Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Er. Well . . . I . . . oh dear. I'm sorry. I just am. So, so sorry. It's just that school is really very much an evil thing, and I haven't been able to write much of anything this year, but there is no way I'm ever going to abandon this fic. I love Auriga and you guys and the wonderful feedback way too much to ever do that. So, ya know, I might not update again for another three and a half years, but that doesn't mean it's dead!
Er. That was a joke. Promise.
This is going to be a bit questionable in the quality department because for one thing, I haven't written Aur in nine months, for another, I am sick and somewhat delirious, and for yet another, I was too lazy to proofread on account of the whole sick/delirious thing.
Forgive me?
Wednesday, November 20, 1991
AstronomyTower
9:40 P.M.
Oh. Oh, dear God.
9:41 P.M.
Perhaps I'm just misunderstanding things. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. (Though damned if I will admit this to anyone. Anyone being Snape, naturally.)
At least . . . I hope I'm misunderstanding things.
Though this seems frighteningly clear.
9:42 P.M.
There is no other known interpretation of the phrase "I wouldn't kick her out of bed," is there?
9:43 P.M.
Well, really! There very well could be. It just requires a bit of rational thought. Say, for instance, two people who are very much romantically disinclined toward one another indeed somehow wound up trapped in a room together. And the room only had one bed, and the woman happened to fall asleep on it, leaving the . . . man exhausted, yet obligated to allow her to remain there in peaceful slumber because that's just the sort of gentleman he is. Hence, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed . . . because I am a gentleman."
9:45 P.M.
That isn't the faintest bit likely, is it?
9:46 P.M.
This is worse than house elves.
9:47 P.M.
Well . . .
9:48 P.M.
Yes. Decidedly worse. In that it is ILLEGAL.
9:49 P.M.
As is courting a house elf, I guess. But that's the kind of thing that needn't even come into consideration, because I'm certainly not that kind of girl!
9:50 P.M.
Nor am I the kind of girl that men don't kick out of bed.
9:51 P.M.
Not that I have been kicked out of bed.
9:52 P.M.
Well, all right, once. But those were special circumstances.
9:53 P.M.
I've strayed from the original point, haven't I?
Well . . . good.
Because it's honestly terrifying. Unless, of course, my true-meaning-of-that-particular-phrase analysis actually holds weight, in which case I suppose it could be construed as somewhat gallant.
But . . .
9:54 P.M.
Why do these sorts of things always happen to me?
And this, this doesn't even make any sort of sense. It's thoroughly irrational, not to mention bewildering, with a hearty dash of disturbing just for good measure. House elves, I could handle. But this? This is . . .
There is someone up there who likes watching me suffer. They sit there and chuckle at my incessant agony like it's some sort of Muggle sitcom. Only this would be inappropriate subject matter for any sort of sitcom, so for the love of God, can they just leave me alone?
9:56 P.M.
. . . Please?
10:00 P.M.
I am never, never looking at the back of a homework assignment I'm grading out of idle curiosity again. As I have learned from this something-beyond-unfortunate incident, it can lead to only one thing. That thing being utter agony.
Oh, Notebook. What's the point in hiding it anymore?
CHRISTOPHER GOLDSTEIN IS IN LOVE WITH ME.
10:01 P.M.
Which I would've, admittedly, been rather thrilled about if I were still sixteen. He's quite handsome for his age. No Sirius Black, or anything, but this may very well be a good thing. I mean, look how he turned out. Not exactly Witch Weekly Bachelor of the Year material, now, is he?
He's actually got a bit of a Gilderoy Lockhart resemblance going on – blue eyes and blonde hair, and even that very charmingly defined jaw line. Not to mention
10:02 P.M.
FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, THE BOY IS SIXTEEN.
And this doesn't mean that I'm any sort of . . . woman of questionable morals, so don't you even begin to go thinking that! It's just that I'm so thoroughly shocked at this discovery that it's temporarily stolen away every bit of my sanity. And therefore has left me to objectively describe the boy's slight resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart. Which certainly doesn't mean that I have any interest in him whatsoever.
