoroughly pathetic is that?
. . . But honestly. I'm tired of nearly poking my eyes out every morning. It's just a risk I'm not quite willing to take unless I have proper motivation.
Namely Algernon.
Oh, how am I going to survive?
3:12 P.M.
Don't look at me like that. You may think I'm being silly and melodramatic, but you don't understand! You're just a notebook and certainly haven't experienced true and everlasting love in any form!
3:14 P.M.
. . . Or at least, I really quite hope you haven't.
3:15 P.M.
Shudder.
3:16 P.M.
Right. I suppose I'll just go wander the halls, reveling in the sweet sorrow of it all.
It seems somehow appropriate.
3:46 P.M.
I honestly think I am going mad with grief.
Because Severus Snape would never, ever partake in anything that even vaguely resembled a victory dance.
Maybe the floor was covered in pushpins and he had to jump up and down manically to avoid severe and possibly permanent damage to his feet.
But that does not begin to explain why he was moving his arms. Or wearing an expression of what was unmistakably triumph.
Perhaps he is even more troubled than I.
3:49 P.M.
. . . All right, I admit it. Snape wouldn't dance. He simply wouldn't. This is all in my head. I've gone crazy. I walked by and glanced into his room – the door was slightly ajar – and he was probably just standing and practicing his sneers in front of the mirror, or something. (The fact that he can even stand to look at his reflection makes me think that perhaps the Sorting Hat should have put him into Gryffindor. Yes, that's right. Hah! Who's to say I'm not skilled when it comes to witty and scathing comments?)
But the point is that I'm going mad. Hallucinating. The pain of losing my one true love is pushing me right toward St. Mungo's. Hopefully, I will not wind up there, however, because everyone probably remembers me as the crazy house-elf lady. Not exactly a flattering title. Though perhaps not as bad as the Whore of Hogwarts.
Hmm.
In any case, Algernon must return to me before I wind up there. Quite possibly permanently.
Scandalous dress robes be damned!
4:03 P.M.
Victoria just burst in, looking quite befuddled indeed, and asked if I knew that Snape appeared to have been dancing about a half hour ago.
So perhaps I'm not crazy.
Which means that he, in fact, is.
Mwahahaha.
I am feeling much better indeed.
Poor Victoria, on the other hand, looked as though she were about to pass out, so I sent her off to Madam Pomfrey's. It's all quite understandable, of course. I suppose most people don't have my Snape-handling finesse.
4:06 P.M.
Could that have possibly come out more wrong?
4:07 P.M.
Well, I didn't mean anything by it.
Obviously.
4:08 P.M.
If you tell anyone, I swear to God I will destroy you.
4:09 P.M.
Notebook.
4:10 P.M.
. . . Right, then.
4:15 P.M.
Yes. I have composed myself. I'm perfectly all right. Snape-handling? Hah! Hardly.
So, yes. Algernon. He is gone, for the time being, and I am not insane. All is . . . as well as it could be, I suppose.
And yes, of course, the sweet sorrow bit is rather inevitable. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all. I reckon by the time we see each other next, we'll be mad about one another.
. . . Unless, of course, he meets some stunning sophisticate of a witch who wears only the finest Gladrags designs – she probably goes to him personally to get them, that tramp – and possesses lots of diamonds and unnaturally honed social skills. Yes, I can just see it now – she'll probably be a Black, or a Malfoy, or one of those snobbish, glamorous sorts, and her combination of unearthly beauty and Dark Arts prowess will have him eternally ensnared within a week!
Maybe even five days.
I knew I hated Narcissa Malfoy for a reason. I honestly always sensed that no good could come of her!
. . . Which could have been because she came from one of the most widely recognized Dark Arts-supporting families in the wizarding world and then married into another one. But still.
I should have realized it sooner. Of course she's fully capable of stealing Algernon away from me!
I mean, yes, sure, she's married, but who's to say fidelity is even in the Malfoy family dictionary?? I know all too well of her loose and scandalous ways – after all, I was the one who walked in on her getting quite friendly indeed (friendly enough, in fact, that she felt so generous as to share a bit of saliva) with Lucius Malfoy at the graduation ball when she'd gone with Marius Macnair.
