Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit

The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra

Author's Note: Whooo. It's 3:23 in the morning, and I'm kinda out of it and this may all wind up making no sense. I guess we'll see.

Okay!

Firstly, concerning this chapter – just because of the way it ends doesn't mean I'm discontinuing the fic or anything. So fear not. There will be more after this.

And secondly, concerning HBP.

Run! Run for your liiiife from the scary spoilers if you have not read the book yet, for whatever reason?

Are you running?

You better be.

As a matter of fact, run to the nearest copy of HBP, because I do not want you reading this when you haven't read that yet. You need to sort out your priorities.

. . . Ignoring the fact that you are most likely nonexistent.

(Three thirty in the morning, folks.)

Well, anyway.

The big ol' reveal with Snape at the end isn't going to be changing anything about this fic. If Diaries were still being written, I'd be worried about that, since it's presented from Snape's POV and all, but as it's been discontinued, well, that's not a problem. And if Snape is in fact a Very Very Bad Man, which I'm not sure that I can quite accept yet, then he's got Auriga fooled along with everyone else.

Which is kind of depressing, but at least it doesn't conflict with the fic!

Go optimism. Shiny, shiny optimism.

In other news, I am pretty damn sure that I stole the title of this chapter from an episode of Two of a Kind.

Okay, I need very much to be sleeping now.

-Part 19-

Friday, November 29, 1991

Bedroom Quarters

7:32 A.M.

Well, here I am, then.

Lovely morning, don't you think?

I'll be going down to breakfast soon, of course. I just thought that perhaps I should jot a quick note in here first, saying that everything's quite all right with me, really. I'm just fine.

7:33 A.M.

No, really.

I am.

7:34 A.M.

Why, does that seem hard to believe or something? Because really, believe you me, Notebook, it is God's honest truth.

Yes, admittedly, my life is, at times, rather unfortunate.

But that doesn't mean that it always has to be, or that just because someone gets pushed off a tower the entire world has to come screeching to a halt.

I can embrace the darker aspects of my past and then put them behind me. And move on to be a stronger, more capable person.

That whole incident with the pushing was simply a test of character. And personally, I'd like to think I passed.

I was in Ravenclaw, mind. Passing tests was something I did quite well, back in the day.

And I'm passing this test. With top marks. Hermione Granger-type marks! Or maybe even marks that might make Hermione Granger a bit envious!

Yes, that's right.

So you can just stop being concerned about me, Notebook, because there's no reason to be.

7:36 A.M.

Honestly.

Great Hall

7:45 A.M.

I suppose all of that could've come off as rather hypocritical, considering the fact that I happened to very recently refer to optimism as 'completely useless and altogether quite stupid.'

But I'm not being optimistic. Rather, I like to think that I'm being . . . logical. Because it quite simply does not seem possible, that one's life could get worse than mine has been as of late. It can only get better.

And so I'm just going to sit around, pleasantly as I can manage, and wait until it does.

See?

Logical.

7:47 A.M.

I'm not even bothered by the fact that Snape is sitting a few chairs away from me, scowling into his goblet and occasionally glancing around at everyone as though disgusted to be stuck in the same room with them. Really, so what if he pushed my boyfriend from a very, very high surface to his near-death and then proceeded to tell me that aforementioned boyfriend certainly wouldn't want to be with me any longer? (Which, er, proved to be true, but that is hardly the point right now.)

So what?

Yeah, that's right.

Where Severus Snape is concerned, from now on my attitude shall be one of complete and utter 'so what?'

The man isn't worth the ink that it's taking to write this, even.

And so I will stop writing about him.

After all, that would be the logical thing to do, and I am very suave where logic is concerned, as of late.

Bedroom Quarters

8:25 A.M.

Aww! I've just come back to my room, and while I was at breakfast, Wimmy left me a few Butterbeers, a bouquet of flowers, and a Get Well Soon card covered in Marvin Gaye lyrics.

He's a very thoughtful house elf, really.