10:03 P.M.
No! Honestly. I don't.
Because that . . . that's sick. That's what that is.
And I may be many things, but here is where I draw the line!
10:04 P.M.
I suppose this makes me the Whore with the Heart of Gold of Hogwarts.
Except for the whore part.
10:05 P.M.
Oh, really.
10:06 P.M.
But, y'know, now that I think about it, I'm certainly not the sick one in this situation! I have no interest in him besides, well, his general well-being as a Hogwarts pupil and therefore one of my many responsibilities as an educator.
He's the one who wouldn't kick me out of bed.
How's that for sick!
10:07 P.M.
By the way, if the tables happened to be turned, I would certainly kick him out of bed. Ugh! Teenage boys these days – really, what sort of behaviour is that?
10:08 P.M.
All right. So we've firmly established that I'm not some sort of sick child molesting monster. The next step is simply to figure out how, exactly, I'm going to put an end to all of this. If I looked like, say, Victoria, I would just forsake makeup for a few days and ignore my hair until it turned into a Godawful mess, but as it is, well, I have forsaken makeup. Y'know, as a valid life choice. And my hair is nothing if not a Godawful mess.
Clearly, the boy's judgment is severely skewed.
10:10 P.M.
Perhaps I can just get Algernon to threaten him. Y'know, in a subtle sort of way.
Or a blatant sort of way. One can't afford to be picky in situations such as these!
10:11 P.M.
That's probably not the most admirable action a professor could take, is it?
10:12 P.M.
But – but I –
10:13 P.M.
Oh, fine. It's immature and notably cruel.
But I can't let that discourage me! I need to think of something! This cannot go on, or by this time next week I'll be certifiably insane.
10:14 P.M.
And, for the record, I am in fact not certifiably insane at the present time. So there.
10:15 P.M.
This must end.
Think, Auriga! Think!
10:29 P.M.
Think!
10:42 P.M.
Think!
10:59 P.M.
Maybe . . .
11:00 P.M.
No. That probably wouldn't go over too well with the Ministry of Magic. Really, they're so terribly conservative these days.
11:23 P.M.
Think!
12:02 P.M.
Oh, fine.
I surrender.
I'm doomed.
12:08 P.M.
And for the record, his smile isn't nearly as dazzling as Gilderoy Lockhart's, either. I should know, because I passed him (Christopher, not Gilderoy) in the hall earlier, and he sort of grinned at me and said "Hello, Professor."
. . . He sort of grinned at me and said "Hello, Professor."
And whilst doing so, who really knows what sorts of thoughts were actually flowing through his overtly hormonal, adolescent-boy mind!
Ugh!
12:10 P.M.
If Snape ever finds out about this . . .
Well – well, I can't even bring myself to finish the sentence. Which is clearly an indication of how horrific such a circumstance would be. I mean, you saw (or, well, no you didn't, but it's not as though you can very well contradict me, now can you, which begs the question why am I even contradicting myself if this is the case? I am truly mad.) – all right, you heard the way that he reacted when I first got involved with Algernon. And Algernon's older than me! There is no pesky fifteen-year age difference which renders me something akin to Grandmother Sexy.
. . . Well, all right, perhaps not grandmother. I don't even want to think about how that might happen. Maybe Unfortunate Teenage Mother Sexy. Or Somewhat Cool Reasonably Young Aunt Sexy.
Come to think of it, I may be onto something there . . .
12:13 P.M.
No, no! Don't mind me, Notebook, and don't you dare dream of holding anything I might say here against me. I'm in a state of extreme shock and horror, mind. Anyone would go a bit crazy.
In any case, there are a thousand things wrong with this situation because I am not sexy and I am his teacher and yet he is passing notes to Arnold Cabot about not kicking me out of a nonexistent and thoroughly hypothetical bed while he is supposed to be listening to a lecture about the moons of Jupiter.