Slut.
See?? Of course she'll be drawn to Algernon! He's handsome and quite well-off – at least as much as Lucius, I'd bet – and he's got an innocent Gryffindor-esque charm about him. (Plus, his hair isn't nearly as pretty as Lucius's. I'd find that very distracting, personally.) God, why didn't I see it before?? Of course she'll be sinfully drawn to him somehow – I mean, I was fully aware of the dangers of this! It's exactly like a novel I read a few weeks ago, the new one by Moira K. Mockridge. This dark witch, Griselda, seduces this top Auror at the Ministry and manages to stay out of Azkaban because of it. He's completely infatuated, and she becomes intoxicated by the lust-ridden sin of it all, determined to corrupt him and bring him to the side of darkness . . .
All right, yes, in the end she recognized the way of righteousness and they settled down in a nice house with a few pet crups.
But still.
Happy endings like that don't actually come to pass!
Which means that Algernon is doomed to face corruption in the form of one Narcissa Malfoy!
Oh, God. I've got to warn him. I've got to, before he falls for her and I'll be left pathetic, thirty-one, and single for the rest of my days – unless, of course, Wimmy decides to look beyond the heartache I once caused him.
. . . I'm only kidding. Honestly. No matter how low things got, I would not date a house-elf.
Or at least, as of now I think I wouldn't.
. . . And come to think of it, I actually won't even be thirty-one for the rest of my days.
Well, that's just discouraging.
I HATE NARCISSA MALFOY AND ALL SHE STANDS FOR.
4:32 P.M.
I also may still be a bit resentful about the fact that in sixth year she called me a frizzy-haired twit of a halfblood.
4:33 P.M.
Bitch.
4:34 P.M.
Perhaps I can somehow convince Algernon to come back here for, oh, I don't know, EVER.
I can tell him that I'm dying or something, and we've only a few months left. And we have to savour them, and let our love flourish before it's promptly extinguished by the dark and painful shadow of death!!!
4:35 P.M.
No, no, no. That's being pathetic. I'm doubting him, and that is thoroughly unacceptable when two people are preparing to dive into a serious and potentially everlasting relationship.
He will not fall madly in love with Narcissa Malfoy. The chances of that are around the same as those of tripping over a Crumple-Headed Snorkak in Peru.
Which are very, very low, according to last month's edition of The Quibbler.
Yes, it will all be perfectly all right. Algernon is completely and thoroughly dedicated to only one woman in the world, and that is yours truly.
4:38 P.M.
I think.
Wednesday, October 30, 1991
Teachers' Lounge
12:12 P.M.
Victoria assures me that the possibility of Algernon falling for another woman – particularly Narcissa Malfoy – is nonexistent.
"I reckon she's perfectly happy with Lucius," Victoria said earlier. "After all, their nastiness levels are around equal. He's the next best thing to You-Know-Who."
Which, inevitably, took me to the unpleasant mental place wherein You-Know-Who was married. This is both very wrong and rather frightening.
12:16 P.M.
"Darling, would you take out the trash?"
"Yes, of course, sweet – just as soon as I'm done torturing a few defenseless Muggles."
"You're such a dear."
12:17 P.M.
Ew.
Thursday, October 31, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
1:32 P.M.
Algernon sent me an owl today – a rose and a little note that said "Aur, I'm thinking of you. xox, Algernon."
Oh, sigh. I really do adore him, and I suppose it doesn't sound like he's having a torrid affair with Narcissa Malfoy. All is well!
. . . of course, all would be even more well if Snape hadn't "accidentally" elbowed over the pitcher of pumpkin juice and drenched the note, rose, and Herman the iguana, who'd been inching toward me.
Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into him. (Snape, not Herman. I prefer not to think about Herman at all, really, because when I do, I'm overcome with a violent urge to bash my head against the wall, or perhaps leap off the Astronomy Tower.) He's always been irreversibly bastardly, but lately he's just been . . .
