Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit

The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra

Author's Note: Firstly, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of you wonderful reviewers. Oh my goodness, over a thousand reviews . . . I am just in a state of awe and really can't believe it. Thank you guys so much. Your support and feedback means so much to me, and tends to remind me why I love this story even when I find myself forgetting.

Thanks in particular to Teffie, whose advice really helped me to get going again, and Michelle, who put up with many, many hours of distressed whining whilst the actual writing went on.

Secondly, HBP's swiftly and surely on its way (which I'm sure none of you know already or anything ;-D) and, of course, there is a chance that Sinistra might be given a character and this whole story could . . . pretty much crumble into nothingness. If this occurs, I'll probably keep going anyway as an AU, simply because I'm far too attached to Auriga not to, and because I am determined to make it to CoS so I can have her fawning over Lockhart. :D

Thirdly, God almighty, this is a fricking huge chapter. And by fricking huge, I mean fricking huge. Twenty-five pages of fricking huge. 12,000+ words of fricking huge. When one takes into consideration the fact that a chapter of this story is usually around 2,000 words . . . er, yeah. There is much madness. Anyway, I'm not going to bother to proofread, because it's 3:15 in the morning and I'm leaving for a trip tomorrow afternoon and should technically actually be asleep right now, but I was determined to get you guys one last chapter before HBP, and I won't have much computer access where I'm going.

So, um, yeah. The end of this chapter is gonna suck. And be very, very weak. Blame it on Auriga's sleep deprivation. You know, instead of my own. ;-)

With all that having been said – er. Enjoy?

Meanwhile, I'm going to go pass out.

-Part 18-

Thursday, November 28, 1991

St. Mungo's

4:25 A.M.

All right. That's it. I'm done. Honestly. I'm just . . . done. I'm swearing off men.

D'you know, I don't think I'm even swearing off. That implies that doing this might be difficult in some way. And after what's been going on as of late, that certainly shall not be the case!

So I'm finished. Retired, in a sense. Why have I always been so ridiculously enamoured with the idea of romance, anyway? It's all complete rubbish!

That's it. I'm officially an old maid. A spinster-by-choice.

Or, if I get deeply, desperately lonely, possibly a lesbian.

But probably not.

But down with men! Never again! And believe me, Notebook, I am positively sure about that!

4:29 A.M.

Though, for a moment of optimism (don't worry, it certainly won't last), the Healer says that Algernon's spine should probably heal up quite nicely.

Which is a good thing, I suppose.

Even though I'm – and this is as strange to me as it is to you – rather annoyed with even him right now.

As a matter of fact, I think I might have kicked him earlier.

I wonder if this means we're taking a bit of a break from each other.

4:30 A.M.

If not, how exactly might I go about breaking that whole bit to him about my having sworn off men?

4:31 A.M.

Well, I suppose if things got too difficult, I could just mention that part about possibly someday being a lesbian. I figure nothing turns a man off like the mental image of his girlfriend snogging another woman.

4:32 A.M.

. . . Or maybe not.

4:35 A.M.

In any case, when he wakes up again, we're absolutely through.

Assuming we're not already.

But what's really important here is

4:36 A.M.

A small child with an extra arm sprouting out of his head just caught sight of me as his mum was leading him through the hall and burst into tears. He was about two and not quite articulate yet, but I can't shake the sinking suspicion that I distinctly heard the words "yucky monster."

Well, excuse me, you little brat! You haven't been what I've been through! These last twelve or so hours haven't been enough to scar you for life despite the fact that house-elves only played a minimal role! So what if I haven't been able to tend to my hair for the past twenty-four hours or so? There are more important things, you know!

Ooh, I bet you anything he's going to wind up in Slytherin.

. . . And besides, really, it's not like he's one to judge! He's got a bloody arm growing out of his head! That's really quite monstrous indeed, if I do say so myself!

Not to mention yucky.

Blech.

Little bastard.

4:38 A.M.

I meant that in the nicest way possible. Really I did. I mean, I understand that calling kids just out of the baby age bracket swear words isn't morally sound, under normal circumstances. But do I even qualify for normal circumstances? Is my life ever normal?

Ask yourself, higher power that seems intent upon torturing me!

And, er, then please don't send me to hell, if you don't mind.

I actually do like children. Quite a bit, really. Not as much as I like puppies, but . . .

4:39 A.M.

Er, all right, maybe I will just go have a quick peek at myself in the bathroom, then. Splash a bit of water onto my face. Wake myself up.

Speaking of waking up, I wonder if they have any coffee.

Ohhh, that sounds heavenly. I almost can't think about it right now.

Perhaps I'll go search for the tearoom after I've been to the lavatory.

St. Mungo's - Bathroom

4:47 A.M.

Oh, God. He's right. I am a yucky monster.

One should not, in the name of all that is right and true in this world, be able to look into the mirror and fear their own reflection as much as I do right now.

Well, then. It's official. I now absolutely and incontrovertibly need to drown myself in coffee.

Or maybe one of the toilets.

4:49 A.M.

I've decided to go with coffee, after reaching the logical assumption that it probably tastes better.

St. Mungo's – Tearoom

5:01 A.M.

Blech. All right, maybe the coffee doesn't taste better. I mean, I'm not about to go back to the bathroom and compare, or anything, but really. Isn't it likely that people who've suffered extremely traumatic events are going to be coming here? And if your mum's just been diagnosed with an incurable case of scrofungulus or your husband barely survived a run-in with a manticore, doesn't it seem like the least they could do was supply you with somewhat decent coffee?

Honestly. I sometimes think that the entire world is out to get me.

I wouldn't even throw this stuff at Snape.

St. Mungo's – Cozy Little Supply Closet

5:18 A.M.

I officially renounce my previous statement.

Not that I meant to throw it at him at first. I mean, it's not as though we're alone in the staffroom or anything. We're in a public place. A public place where that kind of violence is probably condemned, no less.

But, well, sometimes, there's nothing else you can do.

I mean, really! The nerve of him! My boyfriend (ex-boyfriend? Yes, right, I'll get right on that) is suffering through the agonies of a broken spine right now, whereas he only has a few measly cuts and scratches, and he feels that he has the right to get upset with me? As though all of this is my fault?

Well, that wouldn't work this time! We all know whose fault this was, and it's certainly not mine. Mostly. As a matter of fact, it's entirely Snape's fault.

Almost.

Probably.

And yet he still stormed on in here, all cut up and bastardly beyond all mortal comprehension, sank down in the seat next to mine, and hissed, "I do hope you're happy now, Auriga."

Really. I probably should have known then and there to just get rid of the damned coffee before it made its subtle but undeniable transformation into a tool of utmost destruction.

But really, I suppose I'm not all that great when it comes to picking up on things like that.

So instead I just stared at him incredulously for a moment before demanding, "Do I want to know what you're talking about?"

"Oh, I'd assume so," he returned smoothly, and I momentarily harbored a compulsion to punch him in the nose. It was almost completely repaired by now, of course, but still had to be a bit sore, and besides, two broken noses in under twenty-four hours? Just the sort of thing that would be terribly unfortunate, were it to happen to anyone else, but quite fitting indeed where Snape was concerned. However, I was able to maintain my composure.

Erm, mostly, anyway. I may have unconsciously reached for my coffee at that point, but really, as of right then, I wasn't even aware that I'd be doing anything besides drinking it.

Clearly, I underestimate my own capacity for ferocity and strength.

"After all, I can only imagine how positively . . . thrilling—" (sneer) "—this must be for you."