I . . .
Need sleep.
Or guidance.
Or a personal suite in St. Mungo's.
Yes, I wasn't exactly keen on the place when I was there the first time, but it suddenly seems quite shiny and appealing in comparison to this. Perhaps I'll suffer another unfortunate house-elf prompted breakdown, in which they have no choice but to take me back in. And I suppose I could be happy there – I mean, being around people with true mental problems and magical ailments might put me through some sort of epiphany. You know – the sort of thing that will cause me to recognize how good I actually have it.
Because there is good, of course! There's plenty of good. And house elves. And frizzy hair. And bratty Slytherins on power trips to tend to. And evil plots all a-stir within the walls of this castle that I am apparently not allowed to inform anyone about for no given reason whatsoever. And Snape. And an iguana that has managed to redefine lechery. And my best friend and worst enemy engaged in some mysterious conspiracy that I barely even have time to worry about. And the sixteen year old boy that wants to make me his Somewhat Cool Reasonably Young Aunt Sexy. And no, I do not know how incest somehow got thrown into this cesspool of general havoc.
Is it sad that the best thing about all of this is Snape?
I should certainly think so.
Hmph. Snape. My apparent newfound fondness for him only cements precisely how terrible everything else is. An embittered, hair care potion-inept bastard with the social skills of an elephant suffering the throes of dementia provides my will to carry on.
Which is just splendid.
12:19 P.M.
Well, and there's Algernon, of course. I don't know how I managed to leave him out – he is, after all, the sole most perfect thing that has ever happened to me.
And, don't you know, that's probably why. I simply must keep him entirely separated from the madness and mayhem of my perpetually troubled existence, lest he should become tainted.
Not that he could.
But . . . well, you know.
Safety precaution.
12:23 P.M.
In any case, Christopher Goldstein's impassioned and highly inappropriate ardor for yours truly will be stopped. Tomorrow. Somehow.
I'm sure I'll think of something. It's not as though I've ever had any trouble driving men away before.
Thursday, November 21, 1991
Great Hall
7:52 A.M.
Help me.
He won't stop looking at me.
Perhaps I'm imagining it. I mean, any girl stuck in this situation would have a right to a bit of paranoia, right? But – but the thing is, I'm quite sure I'm not. I just looked up from staring forlornly into my cereal to see his head shooting down. Which implies that he was staring at me – probably plagued with forbidden, lust-consumed thoughts – and looked down so I wouldn't see the passion smoldering in his eyes.
Oh, God. All I want to know is why. Why does this happen to me?
That's something I would very much like to know.
But maybe . . . maybe he was staring at Snape. As he's next to me, and all, and some of the students seem to hold a bit of a fascination with him. They probably wonder how he manages to be so evil and greasy on an everyday basis. It is quite impressive, really, in a repulsive sort of way.
Yes, yes. That's just it. He's not staring at me. Because . . .
Because it's sick and bad and very, very wrong. That's why.
Lustful thoughts and bacon should not be combined. It's just one of the basic universal truths of the earth.
7:55 A.M.
Perhaps they ought to teach that here.
Y'know, I'm sure Minerva could find some way of working it into Transfiguration. Or perhaps I could scribble it on one of Binns' History of Magic note cards when he wasn't looking, you know. Just so this doesn't happen again.
Not that he's even really, officially, for sure staring.
But just in case.
7:59 A.M.
Snape just leaned over and murmured, in that smooth, silky, bastardly way he has, "You seem to have quite the ardent admirer at the Ravenclaw table, Auriga. How very touched you must be."
Which means not only that other people are noticing it, therefore it must be true, but also that Snape knows.
And knowing him and the sick, twisted way his mind works, he'll probably assume that I like it or something.
Ugh.
I have to get out of here before my head explodes.
AstronomyTower
8:12 A.M.
