Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Okay, this wasn't exactly as impressively speedy an update as the last, but I got a new chapter up in less than a month! That must count for something, right?
Again, thanks to Miss Dia for contributing her highly impressive mad Snape skillz.
-Part 15-
Saturday, November 9, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
1:42 P.M.
Really. I'm going.
1:43 P.M.
Any minute now.
1:44 P.M.
Oh, this is ridiculous.
1:45 P.M.
How very like me.
1:48 P.M.
. . . I appear to have grown an inner-Snape.
1:49 P.M.
Oops.
3:02 P.M.
. . . Quirrell?
3:03 P.M.
No, really.
. . . Quirrell???
3:04 P.M.
Perhaps it is Snape. I mean, knowing him, he might just take it for granted that I'm a gullible idiot (or so he thinks. I prefer to think that I am benevolently trusting, thank you very much) and tell me that Quirrell is the traitor so once more no one will suspect his true sinister intentions.
. . . But somehow, I just don't think so.
But oh, Notebook, you would be proud of me. Let me tell you, without a bit of hesitation (. . . shut up), I marched on down to the dungeons, fully intent upon informing Snape that attempting to murder a student was generally frowned upon.
And so I threw the door open, took a moment to make sure that there wasn't a class in there that I could somehow scar for life (technically, I knew there wouldn't be one, as it is Saturday, but when one possesses my flair for misfortune, they learn to be cautious very quickly. Or, well, all right, eventually in my case), and then stormed right up to Snape's desk. He was sitting there all innocently – or as innocently as Snape can manage to look – and apparently grading papers, and had the nerve to look annoyed at my presence.
"Excuse me for asking, Auriga, but I really find I cannot help myself," he said, all characteristically sarcastic and sneer-ridden. "Do you think yourself capable of refraining from bursting in here at all hours? While some may find it charming—"
But I wasn't going to take any of his detestably sardonic ways. No sir, not I! Instead, I gave him the most evil look I could muster and shouted, quite mercilessly if I do say so myself, "YOU, SEVERUS SNAPE, ARE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING! AND NOT JUST IN THE SENSE THAT YOU NEGLECT YOUR SHOWER, EITHER!" I was right up in his face then, let me tell you. I'd actually, er, sort of climbed across the desk, which could in retrospect be construed as slightly suggestive. But I was angry! I was furious! And I was not trying to seduce Severus Snape.
Because I never would.
Except that one time.
Which doesn't even begin to count, really, as I thought he was Quirrell.
. . . Who happens to apparently be evil.
Oh, never mind.
Back to my shouting, then—
So I was right in his face, and I just kept on yelling, even though he was staring at me as though I'd gone crazier than it was possible to go. "DID YOU HONESTLY THINK THAT YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH THE COLDBLOODED MURDER OF HARRY POTTER, OF ALL PEOPLE?? EVEN YOU-KNOW-WHO COULDN'T, MIND, AND YOU'RE HARDLY AS IMPRESSIVE AS HE IS WHEN IT COMES TO BEING A SICK, TWISTED, REVOLTINGLY EVIL BASTARD!!!!!"
I fell silent then, just because it seemed like a good stopping place, and listened to the word 'BASTARD!' echo repeatedly off the cold stone walls in my voice.
It was actually a bit cool.
Very formidable.
See? I could have been a Slytherin. People probably doubt my credibility when it comes to being unpleasant, but let me tell you, I think I can actually be rather nasty. All these 'starry-eyed and socially inept' preconceptions really--
Er. Anyway.
So he just stared at me for a moment in what I think just might have been utter horror (hee! Slytherin, I tell you!) for at least twenty seconds. It really got a bit awkward after a bit, too. I thought he might come up with some scathing, quintessentially Snape-esque retort that would manage to make me feel idiotic even though I had exploded at him in the name of righteousness, but he just kept staring.
I felt kind of tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but refrained. At the time, I still thought him evil, after all.
Besides, it seemed slightly immature.
(Which, all right, hasn't stopped me before, but let's not dwell on the past.)
Finally, he seemed to come to his senses, and requested, quite coldly, that I kindly remove myself from his desk, as I was rumpling the essays, and he would hate to have to explain to the first-year Gryffindors that their homework had been damaged due to a certain Astronomy teacher's presence atop them.
This seemed reasonable enough (besides, I really did not need any more fuel in the 'Professor-Sinistra's-a-trollop!' fire), so I did as he asked. I did not, of course, stop glaring at him, though. I know how to handle a potentially homicidal servant of You-Know-Who, and don't you doubt it.
. . . Notebook.
Ahem.
So, anyway, Snape had just gone back to grading the essays as though I wasn't there at all, which was quite obnoxious of him, if you ask me. And naturally, I couldn't let him get away with it – stupid prat – and so I continued, but a bit calmer this time and, yes, without crawling all over his desk.
"You tried to kill Harry Potter," I said, as evenly as possible.