And a very dear one. And I'm lucky to have him. And these flowers are just lovely. And there really is a certain poetic beauty to the phrase "if the spirit moves ya, let me groove ya."

See, Notebook? Everything is improving already!

8:28 A.M.

And, er, just a quick note regarding something. I mean, it's probably completely foolish, and not the sort of thing that would even be assumed anyway, but I figure it's better to be safe than sorry.

So – ahem—

I do not want to, er, get it on with Wimmy. Just because I called him thoughtful, and dear, and said I was lucky to have him and all of that, well, that doesn't mean that I'm . . . you know, getting a bit odd where my . . . more carnal interests are concerned. He's just a friend, that's all! A friend that's been there for me in a very difficult time!

And, really, even thinking such a thing judging by my comments up there is just a bit sick-minded, you know. Or perhaps more than a bit! That's taking something that expresses great gratitude and platonic admiration, and warping it into this disgusting, preposterous . . . You'd have to be utterly delusional to even think –

I feel about Wimmy the way I feel about certain other people that I would never, you know, groove with. Or let groove me. Or . . . well, you know.

He's like . . . my mother, for example. My mother is thoughtful (occasionally) and dear (er, at times she is, anyway) and I'm, um, lucky to have her. Because otherwise I might make the mistake of feeling content with my life for a moment, and pleased despite the fact that I don't have a husband and will doubtlessly be very much alone for the rest of my life (the occasional cat or house elf not included), therefore leaving her deprived of grandchildren and possibly discontinuing our entire family line because does anyone really expect Lyra to settle down and start a family? Lyra is such a sweet girl – such a beautiful, talented, charming girl – and she's never shown any interest in being tied down to such domestic things. But with good reason. And reason that my mum and dad support entirely, and I should as well, because Lyra really is remarkable and perhaps if I were a bit more like her— but as it is, really, I seem the type that wouldn't really ever be happy with myself without a husband, as I'm just an old-fashioned girl like that and I really should try harder with the Sleekeazy's and maybe make an attempt to improve my appearance at least a bit on occasion because if I don't even try, then how can I expect to ever find a nice, decent man? What – is he just supposed to fall on his knees before me one day, completely randomly and without the slightest amount of motivation to do so? Because if I choose to believe that, then I am living in a very ridiculous fairytale world indeed, and might as well start picking out names for kittens as soon as possible – how do I feel about 'Gretel'?

Er.

Ahem.

I love my family. Honestly. They're all . . . very dear.

Especially Lyra.

And it's probably a good thing that my mother reminds me of that particular fact so often, because otherwise I might forget. And that would certainly be nightmarish beyond all comprehension.

Uh, yes. What was my point, again?

Oh, right.

I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH MY HOUSE ELF.

So honestly.

Just get your mind out of the gutter.

8:33 A.M.

Also, I would never name a cat Gretel.

Who would name a cat Gretel, unless they're planning on having it – oh, I don't know, eaten by a witch with a house made of catnip, or something? It's just cruel. That's what it is.

Honestly, it is a small wonder that I have gone through my life mispronouncing my own name, thanks to the influence of my mother.

8:34 A.M.

Who is thoughtful and a dear and I am lucky to have her.

8:35 A.M.

It's a wonderful life.

8:36 A.M.

Though I could have done with a bit more butterbeer.

8:37 A.M.

And maybe a Firewhisky.

9:00 A.M.

Oh, how lovely – Victoria's just stopped by and told me that I should come over and have a chat in the Arithmancy classroom during her free period at ten thirty.

I'm quite blessed, you know, when you think about it. Not only do I have Wimmy, but I've also got a very sweet best friend who's concerned about the ordeal I went through recently and wants to help me get through this difficult time.

Even though she's so much prettier and so much more witty and sophisticated than I am, and gives me ample cause to be thoroughly bitter and consumed by loathing, I really do adore her.

9:02 A.M.

And, just for the record, I don't want to have sex with her either.

AstronomyTower

11:40 A.M.

I. AM GOING. TO KILL HER.

11:41 A.M.

And that's that.

11:42 A.M.