All right. I'm safe now. No one comes up here until nighttime, anyway, on account of the fact that it's really not all that romantic without starlight, and it's not as though we can have classes during the day. As a matter of fact, it's somewhat dismal up here in the daylight.
But it's better than . . . other places.
And now that I'm on my own, I'd best devise some sort of strategy. The next time I see him, I'll just . . . be hopelessly cruel? Take a liberal amount of points from Ravenclaw if he sneezes while I'm talking? That doesn't seem right somehow. For one thing, I like to be fair to all my students.
Well, except the Slytherins.
But it's not as though he is a Slytherin. He's just trying to seduce me. That's all.
. . . I almost think I've built up a bit of a bias toward that particular house somewhere along the line.
Hmm.
Anyhow, I don't want to take points from Ravenclaw. As I was one, you know. And, well, it's not as though I'd be taking points for any real reason besides my apparent sexiness, and there is simply no logic in that particular course of action.
I'll just have to
8:50 A.M.
IS NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE!
I ask you. Notebook, I just . . . tell me this. Forget your inanimate state and sprout some sort of brain for a second just to answer me that question which I already happen to know the answer to but well excuse me I'm a bit insane right now and after I tell you why I think you'll agree that I absolutely have the right to be insane as a matter of fact I earned the right to be insane quite awhile ago and might as well start exercising it now because oh Notebook anyone, anyone would be insane if they had to deal with what I had to deal with as if everything else is not ENOUGH.
. . . Ahem.
I just had a visit from Christopher. Yes, yes, that's right. Apparently, nothing is sacred. No place is safe. I was just sitting there, absently harboring fantasies of a world in which he didn't harbor fantasies of me, when suddenly – there he was. Right behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder. He touched my shoulder. It was probably the single most thrilling experience of his life – that's precisely how sick this is, Notebook. It has surpassed all previous levels of sickness. And I haven't the faintest idea how to get out of it without, y'know, committing a bit of manslaughter and potentially getting in a bit of trouble.
Perhaps I could ask Snape – y'know, nonchalantly – about how one might do that. Kill someone, I mean, without leaving any sort of visible trail. I'm sure he's done it loads of times – he's a former Death Eater, and besides, his mind is just precisely that breed of diabolical.
Not really. I'm just kidding, you know. Don't think I'm not. (About the asking Snape thing, not the diabolical thing – the diabolical thing is quite true indeed, as we both know.) I am not going to kill Christopher. That would be wrong.
Not to say that he doesn't deserve it, at least a bit.
Where was I?
Ah, yes.
He tapped me on the shoulder.
(Shudder.)
I screamed, turned around, screamed, slammed my notebook shut, and screamed. In that order. The thing is, vaguely psychotic displays like that just come naturally to me – you think that would be enough to drive him away. Any other student would have widened their eyes at me in what is unmistakably a frightened manner and stammered out some excuse before turning and running down all two hundred and sixty-three steps. I know this because it's happened before. Just once or twice, mind. And – and, well, I dare you to read one of Moira K. Mockridge's thrillers without getting a bit jumpy! She doesn't only do romance, you know. She can be downright creepy, Moira K. Mockridge can, and you really shouldn't sneak up on a person when they're right in the middle of the most climactic scene in the novel! Honestly. That should just be common sense. Maybe I'll sneak it onto one of Binns' note cards – you know, along with the bacon thing.
Anyhow.
Christopher just stared at me with this blithe sort of smile, like watching his teacher scream her head off was not disturbing at all and actually rather pleasant. It was the sort of expression that one normally wears when they are watching a particularly nice ballet, or enjoying a sundae from Fortescue's, or something along those lines. He is clearly very, very enamoured, or a psychopath. Probably both.
And then, well, I had to take a moment and wonder as to whether he was actually there or whether my frenzied and delusional mind had just conjured him up, in a Shakespearean-tragedy sort of way. (I'm beginning to share traits with Macbeth. Something tells me that this should be at least slightly unnerving.) And, well, you can't quite be sure something is there unless you touch it, right?
