Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: You know what I really suck at, just fantastically?
Basketball.
. . . And also updating.
I'm sorryyyy, my dears. I am honestly terrible and deserve to be kicked repeatedly, or something. Anyway, this chapter really gave me a whole lot of hell for a very long time, until I just scrapped Algernon's reappearance because he really was not cooperating. So, alas, you don't get to see him in this chapter. Try not to weep too bitterly – I know how much you all adore the man. ;-)
-Part 16-
Friday, November 15, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
3:32 A.M.
Aaaurgh!
It is official. I lack Snape's alarming ability to show absolutely no concern whatsoever when cursed with the knowledge that there is evil among us. I mean, I'm quite sure that it's perfectly understandable, and that anyone who wasn't a completely psychologically unhinged bastard would be a bit antsy, but it's driving me mad. Honestly. I keep having all of these . . . nightmares.
And you see, once I have them, they manage to haunt me throughout the entirety of the day. To the point where I may or may not get a bit jumpy at small noises and have developed a new phobia of turning corners in the corridors for fear of bumping into . . . some people.
But it's not as though I'm being strange or pathetic or anything of the like! Quirrell is evil. He's a faithful servant of You-Know-Who whose two objectives in life are currently to sneak past Cerberus's second cousin and to off Harry Potter. I've given up going in the teacher's lounge, even. There's always this chance that I'll wind up in there alone with him, and . . .
Stop it. Don't think I'm any sort of coward. It's just that with his finesse regarding the Dark Arts, he may even be able to look into my eyes and see right through me; realize that I am all too aware of his secret. Legilimency is not unheard of, you know!
And then he'll kill me.
And, you see, this is rather what the nightmares are like. They also tend to involve Herman sporting a black cloak and cackling quite diabolically indeed; this is disturbing for a number of reasons, the first of which is that iguanas cannot cackle.
I don't think.
I had the first one the night after Snape and I had our little discussion. I didn't bother recording it in here, as I've noticed that I tend to, er, dwell on things that I write down in here, and I hardly wanted to become fixated on the fact that Quirrell could very well murder us all.
Luckily for me (and, all right, somewhat predictably), I did anyway.
Every single night, I have these awful dreams, and it's driving me absolutely mad. I figured it might be best if I just stopped writing in here; the temptation would be too great to ramble about the nightmares if I were to start writing, and besides, the fact that I am capitalizing 'Notebook' is probably enough to land me in St. Mungo's for at least five years.
But I can't bear it anymore. My mind is swimming with little cloaked iguanas, and I need somewhere to sort out my thoughts.
Firstly, I am perfectly aware that I should just go to Dumbledore. God knows why Snape hasn't done so already, and if he isn't going to take matters into his own hands, then I should just do it, shouldn't I? I mean, it would be a bit vexing if I didn't do anything and then someone wound up dead because of it.
Just a bit.
This wouldn't even be like the Professor Ford incident, where I warned everyone and no one listened to me. This would be my fault.
. . . Poor Professor Ford. I rather liked him. He used to mumble indistinctly and furrow up his eyebrows whenever Snape came into the room. Once, he even hurled a sugar quill in his direction and managed to get him in the eye. Accidentally, of course. And Snape couldn't do anything, of course, because even though he is a non-evil bastard, you can't very well go cursing one hundred and ninety-three year old wizards. It just isn't done.
And for the record, it wasn't really a full-out, evil sort of laugh, when I found out he'd died. Just a small one; a second of satisfaction. It was a bit empowering to know that everyone's been wrong all these years about not listening to me. But just a second, mind you. I mean, I cried afterwards, and everything, when it really sunk in. As a matter of fact, the next time I went into Honeydukes during a Hogsmeade weekend, I saw a box of sugar quills and burst into tears. I got so hysterical that eventually Dumbledore forced Snape to escort me to the Three Broomsticks for something that might 'calm me down a bit.' I'm quite sure, however, that Dumbledore didn't request the Firewhisky. And, well, I don't exactly behave wonderfully with a bit of alcohol in my system. That was probably all Snape's sick idea. I vaguely remember referring to him as 'sweetheart.'
It's disturbing, really, how he derives amusement. He needs to find some other way to spend his time – he can get a hobby, or a pet. Maybe a puppy. Or an iguana.
. . . Oh, right. That's where I was.
I knew we'd get back to the point eventually.
That whole tangent was quite deliberate, as a matter of fact.
Really.