What? You think I won't? Oh, really, is that it? You think 'Oh, yes, of course, of course you are, Auriga; of course you're going to murder the woman who, up until a half an hour or so ago, was your closest friend in the world, because you always do what you say and never overreact or exaggerate.'

Well, you can just BLOODY WELL FUCK OFF! Yeah – that's right! D'you know, I am sick to death of your attitude! Always questioning me, glaring up at me with all your scrawled-in-my-handwriting words, mocking me! 'Oh, you must be in love with Snape!' 'I truly believe that you're not lusting over the student who's so overcome with passion for you and bears a strange resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart!' 'Oh, of course you don't want to have a dirty affair with your house elf!' 'Yeah, yeah, I'm positive you're going to go through with the whole killing-your-best-friend idea!'

Maybe I will, for all you know! I mean, she deserves it. She honestly deserves to be force-fed to the giant squid, or Polyjuice Potion'd into me, or something. Hah! That would teach her a lesson, indeed! Maybe then that way she'd begin to understand what it's like to be normal, like the rest of us lowly beings, and along with that particular epiphany understand that it is in no way okay to interfere like that! Oh, she thinks she's so brilliant and crafty and sly, and that there's no possible way her ingenious ideas might go utterly and completely wrong.

Hah. Yeah. Flawless execution of that little plan of hers, except for the part where my boyfriend nearly died.

Therefore forcing me to break up with him.

But it's the 'nearly died' part that upsets me the most, of course.

Ohhh – ohhh, I could just . . . I don't even know what I could do! But something bad! Something very, very bad! I could kick Mrs. Norris in Filch's plain sight, or . . . or take twenty points from Hufflepuff if one of them dares to get on my nerves! Oooh, how I'd love to put that pompous little Ernie MacMillan in his place—

. . . Oh, all right, I can't do it.

I mean, I thought that perhaps I could for a moment – you know, actually say vicious things about my students. They tend to make my life miserable on occasion, after all!

It's just that, well, when you've got colleagues like mine, even Draco Malfoy seems something akin to heaven sent.

And I don't hate Ernie! Honestly! All right, yes, he bothers me on occasion, but – but that's usually when I'm not running on a lot of sleep, or when he's pointed out an error in one of my lessons or something.

But I don't hate him.

And I wouldn't take twenty points from him unjustly.

And . . . and well, honestly, now I feel a bit guilty. Even though I know that there's no possible way he'll ever be able to read this, I almost feel like maybe he could have . . . sensed it, or something. And now he hates me, because I'm Professor Sinistra, the mean old hag who takes points away irrationally and wants to murder her own best friend and uses deeply inappropriate expressions like 'fuck off.' It's all very distressing, really, and can a boy of eleven really cope with that kind of information hitting him all at once?

It's a bit like in Peter Pan. You know, that thing about where every time a child says they don't believe in fairies, a fairy falls down dead.

Maybe it's the same.

Maybe every time a teacher says (or writes, or thinks) something mean about a student, the student dies.

. . . Um, a little. Inside.

Because if it were actual death, well, we'd have a student body of perhaps seven, considering the fact that Snape is in fact a teacher here.

Though, admittedly, even the dying-a-little-inside thing seems unlikely.

But I just . . . feel bad about it. That's all.

The next time he corrects me about the moons of Jupiter or what have you, I will, instead of feeling vaguely annoyed, award him five points for being so observant.

Yep.

All right, I feel a bit better now.

11:46 A.M.

. . . except for the part where Victoria Vector must burn.

I somehow managed to distract myself from it for a moment, but now it's back again. And I – oh, it's just that I cannot believe her. Why would anyone in their right mind even think to . . . when it's so obvious that . . . and there's a huge chance that everything might just . . . and . . .

It is entirely insane.

And, um, perhaps I should relay what actually happened. Maybe that way, I'll be able to actually complete a coherent sentence.

(But don't you dare get offended if I scratch a few holes in the parchment whilst relaying. Once I'm done, I'm sure you'll agree that a little extra force is completely understandable and in fact rather justified at present.)