I understand in retrospect how very stupid this was. It was clearly the work of a greater force driving me to drown myself in an even deeper and murkier lake of misery. But . . . but, well, you know. It was an instinct sort of thing!
And so I reached out and sort of . . . placed my hand on his chest. Kind of tentatively, and don't you look at me like the way you'd be looking at me if you actually had the ability to look at me, Notebook! For all I knew, my hand could have gone right through him, which would just be confirmation of precisely how bonkers I'd gone.
Instead, he was all solid, and . . . all right, slightly muscular. BUT I DON'T CARE, SO DON'T YOU GET ANY IDEAS. I'm just documenting the facts as they happened to take place! That is all.
And – you know those moments that just dote upon slowing down for you, just so it can be thoroughly and irreversibly captured precisely how awful it is? Now, usually, this kind of thing reserves itself for when I discover that I am accidentally seducing Snape, or when I am driven to lock lips with a house elf. But this – this apparently merited one of those sorts of moments as well, because there we were, with my hand on his chest and him looking up at me with this slow sort of awe and his heartbeat about tripling (I could tell, on account of my hand being there and all). It was the sort of thing that I know I will remember until I'm a hundred and twenty-six and alone and miserable with nineteen cats and no recollection of the wonderful things that have happened during my lifetime. (Because wonderful things have to happen sometime within the next ninety-five years, don't they? At least one wonderful thing? Please? How about something faintly pleasant? I'll settle for faintly pleasant.) I will have no idea that my name is Auriga, or that I was once upon a time the most celebrated romance novelist in the wizarding world. Nor will I be able to recall those fabulous two months spent with Gilderoy Lockhart in Bermuda. (Shut up.) Despite having forgotten all this, I will still remember, with absolute clarity, the time I accidentally felt up my sixteen year old student to make sure he wasn't a ghost, in manner of that king Macbeth's mad wife offed.
Well, after the twenty-six years that seemed to compose that single moment, I was finally struck with the ability to move again and pulled my hand away as quickly as I could. He looked rather disappointed. Ugh. UGH.
"Oh," I was able to manage, as nonchalantly as possible. "Christopher. Hello. You . . . startled me."
"Sorry about that," he said, but in this way that actually meant 'Sorry? Hah! My teacher had her hands all over me! She so wants me.'
I am a genius when it comes to deciphering subtext.
I chose, however, not to acknowledge the clear underlying meaning of his words aloud. Instead, I continued to speak, in the most professional way that I could manage, considering he probably wanted to rip my shirt off.
"It's . . . all right." Hah. Hardly! "What do you want?"
The word 'want,' when the air is laden with unwelcome sexual tension, is not exactly appropriate. I am making note of this for future reference.
He sort of stared at me for a moment, in this way where I could very skillfully interpret the answer to that question, before putting his hands in his pockets in a casual sort of way and saying, "I'm having a bit of trouble in class."
"Oh, really?" I said, but in this way that actually meant 'Well, then, for the love of God, you nasty little prat, stop thinking inappropriate thoughts about me and pay attention!'
His subtext-deciphering skills clearly pale in comparison to my own, because he just nodded in this very earnest way and said, "Oh, yeah. I'm just having a bit of trouble understanding the star charts."
Which was really just a disgustingly weak excuse. Even an inappropriately lovestruck fool should be able to come up with something better than that.
"Well," I said, in the most patronizing manner I could, "you see, Christopher, you look at the sky through the telescope, and then mark on the chart what you're observing. I think you'll find that it's really not all that difficult."
And at the moment I was feeling quite triumphant indeed – it was very satisfying to be at least a bit unnecessarily bitchy to him. He'd earned it, after all.
But then, not the least bit disheartened, he just went, "Y'know, I think I'd understand it much better if you showed me sometime."