I suppose that I'm just subconsciously trying to dance around the point, which is that this is driving me mad. I should just go to Dumbledore, but I have no clue as to whether he'd actually believe me, and I know that Snape isn't going to back me up in that area. And I would do something really brave and heroic – confront Quirrell or the like – if it weren't for the fact that this would probably end poorly. And with my untimely demise.
Snape would probably laugh.
But then he'd miss me, you know.
The next time he saw a coffee mug, he'd probably break down and sob. Probably hasn't cried in ages, if ever. But he'll just look at that coffee mug, and he'll realize how much I meant to him, truly, even if he had never really allowed himself to acknowledge that while I was still with him. And then –
I'm going off-topic again, aren't I?
But the thing is that I just haven't any clue what I'm supposed to do. I'm awful at secrets. Truly, truly terrible. Like . . . like when I came home from school the summer after fifth year, and Lyra – who was seventeen at the time – told me that she'd slept with her boyfriend. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone; she made that very clear. But I just couldn't look at her the same way! Let me tell you, No --- notebo -- you, it very nearly drove me mad. It didn't help, I suppose, that I was sixteen and hadn't so much as kissed anyone yet. But the idea that my sister had done . . . well, that, and I was the only person that happened to know – besides, I would hope, the bloke she did it with – was somewhat pressuring.
I had no intention to tell anyone. I was completely prepared to take it to the grave with me. All right, so the subject was a bit, er, mature. But that didn't mean that I wasn't able to handle it! Days flew by, and I was perfectly fine. A bit more skittish, maybe, and a little nervous whenever anyone asked me anything, but beyond all that, you know, I was doing quite well, really.
Until one night at dinner over beef stew when I sort of accidentally let it slip to my parents. I remember that it was beef stew because Lyra poured hers over my head.
And that was just sex! This is the potential doom of the wizarding world!
I don't ask for people to tell me these things. Honestly. I don't ever want to get involved.
I suppose it's just a curse. And somehow in the mix, other lovely things get thrown in. Things like house elves, and purple skin, and iguanas. Sometimes with cloaks.
I am the unluckiest person on the planet.
3:44 A.M.
Though in retrospect, I suppose it's quite lucky that Lyra didn't kill me.
3:45 A.M.
Not for lack of trying, of course. And I didn't come out of the whole ordeal easily, either. In addition to the stew, I also tripped over a strategically placed plant and broke my toe, apparently misplaced all of my summer homework in the neighbors' slightly evil Doberman's kennel, and was tricked into attending a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show thanks to an address mix-up and an innocent desire to see A Star Is Born.
It was honestly the most insane thing I have ever witnessed.
There was even thrown toast.
3:47 A.M.
And personally, I think she was overreacting a bit. I mean, don't they always say that you should be mature and responsible in order to consider having sex and facing the consequences?
It seems quite immature to attempt to kill your little sister.
Just a point.
3:48 A.M.
All right, admittedly, my dad didn't speak for an entire day after he'd found out.
3:49 A.M.
And when he finally regained the ability, he yelled at her for three hours and forty-five minutes. Consecutively.
3:50 A.M.
And locked her in her bedroom.
3:51 A.M.
And stole my mother's wand, asked her nonchalantly 'what that killing curse was again,' and then promptly stormed over to my sister's boyfriend's house and screamed 'abracadabra!' at his bedroom window for around twenty minutes until the police finally showed up.
3:52 A.M.
But still.
Saturday, November 16, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
7:27 A.M.
Note to self: do not reminisce about family disasters before bed, lest you might be plagued by bizarre dreams involving not-quite-platonic-partnership dealings with Snape, Herman the iguana cape-clad and brandishing a sugar quill while screeching out 'abracadabra!' whilst Wimmy looks on with tears streaming down his face, and being forced to drown in a sea of beef stew for all of eternity.
Sometimes, I truly hate my mind.
Sunday, November 17. 1991
AstronomyTower
1:02 P.M.
I can't live like this much longer.
I woke up this morning from another one of the nightmares.
With Herman, mind. And a dementedly cackling Quirrell. And no Snape at all. And therefore no naked Snape. Because I've really never thought such things. Honestly. As a matter of fact, that whole portion of the dream was really quite hazy; I can't remember it at all. It was more the situation than the actual . . .
And I honestly doubt that, if he were to for some reason kiss my throat, it would yield the sort of reaction that it, er, might have in the dream. Which I have no idea if it did. Because I can't remember it.
ALGERNON.
ALGERNON.
ALGERNON.
1:09 P.M.