So, at around ten thirty, I headed over to the Arithmancy classroom, feeling rather touched and lucky and all. To have a friend to talk to, you know. A friend that was concerned about my well-being and the awful ordeal that I'd been forced through so recently.

(HAH.)

When I got there, Victoria was putting textbooks back on the shelves and looking completely innocent, as though she wasn't holding any dark and terrible secret that might lead me to want to rip all of her limbs off, grind them up, and feed them to her. (Er, don't mind that; just my inner Slytherin talking. It seems to be flourishing again lately.)

I said hello and everything, and tried to seem as perfectly okay as I could. Personally, I think I was doing quite a wonderful job of it, but she just looked at me with her eyes filled with pity, went "Oh, Auriga" in a way that made me want to burst into tears for no reason in general, and immediately crossed the room to envelop me in a huge hug.

Maybe then I should have realized that something was a bit wrong. That she had done something that wasn't exactly easily forgivable. Victoria isn't usually the compassionate sort, unless her attention is being focused upon a man that she needs for some reason or another. (She really is a completely filthy whore. How did I neglect to notice this until now?)

Well, after that we sat down and had a bit of tea, and everything was going fine – her inquiring about how I was, myself stoically and graciously insisting that I was doing perfectly well – until she suggested that I tell her precisely what had happened. It seemed a very innocent inquiry at the time.

And, well, at that point in time, why should I have had any qualms about telling her? She was my best friend, after all. ('Was,' of course, being the operative word.)

And so I told her and she listened all attentively, nodding and making little comments at the precisely right moments. It really was feeling a bit nice, to get it all out in the open – sort of freeing – and for a second I was struck by the idea that maybe I was okay with it.

Not, er, that I wasn't to begin with. Anyway. And . . . all.

In any case!

Then I reached the part where I went to see Algernon in his room at St. Mungo's, and the whole bit about him thinking Snape thought he and I were engaged came up. And I asked, idly and more to myself than to her, "Why would Snape think that Algernon and I were getting married?"

I was expecting her to respond with, I don't know, a nice "Good question!" or heartfelt "That's utterly ridiculous."

Oh, no.

Instead, I got:

"Ah. Well, because I told him so, I suppose."

My jaw may or may not have hit the floor in that moment. (Oh, all right, so I'm relatively certain it didn't, but it makes for more dramatic storytelling. And you can just shut up, or I'll be breaking out the vulgar phrases again. Don't you think I won't.)

Honestly, for a moment I thought I'd misunderstood her. It was just the way she said it – all loftily, as though it were no big deal at all, and not part of the reason that Algernon's spine had been forced to endure such suffering.

Finally, my jaw decided to cooperate long enough to let me utter a very mystified "What?"

"Oh, Auriga," she said then, in this very calm, borderline-patronizing sort of way that I can't focus on for very long or else I think I honestly might do something destructive. (And that is in no way a vague threat. The openness of it simply makes it more mysterious. And therefore more frightening. As people tend to fear the unknown, and all. Yes, that's right.) "I was doing it for your own good, of course."

I blinked. It did not seem a very feasible response. "You told Snape that I was getting married to a man I'd only just started dating . . . for my own good?"

"Precisely," Victoria said with a curt nod, completely unperturbed. (Oh, the hate. It burns. Sizzles, really. And is very unpleasant and I'm afraid I might spontaneously combust any second now.) "It was a step that needed to be taken."

Flabbergasted, I stammered out, "Well . . . why?"

"Because," she said, tone still maddeningly calm as a radiant smile spread across her face, "it was the clearly the easiest way to go about getting you and Snape paired off."

I'm not exactly sure how to relay my response to this. I'm not sure it can be spelled out in letters, precisely. It was sort of a squeak mixed with a whimper, with an alarming dash of grunt thrown in. (I haven't the slightest clue where that came from.)

Victoria seemed to have expected as much. "Oh, come on, Auriga. I know that the two of you have so much fun with your little game, dancing around each other and pretending that both of you don't just desperately want to transform that little two-step into a horizontal tango as soon as humanly possible—"

The sound I made at that might adequately be described as a squawk.

