Lamentations of a Starry Eyed Twit

by She's a Star

Auriga Sinistra's not so eventful diary filled with sarcasm, self pity, and assorted proclamations of loathing for a certain Potions professor . . .

20. The Peril To End All Perils

Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit

The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra

Author's Note: Er. Heh heh heh heh. Hi. Pleasedon'tkillme.

-Part 20-

Tuesday, December 3, 1991

Bedroom Quarters

9:14 A.M.

ARGH. Really, I don't know why some people

Friday, December 6, 1991

Teacher's Lounge

6:20 P.M.

If Professor Trelawney offers to "lend voice to all the unseemly aspects of my immediate feature through palmistry" one more time, so help me, I'll

Sunday, December 8, 1991

Astronomy Tower

1:40 A.M.

I KNOW THE WEASLEY TWINS ARE BEHIND THIS, AND BELIEVE YOU ME, NOTEBOOK, I

Wednesday, December 18, 1991

Bedroom Quarters

11:12 A.M.

It seems I've broken myself of my addiction to you. I have become fully capable of enduring and accepting life's little agonies without having to draft anguished chronicles about them beforehand. I . . . am a free woman.

HAH!

11:15 A.M.

. . . Not that we can't still be friends.

Thursday, December 19, 1991

Great Hall

8:08 A.M.

OH DEAR GOD NO.

8:10 A.M.

I am going to explain something to you, but beforehand, you have to promise not to judge. It is going to sound faintly appalling, but really, after all of the stuff I've written about Snape in here, one would hope that you've developed enough tolerance to be able to take it. It does not involve anything about pushing people off towers or hanging by fingernails, or even irregular showering schedules. Really, in comparison to all of that, it's downright acceptable. It's just . . .

I hate Christmas.

Well. That does sound sort of awful, doesn't it? Like it should be followed by a hearty 'bah humbug!' and a kitten massacre, or something. It's not like that, precisely! It's just . . . this whole holly jolly time of year tends to get so dreadfully stressful. The students get unnaturally unruly and the staff seems to harbor this great obligation to be festive since we've all got to stick around. Well, we don't have to, necessarily, but a fair amount of kids wind up staying each year, and the teachers that do take off anyway tend to wind up blacklisted by their colleagues throughout the first half of January. (Coincidentally, Victoria leaves for Paris this weekend. Hmph.)

Anyway, from this apparently desperate need for holiday unity and delight blossomed . . . the Hogwarts Faculty Secret Santa Gift Exchange.

Although it had been going on for quite awhile before I came to work here, I am still utterly certain that Dumbledore is responsible for this concept. And while the idea of gifts sounds charming in theory, it is a whole other matter in actuality. Have you ever tried to buy a present for Minerva McGonagall? How about Sibyl Trelawney? Or perhaps – a man who thinks you're slightly incontrovertibly mad just because you on occasion stop by his quarters when he happens to be shirtless? (I have since learned that in this particular situation, buying them a particularly itchy sweater and then joking about how they will probably just want to fling it off at the first given opportunity is not exactly a socially graceful way to handle things.)

So, yes. And in addition to the agonies inspired by this joyous tradition, there's the fact that Christmas rather tends to just make me feel miserable. I suppose this is dreadful of me, and instead I should just be overwhelmed with a new sense of gratitude that I'm not one of those people who spends all their time in The Leaky Cauldron getting smashed and professing their undying love to Tom the toothless bartender. (Not that Tom the toothless bartender doesn't deserve any love, of course, and not that I'm in the position to judge. Granted, I'm not toothless, but I'm still not precisely a fine catch.) I've got a job and a home – sort of – and friends – er, well, former friends and a house elf, at least. But there's just something undeniably lonely and sad about watching Professor McGonagall get tipsy and oddly coquettish with Hagrid year after year while Dumbledore has entirely too much fun with the wizard crackers and even more fun torturing Snape with them. (All right. Perhaps this part is slightly enjoyable. But the disturbing Hagrid-and-McGonagall antics cancel it out quite spectacularly.) It's just . . . I tend to just sit there and eat ungodly and extremely regrettable amounts and never do anything particularly interesting, save the time Snape got cajoled into wearing a pink beret and I laughed so hard I accidentally spit a mouthful of pumpkin juice onto Professor Flitwick. When I'm not spraying various parts of my meal all over my colleagues, I seem rather doomed to be uninteresting and ignored. And, yes, technically I do deal with this year round, but there's something particularly depressing about it on Christmas.