I'm not sure there's even a word for it, and I'm not quite up to inventing one because I figure 'bastardly' fills my made-up-words quota for the day.
I'd almost think he was jealous.
. . . Which is, oddly, quite satisfying.
1:37 P.M.
Not that I don't hate him.
1:38 P.M.
Because I do.
1:39 P.M.
Him and his bastardly ways!
1:40 P.M.
Bastard.
1:52 P.M.
The dictionary informs me that bastardly is, in fact, a word.
I guess I'm not as creative as I thought. It's a bit of a shame, really.
And I'm still not making up another one.
So there.
Bedroom Quarters
10:12 P.M.
Troll.
Dungeons.
Oh my.
12:05 A.M.
OH, SWEET STARS! SNAPE IS EVIL!
And not just in a bastardly sort of way! Oh, no!! He's evil in a hooked-nose-greasy-black-cloak-wearing-constantly-lurking-dungeon-dwelling-heartless-monster-former-servant-of-You-Know-Who sort of way!!!!
12:07 A.M.
. . .
12:08 A.M.
Phrasing it like that, I almost feel stupid about not realizing this earlier.
12:09 A.M.
Oops.
12:11 A.M.
You'd probably like to know how I made this brilliant discovery, Notebook. Well, I'll tell you. But prepare yourself – it's a tale of horror as well as intrigue and brilliant revelations on my part, and it certainly isn't suited for the faint of heart!
Though considering you don't have a heart, I figure you'll be perfectly okay.
Just thought I'd warn you anyway. It's the considerate thing to do, after all.
Anyhow, I suppose it is necessary that we start at the beginning – that being the start of the Halloween Feast. I arrived feeling quite at ease indeed; after all, at the time I had no clue that one of my colleagues was evil and could very well be homicidal. My biggest fear as of then was that I'd gain an obscene amount of weight due to excess food consumption at dinner, and then Algernon would stop by for a surprise visit only to find that I was roughly the size of a hippogriff. (Thankfully sans feathers.)
Of course, I shouldn't even be relaying this bit of information, since now that I know the truth it's hardly important.
. . . Besides, I sound like a bit of an idiot.
Yes.
Anyway.
So, the Feast went on splendidly – I was delighted to note that both Quirrell and Herman were absent. There was something positively liberating about the fact that I would be able to make it through one meal without the constantly lurking possibility that an iguana might sexually assault me floating around my mind. It's the simple things that count, I reckon.
I was right in the middle of pouring myself more pumpkin juice when the Great Hall doors burst open and Quirrell sprinted in. He promptly shouted out that there was a troll in the dungeons before collapsing onto the floor in a dead faint.
Thank God that I never had any sort of actual romantic entanglement with the man.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Anyhow, I had a bit of a panicked moment which resulted in an unpleasant amount of pumpkin juice finding its way all over my robes. You see, I've always been a bit . . . unnerved by trolls.
To put it lightly.
Mum claims that it's an irrational fear. Irrational? I think not! I mean, they could bash your head in with one of those gigantic clubs of theirs! Not to mention that when something has feet that spiky, it almost seems a crime not to use that to their advantage. And I'm not entirely sure that they're stupid, either. All right, yes, they do quite a good show of being so if it's not the case, but what if they're brilliant?? So brilliant, in fact, that they're wise enough to hide their knowledge until the perfect moment presents itself and they can attack with full flourish, aided by their superhuman intelligence!
You just think about that.
So . . . yes. I was a bit afraid, and rather pumpkin-scented.
And then, being the sort of ridiculous old man that he is, Dumbledore instructed all the teachers down to the dungeons to look for the troll. I honestly think that some sick part of him would like to see us all dead.
But everyone from McGonagall to Kettleburn stood up and took out their wands and set off, like they were just going to de-gnome a garden or something, rather than face spiky-footed death.
Idiots, the lot of them.