I hate it when he does that. And d'you know, I bet he's completely aware of the fact that I hate it when he does that. With the nonchalantly drawn out pauses, and the fact that he usually uses them with words like 'thrilling' and 'desires' and the like. Really. If he weren't such a revolting bat, I'd almost suspect that he kept legions of heaving-bosomed women in that dungeon of his and used his days off to have his way with them until his sexual prowess became downright unsurpassed.

Snape with a harem.

Hah. Well, isn't that just likely.

(That's complete sarcasm, mind. I don't know one woman who would show the slightest bit of interest in him, let alone legions of them. How many women constitute a legion, anyway? I feel like I should know this. Well – too many, that's what I know! And that's certainly enough.)

In any case, all of this didn't exactly have time to fly through my head before I replied, or if it did it was very fast and I didn't manage to catch most of it. Like that part about the heaving bosoms, which would have in all likelihood thrown me off a bit.

Instead, almost by default, I just snapped back, "What the hell are you going on about?"

He smiled, in this sort of sick, twisted, 'I-revel-in-your-pain' way that was just ever-so-characteristic of him. "Men falling off towers, shattering spines, performing illegal curses . . . all in your name. Why, to a mind as flighty and ridiculous as yours, it must be the very picture of perfection." He made a point of over-articulating those last three words, no doubt aiming to express that he didn't exactly approve of my flighty ridiculousness.

"You're mad," I informed him, as coolly as I could. Because let me tell you, Notebook, there was nothing romantic about what had happened. And I didn't enjoy any of it in the least. My hair looked awful and my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – would have probably never walked again, had he been stuck in a Muggle hospital, and it was all just very unpleasant! And not the least bit romantic. Perhaps if I'd have looked a bit better, and Algernon had requested my presence to the Healer in a hoarse, desperate whisper drenched in unmistakable love, and Christopher had perhaps gotten killed somewhere within the whole ordeal, and Snape had finally met his untimely – scratch that – very timely, about-timely demise . . .

Well, then maybe it would have been a bit nice. And slightly enjoyable. Slightly, mind you.

But I wasn't about to explain all of this to Snape.

"Am I?" he inquired, in that nice way he has that clearly means 'au contraire, oh mentally ailing companion of mine' except . . . well, not quite because Snape would never say anything like that. Don't look at me like that. Or . . . don't not look at me like that because you're not looking at me, but I can tell how you'd be looking at me if you had eyes to look but you don't so just stop.

Er.

The point is, I am really in desperate need of sleep, and my coffee is currently on the tearoom wall and a newly soggy Potions master, and I am a bit too embarrassed to go back and get more.

So I may get a bit mentally unhinged. Temporarily. Understandably. Shut up.

"Yes," I said, in a way that was meant to suggest an air of incontrovertibility but actually came out just sounding impressively sulky. "Bonkers."

". . . Bonkers?" he said delicately. And hearing him say it like that really honestly made me think that I was the one that had gone bonkers. Which I'm not. It's him. It's all him. It's just that he's evil in addition to being bonkers, and so he can trick you into believing that you've been the bonkers one all along!

. . . All right, so my word choice mightn't have been entirely effective.

But we've gone over this sleep deprivation issue. Let's just leave it at that.

It had seemed very fitting before I'd actually heard it out loud.

"You know what I mean," I said impatiently, not wanting to put up with any more of his evil-bonkers mind manipulation.

"Rarely."

How is it that he can be all smooth and effortlessly sharp-witted at all times? I bet he takes potions for it; that can't come naturally. And, well, if he does take potions for it, then that's rather unhealthy and a bit shameful. And reasonably comforting. So I believe I'm going to be sticking to this particular theory for awhile.

"Well, I didn't enjoy it," I finally informed him crossly. "And you should know that, you stupid bastard." (Just because that felt very necessary.)

"Ah, yes," Snape agreed, in a way where he wasn't really agreeing, of course, but rather just taking the opportunity to show off his sarcasm skills. "Truly, Auriga, now I recognize the error of my ways. How dare I suspect you of something so . . . shallow?"

"I hate it when you pause," I told him, feeling very glum all of a sudden.

And, like he hadn't known this already (bastard), he just sort of stopped and stared at me with that lovely disdainful bewilderment that he's made into an art form by now.

"What?"

"Never mind," I grumbled.

And then we just sort of sat there, me holding my coffee and unaware of the fact that in a few short minutes it would be wreaking unimaginable havoc, and him kind of sneering to himself and occasionally glancing at me in disgust.

It was oddly comforting.

(But only because sleep deprivation makes Auriga mental. Remember this.)

Clearly, though, this was the sort of thing that was simply too strange to last, and before I knew it, I found myself asking, in a very small and timid sort of way, "Why did you do it?"

He'd been right in the middle of sneering at me, and the sneer kind of froze on his face for a second before he went, in a way that seemed almost panicked, "Do what?"

"You know . . ." And I said this, of course, assuming that he did in fact know. And it was in no way an idiot assumption – I mean, he'd been there all along, hadn't he? His face was all scratched up and one of his fingers was still a bit crooked (from being bent backwards, and all, I'm assuming) and, well, you'd have to be an idiot not to know what I was talking about.

But apparently he is, in fact, an idiot. Big damned surprise.

"If I knew, Auriga, one would assume that I therefore wouldn't have bothered to ask," he reminded me irritably.

"Honestly, Severus," I returned as evenly as I could, figuring that he wasn't the only one allowed to do the scathing first-name-calling thing, "even I know that you're not dense enough to get all scratched up and break your fingers and then forget why."

"I have to wonder at the fact that you're choosing to award that any bit of attention whatsoever, when your beloved is currently suffering through the throes of such agony." He took a second to sort of smile to himself, like he enjoyed the thought of Algernon in agony a little more than anyone really should have. (How surprising, to see him acting sick and sadistic. Really, I'd never have expected it. The man is just one big bundle of surprise, that's for sure.)

"Yes, well, he was acting like a bit of a prat," I said coldly, figuring that it probably wasn't all that smart an idea to act as though he were still my beloved to Snape and then go off and break up with him about an hour later. (Which I haven't yet, but I'm going to. Honestly.)

I could tell he was just about to say something all scathing and mock-appalled about how horrifying it was to hear me speak of my one true love that way, or some rubbish like that, so I was sure to throw in, "Though not as much of a prat as certain others involved."

"Yes," Snape replied, aggravatingly undaunted, "Goldstein was rather obnoxious; if you don't take at least twenty points from him for his actions last night then I fear I may have to do so myself. I assume you won't mind."

"That isn't who I meant."

"Well, then pray tell, Auriga, who did you mean?" he inquired, in a tone that was very keen upon informing me just how much he did not care.

Honestly, I'm not sure I even know how he does it. If I spent that much of my time not caring about things, I'd probably be even more of a basket case than I am now, when I care about everything around a thousand times too much.

"You!" I finally said, deciding that this wasn't going to get any easier and it would be best to just get it out in the open. Unfortunately, lack of sleep and terrible coffee and rather edgy nerves all resulted in me . . . well, screaming seems a bit harsh a description, but, all right, we momentarily managed to gather everyone in the room's attention.

But just momentarily! And besides, it was dead quiet in there anyway. A pin drop could have easily garnered that same amount of attention.

Snape, naturally, cannot even begin to master this kind of reasoning, and therefore apparently thought it an ample opportunity to break out the 'you are truly a disgrace to society; see, everyone else knows it just as well as I do' sneer.