Snape looked up at me, positively exasperated. "As usual, Auriga, I have no idea whatsoever what-"
"Oh, no!" I snapped, rather angrily. "You're not getting away with it that easily, Snape!"
He arched an eyebrow at me. "Really then?" he said, quite smoothly. "And why might that be, pray tell?"
"Because!" I exclaimed, feeling a bit annoyed and wondering why he couldn't just accept that I was onto him without requiring any sort of further explanation. "I saw you muttering that curse while his broomstick was going mental! I'm not an idiot, Severus."
Note to self for future reference: Never, never claim you are not an idiot to Severus Snape, as he will always contradict you. It is a strange, sick instinct of his.
He set down his quill and looked straight up at me, gaze completely unwavering. He really does have an intense stare. It's really a bit . . .
Alarming.
Puts one off.
Instantly.
Yes.
"If you aren't an idiot – a rather questionable claim, I must add," he said, and paused to give himself a few seconds of smirking time. Bastard. "—then by all means, Auriga, explain to me how you've formulated this . . . theory of yours."
Well, by now it's safe to say that I was downright annoyed. I mean, have you any idea how aggravating it is to have your dramatic accusation completely destroyed by a bunch of skeptical and sarcastic comments?
Aaaurgh!
"It's not exactly Advanced Arithmancy, Snape," I responded, as coolly as I could manage. "I doubt anyone in this school doesn't know that you hate the poor boy – not to mention that the majority of the staff is perfectly aware of your past loyalties."
His hand jerked suddenly at that, and sent a bottle of ink crashing all over the desk. He didn't even acknowledge his faintly destructive behaviour.
I began to suspect right about then that perhaps I shouldn't have brought up the entire 'past loyalties' issue; it really was a bit dangerous considering that at the time I also believed them to be his present loyalties. And really, I never meant to! It just . . . came out.
And wound up being, surprise surprise, terribly stupid of me.
"That is none of your concern, nor do you have any right to reference something which you know nothing about," he said, and he would have sounded perfectly composed if it weren't for the edge of absolute fury sneaking into his voice.
And let me tell you, Notebook, I was plenty tempted to stammer out an apology and then turn and run. But I was on a mission to make sure that the savior of the Wizarding world wasn't murdered, and my resolve was steadfast!
(Never mind that I nearly fainted before replying. Irrelevant, really.)
"I think I have a fair bit of right, actually, if you're still up to serving Him!" I replied, as bravely as I could. And I don't think it sounded particularly weak and frightened, either. Obviously, I've rather impressive Gryffindor-esque abilities as well.
Snape, predictably, did not seem at all impressed with my courageous ways. Just like him, really. On the contrary, he looked almost as though he was tempted to burst into hysterical laughter. Thankfully, he didn't – let me tell you, I'm not sure I would have survived witnessing yet another Severus Snape Laughing Fit. And that has nothing to do with being cowardly, either – it's quite simply just unnatural on his part. So there.
Er. Where was I?
Ah, right.
So he didn't laugh. Instead, he just stared at me as though I were the most foolish creature he had ever encountered in the entirety of his life, before finally announcing, "If I'm still in the Dark Lord's service, then you are keeping Quirrell's iguana as a secret paramour."
"Ugh!" I cried out, as I really didn't have time to sort out what, precisely, he was trying to communicate, and had only caught the fact that he suspected Herman was my secret lover. Certainly an 'ugh'-worthy situation. "You're an entirely sick and disgusting man if you really think that there's something going on between me and that foul iguana!"
Snape gave me a very pointed look.
And then I realized what, precisely, he had been trying to say.
"Ah," I said weakly. "Right."
But that hardly answered any questions.
"Wait!" I said, and glared at him. "If you're not serving You-Know-Who, then why the hell are you trying to kill Harry Potter? And why're you trying to get to the Stone? Hmm??"
"Slatero Quirrell," Snape responded evenly, as though this made any sense whatsoever.
And, well, at the moment I was so thrown off by it that I thought he wanted to engage in some bizarre game in which one named Hogwarts staff members, so I promptly replied, "Minerva McGonagall."
He looked at me for a moment before apparently deciding he didn't want to know, then said, quite slowly (I hate it when he talks to me like I'm two. Or severely mentally disinclined), "Slatero Quirrell is trying to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. He is also trying to kill Harry Potter."
I blinked. "Slatero Quirrell is afraid of the dark."
He is, too; I wasn't just making things up there. Once, I was the first one in the staffroom, and hadn't gotten around to lighting the candles yet as I was really in desperate need of a cup of coffee. Quirrell came in and absolutely panicked. He was clutching to poor Herman like he was positive he would quite simply never see the light of day again.
(Personally, I do think he's a bit of a drama queen.)
"And I am sure you'll spend hours reveling in the impressive irony," Snape said, rather impatiently. "I, however, do not wish to dwell on it at present, as I have work to do. As always, Auriga, it was maddening--"
"Oh no!" I said, and sat on the desk. (Desperate times call for desperate measures. I still was not trying to seduce Severus Snape. Hah. Disgusting. Ew.) "You're going to tell me what's going on! I don't see why on earth I should believe you!"