So I was rather forced to set off; I followed the crowd out into the corridor, surrounded by panicking students and certain Prefects positively thriving on the rush of being able to command their fellow House members (cough Percy Weasley cough). I'll admit, I really was a bit nervous. Maybe even slightly terrified. And so I did the only possible thing I could do – I clung to the person nearest to me.
Who just happened to be Snape.
Really, I wasn't even surprised by then. I mean, of course it was Snape. It's always Snape.
Well . . . either Snape or a house-elf.
And at the time I was rather grateful that it was the former, considering Wimmy would be, I reckon, rather lousy protection against a troll.
And that was all, you know.
Hah. Like I'd want to be clinging to Snape.
Especially as he's a servant of darkness.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the nicer sort.
Of course, try telling Snape that. Stupid evil git probably thought I was attempting to seduce him, or something.
Hah. As though I'd ever do that.
. . . Again.
"Auriga! What are you doing?" And naturally he felt compelled to give me one of his more disgusted sneers – you know, the ones that make you rather question why, exactly, you are worthy to walk the earth.
Why that man is allowed to teach young children I have no idea.
"Well," I replied, a bit shaken on account of the sneering, "you know – it's sure to be a bit dangerous down there. Trolls can be rather violent, and, well, you know—"
"Utter nonsense," he cut in, sounding very annoyed indeed.
I noticed, however, that he didn't so much as attempt to shake me off.
At the time, I thought it was rather peculiar and, all right, slightly . . . nice-ish. Slightly, mind! And don't disregard the –ish.
Of course, now that I know about his true intentions – hah. I'd have punched him, I'll have you know.
"Oh, just shut up," I said, quite irritated by then. "Let's just go . . . find the troll."
I found a pause was a bit necessary, as it's hardly the sort of thing that one should speak of lightly.
Snape didn't seem to share my opinion. (Something new and different for him, really.)
"The way you're babbling on, I'd think it were a Hungarian Horntail," he said, sounding kind of twistedly amused. But in his evil, Snape-ish way. I somehow doubt he ever gets giggly. Except, of course, in my moments of utmost humiliation. Hee. Hee. Hee. "What's the matter, Auriga? Surely you're not . . . frightened?" He smirked.
"Of course not!" I replied, trying to sound as though the very prospect was ridiculous. However, as I was a bit shaky with fear, it wasn't exactly convincing.
"Of course not," he repeated softly, but in a manner that made it very clear he actually meant 'the silly bint is probably about to wet herself.'
Which I most certainly was not. Hah. Please – I have some finesse. (And not just in Snape-handling, thank you.)
However, a rather looming shadow shifted to the right of us just then, and, well, it looked remarkably troll-shaped. It was . . . a faintly unpleasant shock. I felt compelled to react, just a little.
Er. If you want to call 'just a little' throwing myself into his arms and screaming bloody murder.
Which I'd like to, if you don't mind.
It was, in fact, a suit of armor.
But how was I supposed to be aware of that, I ask you?? It's not as though I've got every bit of this castle memorized! Those suits of armor can sneak up on you when you least expect it – it's hardly a laughing matter!
Of course, knowing Snape, I expected him to burst into a semi-hysterical fit of mirth. It is, I have discovered over time, his way.
But, very strangely, he didn't. Instead, he just sort of . . . looked at me. This alone was rather frightening, as there was no trace of a sneer present. He looked terribly surprised at first, but that faded rather quickly and then he was just . . . staring.
It was a bit odd, of course, and oddly . . . dizzying. I thought that I might actually pull a Quirrell and faint.
"You are a truly ridiculous woman," he said after a moment, and reached over – I swear my heart stopped beating – and pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. They'd come quite near to falling off when I'd thrown myself into him, but oddly, I hadn't noticed. It, however, became exceptionally clear in that moment.
And then – just for a second, mind – I honestly thought that he was going to kiss me. It was as though everything else had simply faded away, or frozen, and there was no troll and no long-lasting feud between us and no Algernon, and . . .
Well, of course, I'm disgusted thinking about it now. I mean, honestly. He's evil.