"My, my, Auriga," he said, very softly, and his eyes were sort of gleaming in that way they do when he's feeling particularly malevolent, "you are putting on quite the show, aren't you?"

"Oh, shut up," I ordered, feeling rather fed up with him by now. I mean, really, Notebook, picture it: to have to sit there with him, knowing perfectly that he's one of the main reasons that we were all stuck there in the first place, but did he show the slightest bit of remorse? Of course not. Oh, no. It was all Auriga's fault, even though she didn't do anything! The most she did was want a normal, functional relationship, or at least a bit of romance in her life. Is that so very, very wrong?

Auriga –

Er, I realize that I am referring to myself in third person. Sleep deprived, mind. And angry. And harboring yearning thoughts of caffeine.

This does not, however, mean that first person is suddenly beyond me.

So, anyway. Then I felt compelled to continue, "You can't pretend that you had nothing to do with it, you know! I saw you! I watched you –" And then I decided that this might be an opportune time to lower my voice, even though I hated him and all. I didn't quite want him fined or sent to Azkaban or something, "I watched you push him off the Astronomy Tower."

Snape arched an eyebrow, not even bothering to break out a sneer. It seemed he didn't think it was worth the effort; that I would immediately realize the sheer insanity of my accusations if I just stared at him long enough to yield to the power of the eyebrow.

Hah. Hardly! I like to think that I've a bit more inner strength than that.

"You did," I said, and reached over to poke him as menacingly as I could in the shoulder to emphasize it. "You pushed him and I know you did, so there's no point in pretending otherwise, Severus Snape!"

Well, apparently he was so busy channeling all of his condescending skepticism into that eyebrow that he didn't manage to pick up on the 'no point in pretending otherwise' part.

"Congratulations, Auriga," he said, not the least bit congratulatory but rather impressively derisive, "you've managed to appear more mentally unsound than I'd ever thought you capable of – quite the feat indeed."

And by this time, Notebook, he'd just gotten downright frustrating.

"Well, I might be 'mentally unsound,' as you put it, but at least I'm not completely pathetic!" I pointed out angrily. "There's no getting around this, you know. You're going to have to give me some kind of explanation. It's not as though you can just sneer and do that eye twitching thing until I just forget entirely about the whole affair! I mean, look."

And then I did something that I would only do were I a sleep-deprived emotionally drained for-life scarred perpetual spinster slash yucky monster who'd been betrayed by the one thing she'd thought constant in her life – the caffeinated beverage.

Otherwise, I certainly wouldn't have done it. Under no circumstances.

Well, all right, maybe unless I was drunk.

But I wasn't, so I can't even begin to see how any of this is relevant.

It's just that I tend to . . . touch Snape more than usual when I've got a bit of alcohol in my system.

And I didn't. Just fatigue, and unyielding distress, and indescribably frightening hair. (Quite the step up – or, well, down, I suppose – from its usual state, which I have deemed 'mildly horrifying.') Which is apparently roughly equivalent to a few swigs of Firewhisky.

I reached over and sort of . . . brushed my finger over one of the scratches on his cheek. Not for any kind of remotely romantic purpose, mind! Believe you me, Notebook, that was the last thing on my mind. (Well, perhaps not the last thing. Celestina Warbeck's new affair with the bagpiper from The Weird Sisters was, I'll admit, further back. But now I'm quite sure I'd have been better off focusing my time and energy upon that.)

No, no. What was on my mind was proof. And, well, the scratch? Proof of the fact that he'd been entirely involved in last night's little fight to the death! Inarguable proof! And I figured if I touched it, you know, he'd . . .

Er, understand that, realize that he was no match for me, let out a little long-suffering sigh, and then confide in me as to what the hell's going on with absolute truth and minimal sarcasm.

SLEEP DEPRIVATION, all right? And yes, I realize that one excuse can only carry you so far. But . . . but it's the truth, for Merlin's sake, and . . . it's a good excuse. I don't function well without sleep. Or caffeine. And right now I have neither. And aren't these the kinds of things that should most certainly be taken into account before rash judgments are passed?

Well, yes. Maybe if you're reasonable, and have a soul, and such.

But Snape is not reasonable, even though you can tell he's entirely under the impression that he is (his mind is deeply and irreversibly skewed; no one has grown more aware of this than I), and, the soul-having part isn't even an issue, really.

Anyway. All right. So . . . there we were. With my pointer finger kind of frozen on his face, him staring at me in a manner that suggested he couldn't even bring himself to manage a sneer, and some clearly disturbed old woman sitting the next table over making cooing noises at us.

In order to postpone the full rekindling of the extreme agony that came from the whole touching Snape incident, I just need to take a moment to remark upon said old woman. Because . . . honestly. Say you (well, not you-you, obviously, as we've quite established the fact that you cannot see) spot a witch with hair nothing short of sinister inadvertently pressing her hands all over the face of what could very well, for all you know, be a vampire who looked like the very brush of her fingers was enough to make him toss cookies?

Or, er, blood. Do vampires throw up? Because if so, that really does destroy the whole romantic creature of the night air a bit. I mean, if you're going to go through all the dark romanticism and cruelty of robbing someone's life in order to drain their veins, it seems like the least you could do is keep it down, right?

. . . I sometimes suspect I should not be allowed to think.

So, anyway. What was my point again? Vampires weren't my point, were they? Because whilst they do have pointy fangs and can be killed with pointy stakes, I'm not sure that actually automatically ensures that there's a point herein. Relevant to what I'm talking about, and all. Since Snape is not a vampire. I don't think. Even though if I'd considered this possibility earlier, that whole instance where he stared fixedly at my neck could've taken on a whole multitude of new and terrifying explanations.

I did used to have a bit of a thing for Louis from Interview with the Vampire. Sure, everyone else seems to prefer Lestat, but there's something touching in the fact that a vampire could be, well, technically evil and still be so wonderfully soulful. And generous enough to spend his free time giving interviews when he could be off killing innocents, or something.

I wonder if real vampires are like that. I've never actually met one. Unless Snape is one. Which he isn't, of course, because I've seen him outside during the day, and did brandish a cross at him once. Which opens up the opportunity for even more rambling, but honestly, I'm a bit too exhausted to get into that, so I suppose it will just have to be left in mystery. We have a long and complicated past, Snape and I. I don't think we'd be entirely out of place in a Moira K. Mockridge novel. Especially if Snape did actually happen to be a vampire. Moira thrives upon that sort of thing. Ooh, I still remember one of hers where this governess fell madly in love with her employer, who was this very nice, well-to-do man who actually turned out to be a werewolf. There was this fantastic scene where she had to protect his children from getting bitten by him and becoming the very thing that he despised. Goodness, her genius never ceases to amaze me. Even though one of the, er, more intimate bits might have borderlined on bestiality. Just a little. But every girl's entitled a bit of creative license, right? And I'm not about to blame Moira just because I had nightmares for a month and a half afterward. The way I see it, it managed to make me into a stronger person, in the long run! Why, my entire being may have been shaped by the writings of Moira K. Mockridge!

All right. Perhaps not my entire being. Not, for example, the psychotic, Snape-touching, house elf-kissing, Quirrell-seducing part of my being. Because that would just be insulting to her.

This has honestly dwindled into meaninglessness, hasn't it?

I've discovered that I'm slightly good at that.

So, er, where was I?

Oh. Right. The touching. And Snape.

No wonder I went from old ladies to very hairy sex scenes in an attempt to change the subject.