I have never been dropped into a gigantic vat filled with eels, but I imagine that what I felt at that moment was a bit similar to that particular experience.
"All right," I said, as composedly as I could manage considering I was being sexually harassed and all. And not even in a slightly exciting way, like with Snape. Not that I think it's slightly exciting when Snape sexually harasses me. And it's not that he sexually harasses me on a regular basis or anything of the like either. It's just that . . . that "if I were on you, you wouldn't be making that request" comment left scars. And it was horrifying. Doubt that not, Notebook. It's just that . . . this was more horrifying.
Understandably, I should think.
"I'll show you in class," I finished, very professional indeed.
"I was thinking I'd get it more if you could show me one-on-one," he replied, unperturbed.
I am not sure how to recount precisely how I felt at that moment. Even the eels couldn't quite do it justice. It was, I think, something along the lines of #&#(&#( . With a hearty dose of 'ew's and 'ugh's thrown in. You know – to dull the abstractness of the statement a bit, and such.
"Well, I'm not sure that will be at all possible, Mr. Goldstein," I snapped, feeling strangely McGonagall-esque. It was somewhat empowering. I never snap at my students, and rarely do the last name thing as well. It just always seemed a bit cruel. But, oh, I was ready to be cruel. I would've willingly pushed him down the stairs at that moment if I would've been able to find a way to manage it.
"Why not?" He looked at me, all wide-eyed and slightly Lockhart-reminiscent, and in that moment, I wasn't even impressed by it. Not even in an 'oooh, I'd be ever so thrilled if I were still sixteen' sort of way. I was actually kind of . . . offended. Or very offended. Because . . . because Gilderoy Lockhart is modest and charming and has done some of the greatest things of our time, and this stupid and highly morally questionable boy had the nerve to vaguely resemble him! And let me tell you, Notebook, something about that realization just unleashed in me a fury unlike anything I've ever known. Because it's one thing to drive me past the point of madness, but it's quite another to insult Gilderoy Lockhart.
(I'm so good to him. If things don't work out with Algernon, fate will certainly bring us together somehow. Not that I don't want things to work out with Algernon. It's just that Gilderoy seems like a very good backup plan. I bet my mother would like him, and she couldn't doubt his existence, either, in the way I know she does with Algernon. One can't just say that they made Gilderoy Lockhart up. So hah.)
And so I said – or, well, shouted a bit, "Because I said so!"
He blinked, and I honestly thought for a moment that in that moment, he had recognized just how entirely mad I am.
Such was not the case.
"I suppose that's okay, then," he finally said, in this very unaffected way. "I was just hoping that maybe I could get better marks in this class. 'Cause, well, my mum – she's a bit ill right now, and they're not sure if she's going to . . ." He paused, in this very tragic sort of way – like he was allowing the angels an opportunity to weep for him, or something – before continuing. ". . . Well, anyway. She just . . . she always wanted me to get really good marks, you know?" He forced a pained smile. "To make her proud."
Now, I am 66.7 sure that this was utter nonsense, Notebook, but . . . well, on the off-chance that it wasn't, I didn't exactly want to be the sole reason that his dying mother hadn't been proud of him. That seemed a bit cruel.
Not as cruel as pining most lecherously after a woman a decade and a half older than you, but a bit.
And then he just looked at me, in this very sad sort of way, and started turning to go, and –
"Fine."
I swear, I have one thousand and forty-seven mental disorders. I don't know why I do this to myself.
He turned around and met my gaze, and his eyes were all sort of bright and shining, and . . .
"Thank you, Professor," he said in this breathless, 'I'm swallowing my tears' kind of way before disappearing down the stairs.
Why do there have to be so many stairs, anyway? I got to sit there and listen to his footsteps getting quieter and quieter but still so very obnoxiously there and reflect upon the fact that one of my one thousand and forty-seven mental disorders must involve some sort of desire to inflict absolute agony upon myself.
And so as it is, Christopher Goldstein and I may as well be dating.
9:07 A.M.