And as if all of this weren't enough, well . . .

There is a piece of stationary sitting to the right of you as I write this. It's not particularly intimidating, as far as stationary goes – white with a tasteful pink-rose border. It isn't bewitched to attack my head at my slightest movement, or anything of the like. (Not that this has happened. Or if it has, let it be known that I did not, theoretically, lose either my calm or liberal amounts of hair in the slightest. Or sink to swearing everlasting vengeance upon those detestable little theoretical wenches of Slytherin girls. DAMN YOU, NARCISSA BLACK. Theoretically.) Oh, no. You see, it's more what the perfect, swirling handwriting holds that leads to my unquestionable destruction.

Ahem.

I quote:

"Dear Auriga,

Your father has decided to accompany your sister to Egypt this Christmas to meet that new young man she's dating – what a life our Lyra is leading! – but I must admit, the idea of all that sand and heat doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. Christmas is a time for softly falling snow and cups of hot cocoa by a nice roaring fire. Camels and pyramids certainly don't factor into the equation!

But more than anything, Christmas is a time for family. And while I'll be missing your father and sister terribly, I thought that it would indeed be wisest to make the best of an unfortunate situation. I've contemplated the idea for a few days, and have reached the decision that it would be positively charming to spend Christmas with my dear baby girl. After all, Auriga, I haven't seen you since this summer, and have become quite curious as to what's going on in your life. I'm sure you'll rush to assure me that there is nothing in particular, but I know how to appreciate the little things, and besides, I would quite like to meet this Algernon fellow you were so very enamored with when you wrote last. Not to mention that seeing Hogwarts again would be an absolute delight – I did used to get such a kick out of Minerva and the rest of the gang!

Your father and sister are leaving on the 23rd, so I figured I would do the same. After all, houses do get so lonely without one's husband around – I'm not sure how long a silly old housewife like myself could stand it! Ah, there I go, prattling off about something you must find utterly bewildering. I'm sorry, darling. Perhaps if you tread carefully with this Mr. Brightmann . . .

But of course, we'll have all the time in the world to discuss this once I see you!

Kisses!

Mother."

8:18 A.M.

Perhaps, if I am very, very nice to Snape, he'll consider pushing me off the Astronomy Tower, too.

Bedroom Quarters

9:44 P.M.

I am at a loss.

I mean, honestly. Am I supposed to know what to do at this point? I hate him. I do. He ruined my one promising relationship on this side of ever – and not even in any sort of mediocre, average fashion, either! Oh, no. He broke his spine. When it comes to malevolence and general revolting cruelty, Severus Snape is the unparalleled master. Also, he's very, very mean to me. After breaking my boyfriend's spine. Where does anyone get the right, I ask you, to gallivant through life being entirely unpleasant as is and then going and doing things like that as though they're perfectly entitled to? Just because he's an ex-Death Eater with very severely defined facial features doesn't mean that he has the right to go around saying mercilessly sarcastic things and diminishing one's self esteem and kicking puppies. (Oh, really, don't act so surprised. If Severus Snape hasn't kicked a puppy at sometime in his life, then I'm Celestina Warbeck.) I hate him.

And yet.

D'you know, I think I may very well be able to blame it all on the fact that he always seems to show up whenever I'm especially emotionally unhinged. I'm nearly out of my mind from sleep deprivation and murmuring (perfectly innocent and non-sexual, I am very sure) things about him in the middle of the library? He's there. I'm slightly put out about the fact that there is a gigantic, bloodthirsty troll rampaging the castle? He's there. I'm faintly disturbed by the fact that one of my students would no sooner kick me out of bed than Snape wouldn't kick a puppy? He's there. (Possibly because I went to see him where this particular matter was concerned, but that's hardly the point at present.)

This incident was very much like those incidents. In that they were not my fault, and indeed seemed to support more than anything else the possibility that Snape may very well be stalking me.