Anyway. So this woman, she's just . . . cooing at us, as though we're adorable little babies. Or absolutely the most darling couple she's ever seen, or something. When in actuality we were, I'm sure, the absolute portrait of psychosis, exhaustion, and All Things That Must Not Be Because Sweet Stars, Imagine The Children They'd Have. (Not that I have done this. Hah. Or, er, if I have, it's just to reach the conclusion that people with features like my hair and Snape's nose should not be allowed to procreate.)

Snape, however, seemed strangely . . . unshaken by this. He was too busy being shaken by me, I figure.

(I'm a little too tired to tell whether that sounds suggestive or not; if it does, I don't mean anything by it. Because Snape and I would never and ew hate him die bastard die and that nice customary list of terms that I am, quite frankly, too exhausted to delve into at present.)

Instead, he just stared at me with this expression that I couldn't quite decipher. In retrospect, it might have been abject terror. Or a numbed fascination. Or unbridled delight, for all I care. Because I don't. I'm too tired and too irritated with him to care at present. Anyway. Strange expression. Moving along, then.

You know how time kind of does that thing sometimes where it freezes, or at the very least decides to slow significantly? And . . . how that tends to happen during encounters with Snape, of all people?

Yes, you know. Of course you know. You've heard it all before. I'm not going to bother to relay it again.

So, anyway, we just kind of sat there and stared in abject terror/numbed fascination/what have you for what shifted into a very awkward amount of time until everyone's favourite mentally skewed old woman (not to be confused with everyone's favourite mentally skewed woman, who is apparently yours truly) actually had the guile – or, you know, complete mindlessness – to utter, in a tone filled with far more syrupy sweet delight than should be legal, "Oh, young love."

This brought the bastard right back to his senses, all right.

He sort of reached up and swatted my hand out of the way as though dealing with a particularly annoying insect. And, well, I hardly wanted him to think that I'd just done it in a moment of blind passion, or something! Nothing could be farther from the truth! (Well, maybe not nothing. But I'm not even going to dare to expound upon that, lest I start rambling about papayas or Derwent Shimpling or something.)

So I yelped, in a way that was a little more childishly accusatory than I'd meant to, "I didn't want to do that!"

"Let us hope not," he returned flatly, closing his eyes as though invoking the gods of darkness and foul hair care to either grant him inner peace or smite me.

"You know I didn't!" I reminded him, still sounding . . . well, like I'd fit right in in the psychiatric unit of St. Mungo's. "I hate you! You know that! But it's proof! Scratches! You've got scratches! You were involved and you pushed my boyfriend off the Astronomy Tower and there's no convincing me otherwise, thank you very much!"

Well, I, er, sort of managed to forget to lower my voice that time around.

On the plus side, at least this prompted the crazy old lady to stop cooing and instead start eyeing me like I was mentally unsteady.

In retrospect, it's a bit depressing, the realization that she thought I was mad, but at the time, this wasn't exactly a top concern of mine.

Or Snape's. His top concern at that particular moment, in fact, appeared to be silencing me permanently, on account of the fact that I'd managed to draw everyone's attention again. And that despite his devil-may-care attitude, he apparently didn't enjoy being publicly accused of pushing someone to their agonizing almost-doom.

Which is a bit sensitive, really, considering he's taken two dozen points away from a first year Hufflepuff for sneezing into her cauldron.

By that time, I figured that there really was no going back, and that I might as well try for an impressive finish. So after taking a rather impressive swig of my rather unimpressive coffee, I leaned forward and inquired, in as intimidating a tone as I could muster, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I'm not sure that that's a question that should be directed my way at present," he returned coldly; there were traces of something suspiciously like a twitch lurking around his left eye, which I suppose I should have noticed and used to comprehend the full scope of his fury. But that's rather a lot to ask when one had reached my level of exhaustion. "When one takes into consideration the fact that you are making a complete imbecile of yourself – in an area intended for repose, no less – over something which you have no doubt shifted into some grand romantic delusion . . . well," he said, and paused to throw in a particularly acidic laugh, ". . . what I'm thinking – or perhaps, dare I suggest it, what you'd like me to be – no longer seems quite such a paramount issue, now, does it?"

It was about then that I became very much aware of the fact that I was in possession of the worst cup of coffee known to man, and that perhaps drinking it was not exactly the smartest way to utilize it.

I didn't make any drastic actions, though – I can keep my wits about me, thank you very much! – and he apparently interpreted this as 'why, yes, Severus, I'd positively love another helping of verbal abuse!'

(Bastard.)

Leaning a bit closer, he lowered his voice to an intimate whisper that really should have clued me into the fact that I should just get the hell out of there before I was really struck with the urge to wreak a fair amount of physical damage.

"Rather," he proceeded, "the issue at hand seems to be how successfully you've finally proven yourself – why, forgive me, Auriga, but even I would have thought it beyond you. What was that you referred to me as earlier?" He paused, pretending to cast around for the word but really just abusing the fact that I hate it when he pauses, no doubt. "Ah, yes – pathetic. And while I'd hate to throw away such a title, it seems as though recent events have rendered it infinitely more fitting of you. You'll agree, I'm sure."

I glowered. In no known mode of communication in the world have I ever known this to be recognized as agreement, but he was on a roll by now, and apparently a petty little thing like my not agreeing with his merciless slaughtering of the essence of my being was to simply be left ignored.

"I must say I'm concerned about your fiancé's reaction to all of this," he continued smoothly. By now, he was just enjoying himself. You could tell. His eyes were sort of . . . glinting. Meanwhile, with each word he spoke, my coffee and I were becoming one, united against him. "It seems it might . . . bring him to his senses, where you are concerned. I must admit, my imagination hardly rivals yours, so perhaps it's completely irrelevant that I can't construct one scenario in which he might choose to endure your presence a second longer." And then, with a bitter smile that just confirmed the seventy-six different layers of evil that he's composed of – "God knows I certainly would not."

And, well, that sort of cemented the fact that the coffee throwing wasn't even an option. It was simply the way things had to occur. Fate, you know. Destiny.

And so I hurled it at him with all my might and then stormed out here.

In retrospect, maybe I should have stayed. And laughed, or . . . something. Because really, it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the first time around.

Maybe it's because the coffee was actually quite good the first time around.

(All right, that seems like a bit of a shoddy excuse, but I think my brain may actually begin to drip out of my ears in a second, and I have completely lost the ability to provide a better one.)

But can you believe him? Honestly. It would be one thing if all of this was my fault. But it wasn't! And when I work up the energy to explain all of it to you, Notebook, then I'm sure you're bound to agree with me! And, d'you know, I'm sure Algernon will as well! And Christopher, even!

And, well, I suppose there's always Wimmy if all else fails.

But the thing is, Algernon is a gentleman. A truly good and decent man. He has no reason to be the slightest bit cross with me, and he knows that. (Well, er, except for that part where I sort of lied to him a little, but that was never really confirmed before he – well, fell, so that shouldn't be much of a problem.) Snape is just . . . bitter. And mean. And greasy. And a bastard. And possibly a vampire, but not a soulful one like Louis. Just . . . a mean one.

I wonder if they keep any particularly pointy sticks around here.

No, no. That's a bit rash. Stabbing Snape in the heart isn't going to make things any better. As a matter of fact, I think I'll just go sit outside Algernon's room for awhile and wait to see if any news arrives. Or . . . work up the courage to go and tell him that we're through. Even though he's really such a nice man, and I kind of adore him just a bit even though I did kick him, and if he winds up siding with me, I may have to reconsider the whole break-up thing.

It will be all right. He'll understand all of this, and handle it with dignity and calm. Unlike certain other people deserving of stakes through the heart regardless of whether or not they happen to be a blood-sucking fiend. Because he really is the best fiancé ever, or at least one of them.