Er. Just thought I'd, you know, bring him up. As I haven't lately, and I figured that you might be a bit curious about how he's doing, and all – he's quite fine; I just had an owl from him; thanks for asking.
Notebook.
Um. And back to the subject of dreaming.
Because I had a nightmare. There was a dark corridor, which I was walking through. And then Quirrell was at the end of it, whispering something about how I'd figured out his secret and now I would pay. He and Herman had me cornered. There was no escape. And just as he'd started to utter the Killing Curse, I woke up.
Perfectly suitable for audiences of all ages, thank you very much.
Not to say it wasn't frightening.
So I decided, quite simply, that I wouldn't take it anymore. I was going to Dumbledore, and there was nothing Snape could do to stop me!
. . . But still, I figured I might as well check in with him first before I went all the way to Dumbledore's office, and all.
I didn't exactly bother to get dressed up nicely, as it was just Snape, and this was a mortal peril sort of situation; looking stunning was not exactly an important issue. Besides, I didn't want him to think that I was attempting to dress up for him, or anything. Because that would imply that there was some sort of attraction between us. Which may or may not have resulted in questionable subconscious—
Anyway.
So I went to his bedroom quarters to inform him that I was going to Dumbledore, regardless of what he might say to try to stop me. I figured he had a right to know, after all, as he is my partner.
In the fight against evil.
The platonic fight against evil.
Which does not involve throat-kissing.
Erm.
Anyhow. So I went and told him that. Except for the throat-kissing part. He told me in return, quite confidently, that I would do no such thing. Hah! As if he had any say in the matter.
"Why shouldn't I?" I asked, and crossed my arms in front of my chest defiantly. It was a sort of situation that required defiance, I figured.
"Because," he replied smoothly, "This is a matter that does not require Dumbledore's concern."
"Someone's in league with You-Know-Who and attempting to murder Harry Potter and it doesn't require Dumbledore's concern??"
Sometimes I honestly think he's a bit mad.
Well, perhaps more often than sometimes.
But sometimes it seems particularly clear.
"As I already told you, Auriga, I have Quirrell perfectly under control for the time being." Then he took on that all-too-familiar sort of condescending expression he likes to wear when he's around me, all smirking and superior. Bastard. "I can assure you that he will not be murdering you in your sleep any time soon." He then felt compelled to throw in "Pity" in a sort of undertone that was perfectly audible.
Hmph.
We'll just see if he feels the same way after Quirrell's killed me and all he's got left is a coffee mug.
And let me tell you, the 'pity' remark set me off a bit.
"I don't know why I shouldn't be allowed to tell him! This is important, you know!" Then, on a sudden note of inspiration, I threw in quite viciously, "Your twisted vendetta against Harry Potter doesn't give you the right to hold back information! I bet you'd like to see him killed."
That got him angry, all right.
Which may or may not have been smart of me, but at the time it was quite satisfying.
"That's a very clever theory you've invented," he said in that low, dangerous sort of voice, stepping closer to me. It was somewhat terrifying, but damned if I was going to start backing up or whimpering or doing anything that might expose the fact that I wasn't exactly at ease.
"Very clever indeed," he continued silkily. "I suppose you think that I would just allow an innocent boy's murder to satisfy some personal . . . vendetta, did you say?" He was approximately six inches away from me by then. It may or may not have been somewhat . . . intense. In a bad and frightening way, of course. "Unlike the majority of this world's inhabitants, Auriga," he finished, eyes flashing in a sinister sort of way as he practically whispered the last words, "I do not act upon my . . . desires."
My knees went oddly weak at that, and I sort of sunk backwards onto the bed. Strange reaction to absolute terror, I suppose. Because I was without a doubt absolutely . . . terrified. And nothing else.
At all.
"I see," I managed to reply in a very weak sort of way. At the time, it seemed like quite the impressive accomplishment.
He didn't even pay the slightest bit of attention to this, though. Instead, he was . . . and for a few seconds I was absolutely sure that I was imagining it . . .
Staring at my neck.
It took me a moment to register this. It took another moment to refrain from having a heart attack. By the time I'd reached yet another moment, I realized that it was very, very strange that he was still staring.
And then, in this very sudden, oddly fluid sort of movement, he came closer and thank God I was sitting down because I honestly thought he was going to—
. . . Kill me.
Right. Exactly. Because of the . . . terror. And the fact that he probably really, really has a desire to.
Kill me.
Yes.
So, I was a bit, er, nervous, on account of the . . . death as he reached over, brushed my hair away from my neck – I was quite nervous by now, really, to the point where I'd rather forgotten how to breathe – and asked, in a very sharp sort of way, "What is this?"