"—but it's painfully obvious to everyone else, especially me." She had the nerve to actually smirk a little. I thought this very rude of her, considering at the time I didn't even have the ability to make a sound commonly associated with the human species. "And when you started seeing Algernon, you could tell at once that it was just driving him completely mad."

My highly skeptical 'Oh, it was not!' somehow managed to transform into a could-be-classified-as-eager "Really?" in the time it took for the words to move from my brain to my mouth.

"Of course," Victoria said, as if this were no big deal, and waved a dismissive hand. "And even though he was going crazy watching the two of you together, and then being forced to live with the knowledge that you were head over heels for another man – well, you know Snape. That wasn't enough to wipe the repulsive sneer off his face and actually get him to do something about it, God forbid. By the way, I really don't know what you see in him."

"I don't see anything!" I snapped. By now, it was starting to set in that perhaps I was going to have to get at least a bit angry with her.

"Yes, yes, of course you don't," Victoria said, thoroughly unconvinced, and went on. "Anyhow, I knew that drastic measures were necessary, in order for him to do anything more than just sulk around the dungeons envisioning you and Algernon in various romantic scenarios. Not only that, I knew that you needed him – and badly, at that – and so I hinted to him that it looked as though you and Algernon were considering getting married." She fell silent and smiled a little, as though expecting to be praised for a job well done.

At the present time, I can manage nothing more than a very incensed mental 'grrr!' at the thought of it.

"But," was all I was able to manage, on account of the fact that my entire brain seemed to have gone numb. "But . . . but he pushed Algernon off a tower because of it."

Victoria nodded, frowning slightly. "Yes. I hadn't expected that. I guess things didn't go exactly the way I'd expected them to. Ah well," she threw in, and grinned encouragingly at me, "you're a single gal now. You know, I'd understand if you wanted to leave right now and just mosey on down to the dungeons—"

The anger was setting in quite quickly by now.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded irritably. "What, do you feel like you've done me some sort of – of favour, or something!"

"Yes," Victoria returned, completely oblivious to the fact that I rather wanted to yank her hair out, "but really, love, you don't have to thank me or anything – just the fact that you and Snape will finally get around to shagging and getting rid of all that God-awful unresolved sexual tension is certainly repayment enough—"

"Victoria!"

"It's true!" she protested lightly. "It's completely God-awful. I swear, it does something to the air; everything always feels all scorching and repressed whenever the two of you are in a room together. Not to be awarding any blame, dear, but it makes a girl very vexed indeed by the fact that her fiancé's currently in Paris, if you know what I mean—"

"VICTORIA!"

"Oh, what?" she snapped, sounding annoyed at having been interrupted.

"You didn't help anything!" Honestly, I felt close to tears by then – something made even more distressing by how completely relaxed she seemed about the whole terrible thing. "I've broken up with someone who I really cared about – someone who I could've had something good with. That's not exactly common, you know, when you don't look like you've got Veela somewhere in your bloodline."

She opened her mouth to say something at that, but I wasn't exactly keen on hearing it, and instead just kept on going.

"Not only that, but Snape is furious with me," I informed her. "So, you know, I kind of doubt there will be any horizontal tangoing anytime in the future anyway! Not," I threw in dangerously, "that I would even want there to be in the first place! And besides—" I paused to cross my arms in front of my chest and fix my most potent glare at her, "—what on earth gave you the idea that I needed him so badly, or whatever nonsense that was, anyway?"

And here, for the first time, she actually began to look ashamed of herself. "I . . ."

"Yes?" I prompted, as menacingly as I could.

"I read your diary," she said, clearly and evenly. She looked straight into my eyes while she said it, and everything. Whoever taught her how to make a shameful confession was clearly under the influence of many a Billywig sting.

"WHAT?"

"I read your diary," she repeated, as composed as could be. "Quite awhile ago. And it was – oh, Auriga, I'm doing this because I'm concerned about you. You must know that it's not healthy."

"What?" I demanded, well on my way to working myself into a full-on rage at that point. "Keeping a diary?"