Well, not really.
That was an embittered sort of joke.
9:08 A.M.
What? It was.
9:09 A.M.
Must you always doubt me, you detestable little creature! Even my inanimate, this-close-to-not-even-existing-at-all notebook can't support me!
9:10 A.M.
It is 9:10 in the morning, and I have suddenly been overcome with the urge to get thoroughly and completely drunk.
Sometimes, I don't even know what to think about myself.
1:16 P.M.
I hate Snape – I honestly and completely do; don't get me wrong there – but sometimes, I don't mind him at the same time.
I spent the morning not grading papers (I've developed a faint phobia – so sue me. Am honestly contemplating never assigning homework again) and drinking all the butterbeer that I'd managed to smuggle out of the Hogwarts kitchen. This is just proof of how desperate I am, that I would actually willingly face that many house elves, all at once. And they sort of glared at me and muttered angry things in bizarre third person under their breath, but they gave me the butterbeer, and so far, my skin hasn't turned any strange shade, and I haven't grown any new appendages or anything, so I think it might've been okay. Maybe they recognized the raw madness and desperation in my gaze and realized that I was as thoroughly distressed as it was possible to be, and there was simply no point in furthering the agony.
So, anyway, by the time lunch rolled 'round, I was slightly tipsy (very slightly. Butterbeer isn't really supposed to do anything to humans besides have that nice warm-and-fuzzy-feelings effect, but I have a few issues when it comes to holding liquor of any kind) and feeling a bit reckless and a bit lonely. For future reference? Not the most wonderful combination. I had come to the conclusion that I rather wanted to talk to someone: not Algernon, because for one thing I didn't want him to see me like this, and for another, he was off doing important, wizarding-world-of-fashion-type things. Not Victoria, because she would've demanded to know what was going on and then she would've mocked me shamelessly afterward. Sympathy is not her strong suit. Not Wimmy, because one should not attempt to deal with a house elf spurned, though I genuinely gave some consideration to the idea of attempting to patch things up with him for a moment. Yes. It was that bad.
And so finally, inevitably – I turned to Snape.
(Make note of the 'finally.' Also the 'inevitably.')
I wandered down to the dungeons in a melancholy sort of way, figuring that a bit of hearty insulting from him would almost cheer me up at this point, and that at least he knew about my current plight. Besides, I reasoned, he probably kept alcohol around.
In retrospect, this is deeply, deeply saddening.
Oh well.
In all honesty, by the time I got to the dungeon, pushed open the door, and laid eyes on him straightening up Potions ingredients in the supply closet, I kind of wanted to burst into tears.
(This was entirely the butterbeer's fault, mind you.)
"Hi," I said, in this sort of pathetic half-sob.
I suppose it was faintly startling, because he dropped a tiny glass bottle of something that immediately burned a decently sized hole into the floor. After a bit of hearty under-his-breath swearing, he turned to face me, not entirely thrilled.
Of course, at the time, this communicated the rather distressing message that nobody anywhere wanted anything to do with me, and the urge to burst into tears multiplied. Which, fittingly, wasn't convenient in any way.
"Auriga," he responded curtly, a potential sneer dangerously close to taking up residence on his face. "And to what do I owe this . . . pleasure?"
Except, of course, he said it in that charming way he has, where you're about as pleasant to him as that vat of eels I mentioned earlier. Well, probably far less so.
And let me just tell you, Notebook, I was hardly in the mood to put up with any of his sarcasm. I was emotionally distressed, and very much overwhelmed with the need to whine. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to listen.
"My life is terrible," I announced, sinking back onto one of the tables and nearly knocking over a spare cauldron. He, predictably, looked annoyed and as though he'd rather like to shout at me to get out and never come back. Or hang me from the ceiling by my fingernails. Something like that.
Instead, he just sort of stared for a moment before inhaling sharply and closing his eyes in a way that was clearly a prayer to . . . whatever sinister higher power he may believe in that I would not expound upon that particular statement.