"And I don't see why you are entangled in the entire situation in the first place," Snape returned smoothly.
I resisted the urge to mutter 'bastard,' and instead replied, "I am because I'm observant, you know! I notice things!"
"Is that so?" Snape asked, and raised an eyebrow at me.
"Yes, that's so!" I responded defensively.
It just so happened that I hadn't noticed I was, in fact, sitting in the spilt ink.
But really! Just because that particular unfortunate incident occurred, it doesn't mean that I'm never observant!
But try telling Snape that.
Try telling him anything.
He won't believe you, you know. He'll just sneer and make a bunch of snappish comments and wind up making you into a complete idiot.
I hate him sometimes.
Anyhow, I decided to preserve my dignity and act as though I weren't aware of the fact that the ink was with each second causing the impending destruction of my favourite robes. "Just tell me why I should believe you."
"You needn't believe me, Auriga," he responded. "I do not find it necessary to acquire your approval of my actions. You are not my mother, after all. However, I do fail to see how it would be to my benefit to kill Harry Potter in clear view of everyone. If I were to do it, to actually kill the ignorant spawn of James Potter, I would do it correctly, in a way that no one would ever be able to connect back to me."
Which, you know, actually kind of made sense. It seemed a bit ridiculous that Snape would attempt to kill Harry Potter in front of all those people. After all, he's more the type that would trick you into a dark corner and then threaten you within an inch of your life, sounding perfectly composed all the while, until you just died of fright.
Sick bastard.
"But then why were you muttering at the Quidditch match?" I asked, but I was feeling a bit less energized by now, on account of the fact that he'd managed to counter every bit of evidence I'd had against him. Like him, really.
"My, my," Snape said, looking far too amused. "I am aware that you aren't the most impressive of witches, but surely even you recognize a counter-jinx when you see one?"
To which I replied, in a truly intelligent and dazzling fashion, ". . . oh. Right."
"Now, if you don't have any other ridiculous accusations to hurl my way, then I'd appreciate it if you were to remove yourself from my presence."
Honestly. The man is a dreadful recluse. I had, by then, accepted that perhaps Snape wasn't evil – just a very, very nasty bastard – and figured that perhaps we could form some sort of partnership.
. . . Not like that.
You're right sick-minded, you stupid little notebook. I don't suppose anyone has ever told you that before.
You know – a platonic partnership! A partnership against Quirrell and his, er, evil ways (I feel stupid even writing it – it's just that he's a bit pathetic, to be evil) – that way, we could ensure that he wouldn't attempt to kill poor Harry again.
But, of course, Snape didn't even suggest such a thing.
So, naturally, I had to.
"Don't you think we should do something?" I asked. "I mean, he could do something terrible – there's no telling what his next move is!"
"I have him under control for the time being," Snape responded steadily, just moving on to another essay to grade and not even looking up at me. I supposed I should have demanded some respect, but at the moment I was a bit surprised by what he'd just said.
"Under control?"
"I assure you, Auriga, the present situation contains nothing to worry about," Snape said, looking downright annoyed now but still managing to sound for the most part quite calm. How he does that, I'll never know. When I'm annoyed, it tends to be slightly visible.
And sometimes results in the throwing of coffee mugs.
"And," he continued, "if I ever find myself desperately in need of your . . . assistance," [insert sneer here], "—I will no doubt inform you right away. Now, if you'd be so kind as to—"
Well, by that time, my annoyance was slightly visible, so I just jumped off the desk, informed him, "Fine, fine, you great evil bat, but you'll be sorry when you find you need my help!" and stormed out of there.
I think I may have heard him laughing to himself as I left.
Uuughhh. Unnatural.
Stupid bastard.
But on the bright side, at least now I know what's really going on around here.
. . . kind of.
. . . Maybe.
3:26 P.M.
. . . Quirrell??
Monday, November 11, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
8:12 A.M.
Well, that was a bit odd.
Victoria just walked in and, sounding a bit odd, asked if Snape had attempted to talk to me about "anything peculiar" lately.
I was about to just say no, figuring that she was just desperately searching for more evidence for her "I know you subconsciously loooove him, Auriga!" case file, but then I recalled that chat in the courtyard that could certainly be construed as strange.
"Yes, I suppose so," I told her, feeling a bit suspicious. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason," she said, and went over to talk to Flitwick. But it was the sort of 'oh, no reason' that clearly meant 'I know but I don't want you to know I know and by Merlin, I'm certainly not going to tell you anything oh no instead I think I'll just casually abandon you in favour of a man who's barely three feet tall!'
I am quite sure that she's up to something.
But what it could be, I have no clue.
Let me tell you, Notebook, if things get any stranger around here, I may just have to change my name and flee to Jamaica for a bit of rest and relaxation.
And don't you dare say I haven't earned it.
8:16 A.M.
. . . When did I start capitalizing 'notebook'??
8:17 A.M.
Oh dear.