5:49 A.M.

. . . Wait a moment.

5:50 A.M.

Fiancé?

5:51 A.M.

Snape . . . said fiancé.

5:52 A.M.

All right, then. Something tells me that there's something very peculiar going on indeed. Why would he think that Algernon and I were going to get married, for heaven's sake? We've barely just started dating, and it's not as though we've spent enough time together to even contemplate such things!

(Well, fine, there's been minor contemplation on my end. But that's irrelevant, as Algernon sort of doesn't know about it.)

Either Snape is an even bigger idiotic bastard than I'd ever imagined, or something very strange is going on.

5:54 A.M.

Or, well, there's always the happy possibility of both.

5:55 A.M.

Well, whatever the case, I should go find him. Or someone. I need to get to the bottom of this immediately!

5:56 A.M.

Almost immediately, anyway. First, I think I'll go stand outside the tearoom and see if I can get anyone going by to bring me some coffee back out into the hall.

Perhaps if I pretend to be dying of dragon pox, they'll take pity on me.

6:12 A.M.

Note to self: dragon pox is not fatal.

Usually, I feel like I would know that.

But still. You'd think someone would just look at me and see that I am clearly a truly troubled individual and then take it upon themselves to make some meager attempt at ceasing my pain! I mean, all I wanted was a bloody cup of coffee. Is that honestly so difficult?

Yes it is, apparently, if you happened to be one of the six people I asked before finally convincing a kid with purple and yellow spots all over him to go get me some for a handful of sickles.

Hmph. People these days. It's right depressing, that's what it is.

But I feel slightly more alive, and with each sip I take, I become increasingly assured that I will no longer veer off onto strange tangents about vampires. So I suppose that's a good thing, at least.

Still, I don't know if I'm quite up to dealing with Snape yet.

Perhaps I'll go talk to Algernon instead. Because talking to him usually results in faint giddiness and butterflies of the pleasant variety in my stomach and general loveliness. Which at present sounds far more appealing than yet more verbal harassment. There's only so much a girl can take.

St Mungo's – Supply Closet. Again. (And it's really not all that cozy in the least.)

7:02 A.M.

Spinster. I am a spinster. As of right now. Officially. Can one officially become a spinster? Is there a document I could sign, or something? Because if I signed something, that would probably provide that nice sense of being past the point of no return.

Not that I need that.

Because with or without official documentation, it's just true.

You would think that at least Algernon would have been able to offer a bit of comfort. I mean, he's the perfect man! I didn't think he was even physically capable of anything but . . . but comfort, and charm, and hand-kissing, and things like that!

Oh, no.

As it is, I never really knew him at all. I couldn't even begin to suspect the darkness that truly lurked beneath the dashing exterior.

. . . Well, all right, perhaps that's a bit much. It sounds like I'm about to reveal that he's actually a Death Eater or a homicidal psychotic who eats the flesh of young girls while they're still alive, or something.

It's not quite that serious.

I suppose.

But at the same time . . .

He was mean. To me.

Mean in a nice way, yes, but . . . there was still an undeniable spark of cruelty there! And am I honestly supposed to be able to handle that, after everything else I've been through? Is anyone supposed to be able to? I'm sorry, but I just don't have that kind of strength! What does the world really expect of me, anyway?

I ask you, Notebook. I ask you.

(Don't worry. I'm not expecting you to answer, or anything. The caffeine has rendered me pretty much properly sane by now.)

Sigh.

So, anyway, I walked back to his room feeling rather optimistic, considering everything that's gone on. I figured he'd manage to cheer me up somehow, and I was, of course, still harboring a bit of triumph on account of the whole having-coffee thing.

And so I went in, only the slightest bit nervous, to find that he was asleep.

(Faintly anticlimactic, if I do say so myself.)

The nurse smiled at me, introduced herself, and asked who I was.

"His girlfriend," I answered, figuring I might as well keep things simple momentarily. That seemed a far more satisfactory response than, say, 'His girlfriend, though I may not be shortly because I've also got a sixteen year old and a house-elf vying for my affections, and I sometimes suspect a very greasy Potions master as well, not that I'd ever show any interest in him because he's a bastard, but, yes, this makes things rather complicated and at times violent and hazardous to spines and honestly, I'm not sure I'm equipped to deal with these sorts of things on a day-to-day basis.'

So, yes. Just girlfriend.

The nurse kept on smiling when I said this, and was all smiles and polite 'nice to meet you's, and such, until she asked what my name was.

I told her, and her face kind of fell.

"Is that like Auriga?" she inquired delicately, pronouncing it in that special Algernon way.

"Erm," I returned, detecting that something may be amiss, "Maybe."

"Ah," the nurse said, looking as though she'd just been forced into taking a mouthful of the coffee from the tearoom. "How lovely."

She attempted a smile, failed, realized that she'd failed, and then spun on her heel and left.

Which left me with a slight sense of foreboding, understandably.

So I sat down in the chair next to his bed and drank my coffee, somewhat disturbed by the fact that it actually seemed a bit good by now. After the coffee was gone, I took a bit of time to just stare at him. For a second, it almost seemed like quite a poignant moment; him, lying there unconscious, having suffered in my name, and me staring, waiting, by his side although he wasn't aware of it. There for him, and such.

But then I realized precisely how thoroughly Snape would make fun of this, and a large portion of the romantic value disappeared.

Still, I couldn't help but feel a bit bad for him, so I reached over and sort of put my hand over his.

And then his eyes flew open.

It was slightly startling, not to mention quite the interruption to my little moment of reflection. And they didn't flutter, either, and then begin sparkling with joy at the sight of me! Where's the romance in that? Nowhere, that's where. And so I couldn't help but begin to harbor even more of a bad feeling about what might ensue.

So, he just kind of stared at me, in this really sharp, piercing way that was almost reminiscent of Snape. It was rather unbecoming on him.

Not that it's becoming on Snape.

"Oh!" I said, after my heart had finally had the consideration to stop pounding so hard that I'd thought I might keel over on top of him. "Good morning!"

Which was, all right, a bit of a stupid thing to say.

"Is it?"

"Yes," I replied, as gently and considerately as I could manage. "Around six thirty. You've been here all night."

"I meant the good part," he returned wryly.

I hadn't exactly been prepared for that.

"Um . . . maybe not," I confessed. At that time, I'd still been doing that whole attempting-optimism thing. After all, what was one somewhat sarcastic comment, right? And it's not as though he could be blamed; he'd just woken up and all!

Right.

I have since learned that optimism is completely useless and altogether quite stupid.

"So," I continued, very idiotically hoping that maybe if I spoke in a kind enough tone, it would take his mind off of the whole spine thing, "how are you feeling?"

"Like I just fell dozens and dozens of feet from atop a tower."

"Oh," I said, a bit shaken by this. "Right."

There was a bit of an awkward silence then; you know, the kind that might surface between two people if one of them had nearly died and the other was completely innocent but perhaps beginning to suspect that the first person didn't quite believe this.

You know. That kind of silence.

"Auriga," he finally said, in a tone a little too sweet to quite fit in with the entire scene.

Of course, I was overcome with the desperate hope that he might forgive me, and therefore the fact that he was currently sounding almost affectionate didn't exactly set me on edge so much as it made me want to burst into tears of relief.

"Yes?" I breathed, leaning in a bit closer and squeezing his fingers a little in mine.