And, just for the sake of annoying him a bit, I innocently threw in, "Don't you want to know why?"
"No," he returned promptly.
Well, really.
"I'll tell you anyway."
"Goody," he deadpanned in a way that was so thoroughly sarcastic that it didn't even conjure up the urge to mock him for using the word 'goody.' He then refocused his attention on the supply closet and the convenient new hole in the floor.
"You have Christopher Goldstein, right?" I asked, figuring that was as good a place as any to begin my tale of tragedy and woe.
He muttered something that caused the floor to return to its previous state and the glass shards to disappear, but beyond that, apparently my inquiry wasn't worthy of a reply.
Deciding not to be dissuaded by this, I plunged on. "Well, I do. And he's in love with me."
He laughed sharply at this, but didn't turn around. Which I personally found to be particularly annoying – when someone is mocking you shamelessly, you'd think that the very least they could do is turn around and do it to your face, right? But not Snape. Oh, no. Certainly not. That would be far too courteous a notion for him to so much as contemplate.
"What?" I demanded, defensive.
"Impressive, Auriga," he responded sardonically, instead of actually bothering to answer my question. "Why, I should go so far as to deem the concept worthy of Nabokov."
I didn't say anything to do with this – namely because I haven't the faintest idea who Nabokov is – and instead continued on.
"He is, you know. He passes notes about me to his friends." I crossed my arms in front of my chest, indignant for no particular reason. And then, because it suddenly seemed quite necessary-- "He said he wouldn't kick me out of bed."
Another bottle went plummeting to the floor. The entirety of the room turned an obnoxious shade of fuchsia for a moment before resuming its original state.
"That's what I said," I said; my mind wasn't precisely clear at the moment, and it seemed a fitting enough response. "And now – now he's being a sleazy little brat and making up stories about his ailing mum so that I'll give him private lessons, during which instances he'll no doubt attempt to seduce me."
I, personally, felt that this was a rather dramatic finish. Snape, however, apparently didn't share that particular viewpoint – he didn't so much as turn around.
Really.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" I demanded, a bit offended that I'd poured out my heart to him and he didn't have the courtesy to so much as mock me about it.
"You are truly ridiculous," he returned evenly.
Which was, sadly enough, really all that I needed to hear. Honestly – as soon as he'd said it, I felt about ten times better. I didn't even feel the need to construct some excuse as to why I'd need to be in his quarters so I could steal a bottle of firewhisky.
I don't even want to know why this had this particular effect. I suppose just because I've gotten so used to it that it's almost comforting.
Which is really just confirmation that I am, in fact, truly ridiculous, but I don't particularly feel like dwelling on this at present.
So, feeling considerably better, I thanked him and left. The "thank you" was apparently a bit unexpected, though, I guess, because I heard glass shattering against the floor again as I was walking out. This time it was accompanied by a very strong scent that was eerily reminiscent of cotton candy, which I'm not even going to think about. The possibilities as to why he'd want anything that smelled like cotton candy . . . I just don't think my mind can process it at present.
Maybe tomorrow I'll be feeling so much better that I'll actually be able to appreciate this for its comedic value/blackmail potential and conspire a bit with Victoria.
Heh. Heh.
1:32 P.M.
And I suppose I may as well look up Nabokov. Just for the sake of knowledge, and all.
1:34 P.M.
Well, this is really just predictable. Nabokov wrote a book about a mental old professor who fell in love with his twelve-year-old nymphet stepdaughter. And enjoyed it thoroughly all the while, I'd bet.
Ugh.
Damn him and his subtly clever literary allusions.
1:35 P.M.
And besides, Christopher isn't twelve, he's sixteen! Which is far less sick, undoubtedly. And it's not as though I'm—
. . . going to think about this anymore.
1:36 P.M.
Honestly.
1:37 P.M.
The next time I see him, damned if I don't throw another coffee mug in his general direction.