"No, not 'keeping a diary.' Auriga," she went on, and stared at me very sympathetically, "we both know that's not a normal diary."

Which I found utterly bewildering.

"And why is that, precisely?" I inquired angrily. "Just because I tend to call it 'Notebook' sometimes doesn't mean that it's not normal – loads of people write 'Dear Diary,' anyway! What's so peculiar—"

"You don't have to pretend about it, Auriga," Victoria said solemnly. "I know. I read it. I read the Snape fantasy."

It was the sort of thing that could only be responded to by another "What?"

"Oh, Auriga, it got me worried, that was all," Victoria said, biting her lip and becoming positively the perfect picture of concern. "I mean, you constructing elaborate stories with Dumbledore addicted to Fizzing Whisbees and Snape hanging us all from our fingernails, and then something about the two of you having an impassioned connection, and—"

"What?" I repeated, baffled. "No! That was just—"

"A cry for help, that's what it was, and you're lucky I found it," Victoria said, her voice maddeningly comforting. "Auriga, you can't spin out fantasies so elaborately. If you don't just go for it and actually get with him soon, I'm . . . I'm afraid that you just might lose your grasp on reality."

"I am not losing my grasp on reality!" I protested angrily.

"Auriga, the things you write in there," she said softly, "they're having an odd effect on you. Maybe you don't realize it, but they are – I mean, how many fantasies have you constructed in there?"

"It was just that one!" I cried. "I was just feeling a bit out of it, that was all; I don't normally—"

"You've been acting differently ever since you first started writing in it," Victoria said, tone so compassionate it made me rather want to strangle her. "You need to stop it, Auriga. Everyone suspects it's the reason you've been acting so – you know – odd."

"Well, then everyone's a gigantic idiot!" I snapped. "It's just a notebook—"

"I'd give it up if I were you," Victoria said, her tone positively soaked in quiet conviction. "And I think I'd give him up, too."

As it was, I couldn't bring myself to come up with a better response than "Oh, honestly!"

And so that's what I said, with as much fury as I could muster, and then stormed out.

I was careful to knock my teacup over onto her designer robes before I left, too.

(See? There's that inner-Slytherin again.)

And, well, I just . . . HONESTLY. She can't be right, can she? I mean, of course she's not. Most of the people in the school probably haven't even noticed that I keep a diary to begin with! She's just exaggerating, of course, trying to make me feel like an idiot, not even bothering to listen when I can explain that I am in fact not the insane one so much as she is.

She is the reason that Snape went insane and nearly killed the most perfect man I've ever met. She is the reason that Algernon and I are no more. She is the reason that I will undoubtedly own a cat named Gretel in forty years or so. And – as if all of this weren't enough – she insulted my notebook.

Where the hell she gets the nerve, I can't even begin to guess, and frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to waste my time thinking about anything the slightest bit related to her. I don't want anything to do with her ever again.

Really.

Who does she think she is, anyway?

Like what she says even has the slightest impression upon me.

I'm not completely susceptible to it, the way some greasy, soulless Potions masters are.

3:45 P.M.

I've given this a lot of thought, and I don't think I'm going to be able to write in you anymore.

Or at least, not as often as I do now. And not when other people are around.

It's not that I'm ashamed of you, or that I don't want anyone to know about it. It's not your fault at all, really! It's not you – it's me, it's completely me, and I'm admitting that right now.

It's just that, well, perhaps it would be the wisest course of action if, for awhile, no one saw me writing in you. And maybe if I even took a bit of a hiatus, in case I ever feel compelled to write something insane and involving Fizzing Whisbees and Snape again.

I'll still think about you, of course, and care about you. Nothing's going to stop any of that. I just . . . feel like I need to let go for awhile. To find out who I am without you.

3:48 P.M.

But, oh, let's still be friends.

3:52 P.M.

I honestly do not know how to feel about the fact that I just broke up with my diary far more eloquently than I did my boyfriend.

3:53 P.M.

Perhaps a little break is somewhat necessary.