He smiled at me and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. And then, after finally managing to detangle his fingers from it, he asked in a soft, gentle kind of way, "Why did you tell Snape that we were engaged?"

"I didn't!" I cried.

He stared at me.

"I didn't!" I repeated with all the conviction I could muster. "I was going to ask you about it! See, he seems to think we're engaged for some reason and I have no idea why – I don't know who could've told him. It's all nonsense, of course," I threw in, glancing at him.

"Yes," he agreed, in this very cryptic sort of way. "Nonsense."

This managed to sting a bit more than I'd expected.

"You think it's nonsense?" I asked in a very meek sort of voice, without meaning to.

He smiled at me, a little sadly, and chose not to answer that. Instead, he said, in this alarmingly skeptical voice, "So you're telling me that you didn't say we were engaged."

"Of course not," I replied, feeling a bit apprehensive by then. "Why would I lie about that?"

"I'm not sure," he said, and frowned a little. "Perhaps the same reason you'd lie and tell me that Snape was in love with you."

And honestly, Notebook, it just felt like the entire world froze in that instant, but in a way that was very, very bad and very, very wrong and entirely unlike when the world freezes because Snape and I are engaged in some sort of physical contact.

Er, not that that's not very, very bad and very, very wrong.

It's just that this was a different kind of very, very bad and very, very wrong. A worse kind.

"I'd forgotten all about that" was the first thought that came to my mind when I regained the ability to think, and, because this is quite simply the way things happen in my life, therefore that's the first thing I said.

Needless to say, this wasn't exactly the most satisfactory response.

"Had you really?" he said, almost coldly, and it was about then that I realized handholding might not be precisely appropriate during this sort of conversation. And so I pulled away and crossed my arms in front of my chest, feeling quite sure that I might be sick at any moment.

"Algernon—" I started – a bit stupidly, really, because I wasn't quite sure what the hell I might say in addition to that.

"I must say that Snape really wasn't entirely pleased when I mentioned it to him," he continued in that awful angry-but-still-terribly-refined-which-makes-the-anger-all-the-more-dreadful tone. "The man doesn't seem quite as fond of you as you apparently fancy him to be."

"Oh, it's not like that!" I protested, almost automatically, and then when he silently raised an eyebrow as though asking what it was like, I kind of regretted it. Am I really supposed to know what it's like? I hardly ever have the faintest clue what's going on anymore!

"It's just . . ." I took a deep breath. "He acts very bizarrely where I'm concerned. Sometimes I think that he is."

"What?"

"In love with me."

I just shouldn't be allowed to talk. In addition to not being allowed to think. My life would be much more blissfully uneventful that way.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I choose not to share that particular suspicion."

Note to self? Telling people that Snape might be in love with you? NOT A GOOD THING TO DO. Not under any circumstances. (Unless, I don't know, some deranged psycho comes at you with a wand and swears he'll Avada Kedavra you unless you tell them that Snape might be in love with you. But what are the odds of that, honestly?)

I don't even have the slightest idea why I said it! It just . . . seemed like the right thing to say, at the time!

Which really just leads me to the conclusion that I have no desire to ever find out precisely how my own mind works.

"I know it sounds stupid," I said weakly. "It's just that . . . things are always very complicated with him. There's this awful mess of God knows what between us and I . . . I'm not very good at dealing with it. That's all."

To make the most supreme of understatements in the history of the world.

"Auriga, would you like to know what I think?"

At that point, I was quite ready to respond with a very hearty 'no,' but it somehow seemed impolite.

"Yes," I grumbled instead, very reluctantly.

"I think that he is a very unhappy, embittered man who would not have the first clue how to go about being in love with anyone," Algernon said, in this wise, patient way that made it all the more awful. "Especially not you."

And something about the way he said it, or maybe just the fact that he said it, made me feel the beginnings of quite the impressive emotional breakdown creeping up. I don't know why it was so upsetting. It's just that, well, first having Snape tell me that there was no way that Algernon gave a damn about me and then him echoing the same thing about Snape, all within around an hour of one another? It is very hard to find anything pleasant in that.

"Yes," I said, willing myself not to make any sort of display that might hint at my being a weak and pathetic individual. Like, you know, bursting into a fit of sobs, or something like that. "Yes, you're absolutely right."

He stared at me for a moment then, his eyes all filled with pity, before inquiring, "So, what else have you lied to me about, then?"

Which was just . . . absolutely the most inconvenient thing he ever could have asked. I could have done with a "There there now, don't cry" or perhaps an "It's going to be all right, don't you worry" or a nice "Oh, darling, it's impossible to stay mad at you" (which would be, okay, somewhat unlikely), and instead, I had . . . that.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed indignantly, feeling rather insulted that he'd even assume such a thing. It's not as though I'm some pathological liar, after all. The way he said it, it sounded as though he were accusing me of being a truly awful person, and, well, I'm not! I know I'm not! Sure, I have my moments of . . . less than shining goodness, but it's not as though I eat puppies or anything equal to that on the unforgivable scale!

The only thing is, after that I found myself remembering all of the things I have lied to him about. Not anything important, really, but just . . . little things. Like when I started up with the makeup and the Sleekeazy's and the contact lenses in some attempt to convince him that I was in actuality a reasonably attractive and well-put-together woman. And that time I told him that I'd read the complete works of Tolstoy to sound a bit more intelligent. And when I'd agreed with him when he'd said that Hamlet was certainly Shakespeare's best work, even though I actually find it a bit too depressing and will always like Much Ado About Nothing the best. And when I made up that story about my ex-boyfriend Paul filling my entire flat with roses after he'd cheated on me in an attempt to gain my forgiveness. In actuality, he just sort of forgot about me in favour of Felicia the secretary. Or maybe it was the Leaky Cauldron barmaid – I can't remember which one he wound up settling for instead of me.

But anyway.

Everyone lies, don't they? At least a little bit? About little, insignificant things like that? I can't even see where he had the right to get so upset about it, anyway! As if that story about the way he'd always gone out star-gazing when he was younger was the truth. Those sorts of things are far too perfect and romantic to be true!

I think.

And . . . almost hope.

Anyhow, I guess it managed to show in my face, the fact that I hadn't exactly been entirely truthful with him throughout the course of our relationship.

"Ah," he said, in this very quiet, resigned sort of way that made the tears attempt to make a glorious entrance again.

"I'm sorry about that," I offered helplessly. "I am."

"Aur," he went on, as though he hadn't even heard me, "I think that maybe we should . . ."

And throughout the course of those six words, it dawned on me that I had fully intended to break up with him when I spoke to him next, anyway. There was certainly no way that I was about to allow him to sever all ties between us when it had been my idea in the first place, long before he'd decided to throw some irrational fit about the fact that I'm not one hundred percent truthful all the time!

"—stop seeing each other!" I cut in, as forcefully as possible. "Yes. Absolutely right. Algernon, I don't think I can be with you anymore. This, what we have between us – it just isn't enough. I'm sorry, but we're through."

He looked a bit taken aback by this, and just stared at me for a moment.

"Sorry about your spine," I threw in, and then bolted for the door as quickly as I could. Having the last word seemed very, very essential.

And then, well . . . as I can't show my face in the tearoom again, and I can hardly hang around Algernon's room anymore, this just seemed the best place to be.

In a supply closet.

It's just fitting, really.

So . . . yes. Algernon and I are no more. I guess I should have seen it coming; it's just that I'd thought maybe he'd receive the fact that I'd told that little white lie about Snape a little better than that. I'm not impressed with his behaviour, as a matter of fact! I would have expected better from him.

Hah. What a loss, really.