"I . . . don't know?" I choked out meekly.
He continued the intense staring for a moment – I really was a bit dizzy; lack of oxygen, and such – before proclaiming, "Ink."
"Ink?" I repeated, very blankly, before recalling that I had, in fact, fallen asleep over my lesson plans the following night.
He sneered slightly and backed away, striding over to his desk on the opposite side of the room.
"I suppose you fell asleep over that quaint little chronicle of your life that you keep so faithfully?" he said dryly. "Spilling out all your utmost secrets."
"I don't have any secrets," I returned, figuring there was no way he could find out about the throat thing.
Er.
I mean, I told him the truth.
Because I really don't have any.
Secrets, I mean.
In any case, he raised an eyebrow at me, thoroughly skeptical. "Is that so?"
"Yes!" I said boldly.
This apparently didn't satisfy him. "No scintillating details about that charming idiot who's so," and here he threw in an extra dash of sarcasm; just for good measure, I'd imagine, "-fortunate as to have wound up with you?"
". . . No." I really was telling the truth that time, too. I'm not quite sure that anything that's happened between Algernon and I counts as 'scintillating,' precisely.
"I see," Snape said then, sounding alarmingly pensive.
This reminded me for some reason of that bizarre conversation in the courtyard, which in turn made me recall Victoria's little inquiry from a few days ago.
Feeling quite brave, I asked, "Do you want to ask me something?"
He stared at me like he'd just been caught singing Celestina Warbeck in the shower, or something of the like. "What gives you that idea?"
"You just . . ." I couldn't, however, think of anything to back myself up beyond that, and so I went back to the point of the thing and demanded, "Well, do you??"
"Of course not," he snapped, seeming unusually annoyed. "Contrary to your delusional beliefs, Auriga, I seldom waste my time and energy focusing upon you unless it proves absolutely necessary."
Which really was a bit unnecessarily hateful, if you ask me.
"Fine," I replied, quite composed if I do say so myself. "I won't waste any more of your time, then."
"Good," he said shortly, already beginning to leaf through pieces of parchment on his desk.
Really. I doubt his mother ever taught him anything regarding social interaction.
. . . Of course, mine did, and that didn't exactly do an incredible amount.
But at least I don't blatantly ignore people!
(Well, for the most part, anyway.)
And so I left, figuring there was no point in spending any more time in his despicable, maternal-influence-devoid company. After all, I have things to do besides argue with him and lose large amounts of air while he stares at my neck! I was hardly going to give him the impression that I actually had any sort of interest whatsoever in him by sticking around.
Bastard.
1:18 P.M.
I hate him, you know. Quite truly and passionately. It's the kind of hate that nothing – even, y'know, incredibly divine throat-kissing – could ever come between.
So you can just get rid of this ridiculous little assumption that you've devised, because I am certainly not infatuated with Severus Snape.
Because I have a boyfriend.
Who is not Severus Snape.
So there.
1:20 P.M.
And you know, before you start on that whole 'crazy-cow-talks-to-her-notebook!' tangent, perhaps I'm not talking to the notebook. Perhaps I'm talking to someone who might have stolen this because their deepest desire was to engross themselves in the fascinating chronicles of my life.
If this is the case, then CLOSE THE NOTEBOOK AND BACK AWAY. Honestly. You don't want me angry with you, you know. I've got connections; I happen to know a very lewd iguana.
Somewhat intimately.
Also, my aim with a coffee mug really isn't lousy.
So I'd think twice before messing with me!
1:21 P.M.
Not-Notebook.
1:22 P.M.
That was strangely empowering.
1:23 P.M.
Not-Notebook.
1:24 P.M.
Hehehe!
1:25 P.M.
Er.
Don't think for a second that I'm easily amused, or that I lack a life, or anything of the like. I have plenty of important things on my agenda – keeping in touch with my highly successful boyfriend, battling the ultimate force of evil (Snape), battling the runner-up ultimate force of evil (Quirrell) . . .
And, of course, educating the young witches and wizards of the United Kingdom.
Which is incredibly important to me as well.
Really.
1:28 P.M.
. . . Though if I'm any sort of prime example, then I suppose I should just inform them that excelling at Astronomy will get you nowhere in life, unless you'd like to be a moderately crazy, occasionally pathetic, potentially eternally unmarried old professor who occasionally assigns huge amounts of homework just to express repressed discontent with her own life.
1:29 P.M.
Perhaps they should take up Underwater Basketweaving instead.