Still, it was . . . I can't even find a word for it. It wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before, that was for sure.
And so we were simply standing there, and I was quite positive he would kiss me, when he, in fact, did not kiss me. Instead, he suddenly swore under his breath and disappeared down the hall without so much as a sneer.
I was still feeling a bit dizzy, and could only manage a very weak 'stupid bastard.'
And then I was struck by the rather unpleasant realization that he had left me alone in a very dark shadowy corridor while there was, in fact, a troll somewhere inside the castle.
Quite possibly somewhere close.
I knew it was my duty as a Hogwarts professor to go down to the dungeons and fearlessly pursue the wicked beast until its terrorizing ways were brought to a halt.
I also knew it was my duty as a human being to not die a gruesome and terrible death.
In the end, the latter won out.
And so I followed him.
I had no idea what he was doing, of course. Ridiculous woman that I am, I just assumed that he had panicked as soon as he'd realized he had actually displayed some proper emotion and then promptly rushed off.
Of course, this assumption was extinguished rather quickly when I caught up to him in time to see him entering the third floor corridor where the Stone is being kept.
Why, I rather stupidly wondered, would he want to go in there with that beast of Hagrid's? Trolls not enough for him now?
And then I looked around and discovered that the halls were, in fact, quite deserted indeed. It wasn't as though anyone but me had seen him go in there.
Perhaps a secret dog lover, then?
Of course, then it hit me that the Stone was slightly more desirable than Fluffy.
. . . And that to attain it, one would need a bit of privacy.
A diversion of some sort would be necessary.
It would almost make it all too easy.
One might simply need to let a troll into the castle, and while everyone else was panicking and searching for it, they could slip into the corridor unnoticed and retrieve the Stone.
But why would Snape want the Stone? I pondered. He doesn't seem the type that would go mental over the prospect of lots of gold and eternal life. And besides, he would hardly betray Dumbledore, after Dumbledore trusted him enough to believe he was redeemed . . .
And then it hit me.
To believe he was redeemed.
Dumbledore really was the trusting sort – believed in second chances and such. He'd even welcome former followers of the Dark Lord into his teaching staff if he truly thought they'd seen the ways of righteousness.
And eternal life seemed the sort of thing that You-Know-Who would be rather fond of.
And then it all came together, in one very obvious answer.
Snape was evil.
Snape is evil.
Snape is evil, and still very much a Death Eater, and he's aiding You-Know-Who so he can be brought back to life somehow. I honestly can't believe I didn't suspect it before now. I mean, I'd just never even considered . . . I mean, of course he's foul and scathing and generally unpleasant, but that doesn't always mean evil, does it?
Well, yes, I've learned my lesson now.
Yes, it does.
He's been lying to all of us for all these years, and there's a good chance we're all in danger.
I've got to tell Dumbledore.
12:43 P.M.
. . . But will he believe me? They all do consider me a bit ditzy, I think, and it's no secret that Snape and I can't stand each other. Just this morning Victoria said something to me about how I'd probably sell my soul to see Snape fired. Besides, it's not as though I have any evidence. Snape will deny it, of course, and Dumbledore will believe him before me. After all, for some reason that's never really been revealed to the rest of us, he really trusts Snape. Really, honestly trusts him.
12:45 P.M.
So I guess it's just me, then.
No one else will listen to me. They'll all just think I'm being stupid, or trying to get Snape in trouble, or reading far too much Moira K. Mockridge.
Which I may be, but that is beside the point.
12:46 P.M.
And you know what this means, don't you?
I'm completely alone – it's only me and this dreadful secret. Only I will know what the darkness in Snape's eyes truly means – only I will see his true intentions, and know as I stare into that blackened gaze that once I purely and foolishly believed that he was a man I could have loved.
12:48 P.M.
Oh dear Lord.
12:49 P.M.
I appear to be living a Moira K. Mockridge novel.
12:50 P.M.
And a crappy one, at that.
12:51 P.M.
You know, it's really quite dispiriting, to know that your life wouldn't even make the Flourish and Blotts best-seller list.