Not.

Except . . . for the part where it is.

Will my life ever stop being completely terrible? I'd just . . . like to know. Because if it won't, then by all means, I may just have to go and drown myself in one of the toilets after all.

Bedroom Quarters

8:00 A.M.

All right. I'm back. I decided that there really was no point in sticking around the hospital any longer, anyway.

And now I suppose I'll get a bit of sleep.

8:02 A.M.

Oh, hah. Who am I fooling? I can't sleep. I'm too exhausted to sleep! I'm simply going to have to scribble in here compulsively until my arm falls off, or something.

And wouldn't that be lovely.

It's just occurred to me that I never actually relayed in here what it was that happened to cause all the splendid things that have happened over the past few hours. What with the breakups and bad coffee and bratty, shall-be-Slytherin children and such.

Honestly, Notebook, I'm not sure that I could find the strength to tell you.

Later, maybe.

8:05 A.M.

Oh, fine, it's later enough.

And don't you think for a moment that I'm addicted to writing in here, or that it's the only means of soothing my weary soul that I have, or anything like that! I just figure that it might be good of me, to write down what's happened so in ten years or so, when I am rich and successful and perfectly happy and married to Gilderoy Lock – er, a very content spinster, I can look back on this and laugh.

. . . Ten years is a very long time from now.

But never mind that.

So, it all started last night, when I was attempting to prepare myself for the one-on-one study session with Christopher Goldstein that could no longer be postponed. I managed to avoid him quite well for an impressive amount of time, either pretending to go mysteriously deaf when he approached me after class or feigning terrible bouts of sickness that, tragically, robbed me of the ability to award him the full amount of attention that he deserved. (Platonic, teacherly attention, mind. Ugh.)

Finally, finally he caught me unawares and offered more thinly veiled sob stories about his ailing mother, and I figured I might as well get it over with.

And then around five minutes later figured that it would be much more pleasant to get it over with were I to have a considerable amount of Butterbeer in my system.

And so at about seven forty-five, I made my way down to the kitchens, as I was due to meet Christopher at eight and figured that fifteen minutes would be plenty good enough to chug at least one Butterbeer down were I to do it very, very quickly.

However, my ingenious plan wound up getting thwarted quite splendidly.

(Really, what else is new?)

For no sooner had I tickled the pear than the portrait swung open and I found myself standing face to face with –

Wimmy.

The elf who loved me.

I stared. He stared. I decided that his staring was probably a bit more intimidating than my own, as my eyes are not roughly the size of tennis balls.

In the kitchen behind him, I could hear the other house-elves beginning to hiss angrily amongst themselves.

"Er," I said finally.

He stared at me for a second longer before his big eyes welled up with tears. Tears. Well, you can imagine my predicament, Notebook – I wasn't exactly equipped to deal with tears! I already had to deal with a lecherous under-aged wizard! That plus a heartbroken house elf could only lead to sheer madness on my part!

Wimmy attempted to retain as much dignity as he could, though – I had to give him credit for that.

"Miss Auriga Miss," he said, in a very resigned sort of way.

"Hi, Wimmy," I responded weakly. Honestly, it almost broke my heart, and he's a perverted house-elf, for God's sake! I occasionally think that perhaps I am simply too kind for my own good.

"Wimmy isn't seeing Miss Auriga very often lately," he continued forlornly.

"Erm, no," I agreed. "I've been a bit busy."

"With Professor Snape, Wimmy is thinking," Wimmy said, in this way that I suppose was intended to sound aloof and detached but actually came out rather . . . devastatingly pained.

"No! No!" I exclaimed. "Absolutely not with Professor Snape. With . . . shirts. And not on beds. And none of that was what it seemed, you know."

Wimmy looked up at me, his eyes positively glistening with tears. "Really?"

And, feeling oddly touched, I looked back down at him and nodded. "Reall—"

"Wait!" another house-elf cut in, hurrying over to his side and glaring daggers at me. "Wimmy doesn't need to be talking to the bad professor, no, he does not!"

I had to take a moment to process this. I mean, I'm the bad professor? Not Snape, who is for all intents and purposes pure evil? Not Quirrell, who can't even focus upon the subject he's supposed to teach for more than ten minutes without having an anxiety attack?

Honestly. House elves have some mightily skewed judgment, I'll tell you that.

Of course, I suppose I could have made that particular statement sometime earlier in my life, like, say, when they were colouring my skin purple.

Shudder.

Well, anyhow, I was luckily able to escape this particular run-in with them without having some unnatural skin colour inflicted upon me as punishment. As a matter of fact, it was quite easy; Wimmy just stared sadly at me for a moment longer before he allowed the other house elf to whisk him away, I went in and got my Butterbeer, and that was that.

By the time I left, I was feeling that the evening would probably manage to be reasonably easy, even in spite of the whole Christopher thing.

And then I made it to the stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower, and it began.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were standing there – not snapping at each other, but staring upward silently as though listening for something. Which really should have been a sign in itself, as those two standing in companionable silence is certainly enough to suggest an impending Apocalypse.

This, however, didn't occur to me right then; I was rather busy focusing upon chugging down as much Butterbeer as possible.

"Ron?" I asked as I approached them. "Hermione?"

They both spun around and stared at me, their expressions rather perplexed.

"What's going on?" I pressed.

"Ron forgot his Astronomy homework up in the tower, Professor," Hermione replied, still looking rather concerned. "We came up to get it."

"Oh," I said; it had yet to dawn on me that it was a bit strange they'd been too afraid to venture up their and get it themselves. "Well, it's perfectly fine with me – just go on up—"

"There's something . . . not right going on up there, Professor," Ron cut in awkwardly.

"Not right?" I repeated, bewildered. "What do you mea . . ."

But it turned out that completing my question wouldn't even prove necessary. Because from upstairs came—

"HOW DARE YOU?"

In Algernon's voice.

"Uh," Ron said, glancing briefly up the stairs. "Yeah. That pretty much covers it."

"We weren't really . . . sure whether we should go up there," Hermione added tentatively.

"It's probably best that you don't," I returned, in as calm and professional a tone as I could manage. "You two should return to your dormitories – don't worry about the assignment, Ron. I'll make sure to extend the due date for you."

Ron's face lit up at this; apparently, permission from a teacher to postpone schoolwork was all it took for him to forget completely about the fact that some chaotic life-or-death melee was currently taking place upstairs. "Really? Excellent!"

Hermione scowled at him.

Mark my words; in five years or so, they'll certainly be dating.

But I didn't exactly have the opportunity to reflect upon this then; instead, I shooed them off and then, rather terrified, made my way up the stairs.

As I did it, I tried to paint the most shocking scenario possible in my head so that what I actually saw upon arriving up there would pale in comparison. By the time I reached the last step, Algernon was dressed in a tutu and brandishing a telescope at Christopher, who suddenly sported a pencil-thin black moustache and a penchant for burying his face into the sweater that I'd accidentally left up there.

And really, in comparison, what I actually saw upon pushing open the door would have been a bit of a letdown, were it not for someone else's presence that I certainly hadn't expected.

I suppose I could try and make it seem reasonably shocking that it was, in fact, Severus Snape, but as you already know that part, it seems a bit of a waste, doesn't it?

So, anyway, yes. Algernon was standing there, brandishing – more bizarrely than a telescope, perhaps – a bouquet of red roses in Snape's direction, whilst Snape flashed his nastiest sneer at him in response. Christopher was standing a bit off to the side, staring at them in wide-eyed bafflement.

"Now, I understand that you are finding yourself incapable of letting her go," Algernon was saying, in this very low, dangerous voice, "but I for one think it would be very, very wise indeed were you to leave her alone from now on. She wants nothing to do with you."

"I assure you, Brightmann, I am terrified indeed," Snape returned, breaking out the sarcasm like nobody's business. "Nothing suggests imminent doom quite like a bouquet of roses mere inches from one's face."

"You're a troubled man, Snape," Algernon informed him, but in a way that I could tell wasn't going to go over well, unlike when certain other people (read: me) tell him that sort of thing and he just smirks. "And while I simply find it pathetic and don't bother to care beyond that, your unwanted attention genuinely upsets her."

"On the contrary," Snape said, his eyes doing that glinting thing that can mean naught but true evil, "her attention is hardly something I seek – however, I can't say that she doesn't harbor a strange fixation on attaining mine."

At which point Algernon stared at him with a positively indecipherable expression for a moment before setting down the bouquet on a nearby desk.

Snape's triumphant smirk, however, didn't even have the opportunity to materialize fully before Algernon lunged forward and punched him in the jaw.

At which point I gasped, and Christopher yelled out, "You people are bloody mad!"

Getting punched in the jaw, however, apparently wasn't enough to distract Snape from his psycho-professor-from-hell duties. (A rather impressive amount of dedication, I must admit.)

"What was that, Goldstein?"

"Auriga can't seriously be interested in you guys, can she?" Christopher demanded weakly.

"I assume you're referring to Professor Sinistra," Snape said coolly. "Though where you have attained the right to refer to her by her first name or critique her romantic selections is a very questionable matter indeed."

"Romantic selections?" Algernon interrupted fiercely. "It's hardly as though she selected you. Quite the opposite, really—"

"You mean that rumour about you and her and the iguana was true?" Christopher asked, jaw dropping.

(Dear God. Does everybody know? That's not exactly the kind of stuff you want going around.)

"Excuse us for a moment, Goldstein," Snape said, mock-courteously. "When we return, you and I shall certainly discuss the effect your comments will have regarding your House."

And then Snape and Algernon stepped outside, leaving Christopher to stand there looking appropriately doomed.

Upon regaining the ability to move, I made my way through the door and into the classroom. This happened to catch Christopher's attention, but the fact that I had his attention hardly seemed alarming considering the fact that my one true love and my . . . Snape were approximately two and a half seconds away from killing one another.

"I'm sorry," I said weakly, as an apology seemed strangely appropriate given the circumstances. "I didn't know that they would be here."

"Yeah," Christopher said numbly. "Quite the surprise."

"Quite," I agreed lamely.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment, the sounds of very angry voices drifting in from the balcony.

"So," I said, as standing in silence seemed to suggest a sort of intimacy that was quite simply wrong on three hundred and forty-six different levels. "Could this be rescheduled? I should really go and keep them from killing each other."

"Yes, perhaps that would be best," Christopher agreed, the sympathy in his tone suggesting wisdom beyond his years. Which, considering the situation, wasn't exactly something I welcomed with open arms. "I'll see you next class, then, Professor."

So by then, I was simply glad to be rid of him, but really, I should have known that that was just too simple. The utter lack of humiliation and potentially life-scarring instances in that little exchange should have been enough to tip me off.

As it was, he managed to catch me completely off-guard as he passed me and – smarmy little bastard – pressed a hand reassuringly against my arm.

"If you ever need someone a bit less . . ." He paused and flashed me a knowing smile. "You know. I'm here to talk."

Unfortunately, he removed his hand before I could shove him and disappeared down the stairs without another word. I had to be contented with shouting "I'll go to the iguana first, thank you very much!" after him and listening to it echo down the stairs.

I sort of stared after him, wallowing in my own misery, for a moment, before coming to my senses and realizing that Algernon and Snape could very well be murdering each other outside. And while this wasn't the sort of thing that I generally liked to get involved in, I figured that I might feel a bit guilty if one of them died all because I was too squeamish to risk being exposed to the sight of a bit of blood, or something.

And besides, honestly? Algernon seemed the more doomed of the two. He was just too good to be able to triumph in any way over Snape.

And him surviving would probably benefit me a whole lot more than if Snape were to.

(Not that my heroic actions are selflessly motivated, or anything of the like.)

So I'd finally worked up the proper motivation to go out and pull them away from one another, when I heard a rather sickening crack and decided that maybe it would be best to stay away for a few more seconds. Because I know just how much Algernon would have tortured himself, were I to have rushed out there only to get hit by one of them or the like! My hesitation was purely out of love for him. Really.

And, well, because I really, really can't stand the sight of blood. It makes me dizzy, and occasionally drives me to murmur nonsense words.

But mostly it was purely out of love!

So, anyway, it seemed to go a bit quiet, and I decided that now was as safe a time as any to head out there, and so I did. And stepped outside just in time to see Snape's hands flying out at Algernon and Algernon disappearing off the side of the Astronomy Tower.

And honestly, I'm not sure if I can bring myself to relay anymore. I suppose I could go into detail about me screaming bloody murder at Snape, or McGonagall finding out about what had gone on, or me becoming irrationally angry at Algernon when we reached him again and sort of kicking him in the shoulder while he writhed on the ground in agony.

But really, none of it is anything I want to relive.

In conclusion, I am now single, sleep-deprived past the point of no return, sporting the worst hair ever, and really, really not getting along with Snape.

I suppose I could go talk to Christopher about it, as he seems very keen on that idea.

Hah.

There is nothing good about any of this. I've reached an all-time low, even for me.

But at least my skin isn't purple.

8:20 A.M.

Oh, who cares if my skin isn't purple! I'm completely miserable! Optimism is a load of rubbish, I'll tell you that, and I'm through with it! And with men! And with . . . leaving my bed ever again.

I am in a state of utmost devastation. Nothing on this earth could possibly make me feel better.

I might as well just

8:32 A.M.

Can I marry a house-elf?

Because, all right, we've had our ups and downs, Wimmy and I. Mostly downs. Or possibly all downs. But just as I was about to delve into some really depressing proclamation, he came in and sort of stared at me for a moment before asking, "Is Miss Auriga all right, Miss?"

And I was just going to, you know, claim that I was in hopes that it would make him disappear.

But doing this suddenly seemed entirely pointless.

So instead I responded, feeling increasingly emotionally unbalanced as I did so, "No. No, Wimmy. Miss Auriga is quite miserable indeed."

His ears drooped down at this, and he took a few tentative steps toward me. "Is there anything Wimmy can do, Miss?"

"Anything you can do?" I asked, sniffling. "I thought you hated me."

"Hated Miss Auriga?" Wimmy repeated incredulously, and stepped closer. "No, Miss, not at all! Wimmy was trying to do so, but found that it was quite impossible." He paused, and then finished, quite reverently, "Miss Auriga is the most perfect lady Wimmy ever knew."

And, well, what was I supposed to do, if not burst into tears and throw my arms around him?

And then after we pulled apart, he tucked me into bed and sang me a few stanzas of You Sexy Thing before apparently becoming satisfied that I was properly comfortable and disappearing back out into the hall.

It was very sweet of him, really. I'm not even all that disturbed by the fact that he blew me a kiss on the way out.

It is faintly reassuring, I suppose, that even if all of the men in my life decide to wreak havoc and devastation until I've practically lost the will to live altogether, I will still have my house elf to sing me tasteless 70s sex songs at the end of the day.

And on that note, I think I might actually attempt to get a bit of sleep.

Sweet dreams, Notebook.