I was wandering the castle, as I am wont to do, reflecting upon the vastness of my misfortune. Because as if the news that my mother has decided to come make this the worst Christmas in the history of time wasn't enough, this afternoon we all drew names for the gift exchange, and I wound up with Slatero Quirrell. Yes, that Slatero Quirrell. The one who's evil. In cahoots with You-Know-Who. Capable of killing all of us where we stand at any given moment. What on earth am I supposed to get for Slatero Quirrell? Somehow a dragon snow globe does not seem precisely fitting. I can't even walk past the man in the hall anymore without nearly collapsing onto the floor, unconscious. And, well, what with his being evil and able to kill me and all, the pressure is on.

This, paired with horrifying imaginings of what on earth I was going to tell my mother about why she couldn't meet Algernon, all made for quite the melancholy corridor stroll.

Which, as it so happened, quickly switched from melancholy to potentially psychologically disturbing when I turned a corner and spotted Christopher walking toward me from the opposite end of the hall. He seemed lost in conversation with a girl in his year and didn't spot me, but I knew all too well that the younger sort weren't likely to keep his attention for long. And, really, in the state I was in – with an enormous list of generally distressing problems, no boyfriend, no best friend, and one increasingly irritating house elf whose Barry White renditions somehow left something to be desired – I was quite positive that there was no way I would escape a conversation with him without at least one hearty swat around the head making an appearance. (I feel almost compelled to bring up to Dumbledore at the next staff meeting that sometimes, violence quite simply is the answer, even with a student involved. However, no matter how persuasively I phrase it in my head, I just cannot see this ever going over well.)

So I did the only thing that I could do –

Leapt into the nearest conveniently located empty classroom and hid up against the wall until I heard him pass.

It just so happened to be the conveniently located empty classroom that happened to be storing The Mirror of Erised.

Dumbledore had informed us that he planned to make use of it this year, but really – does leaving it in empty classrooms alongside bunches of unused desks really seem like a responsible way to handle something one plans to make use of? That man's motives are entirely beyond me.

And, really, as soon as I realized what it was, I thoroughly intended to leave without taking so much as a peep. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that my life isn't precisely ideal at present, and somehow I suspected that catching a glimpse of what I so desperately desire to be seemed slightly idiotic.

I took exactly four and a half steps before determining that one tiny peek certainly couldn't hurt.

(Note to self: I am idiotic. Slightly.)

It hurt. I mean, it's not as though anything I saw was a great shock, or anything; I didn't discover any steamy subconscious desires or what have you. (If I were speaking to Victoria, that in itself would most certainly merit a triumphant 'HAH!') But at the same time, well . . . it's just not all that nice, you know? Having to face everything that you don't have and certainly can never attain even though it's not all that difficult, simply because you've such a talent for irreversibly tearing your own life to shreds.
There was me, looking all glowy and slightly radiant although there were no detectable traces of makeup, with my hair somehow managing to be curly without venturing forth into frizzy . . . looking into a mirror and having a rather attractive and together version of myself staring back out is disquieting, to say the least. And then, of course, the people had to show up: Victoria beaming at me in a way that seemed to suggest great friendship rather than mocking and superiority and all those things that she's far too good at; my parents off to the side, grinning and proud; Algernon smiling at me with a single rose concealed rather ineffectively behind his back; Snape lurking almost out of sight to the left of me, not looking particularly pleasant or anything, but just . . . there. To bicker with, or throw things at. And for some reason, this was enough to set me off completely. I'm quite sure I was doomed for an emotional breakdown from the very start, but something about Snape, all hovering and detestably overgrown bat-like, was what really shoved me over the edge.

And so there I was, standing in front of the mirror and embarrassing myself horribly in front of a far superior version of myself; after approximately four seconds of valiantly attempting to fight it, I just let myself go completely, figuring that perhaps I'd earned a good cry after everything that had happened lately. Besides, it seemed the best place to do it: wandering around the halls crying tended to frighten the children, there was always a chance that a student (Hermione Granger or Christopher, most likely) might show up in the Astronomy Tower, and somehow I've come to feel a bit guilty having crying fits left and right in my quarters when Wimmy is around. The poor dear tries so hard to console me, but there's only so many times I can listen to a soothing version of You Sexy Thing before it's going to have no effect save making me cry harder.

And so an abandoned classroom seemed as good as any place, really, and indeed, I did sob on quite nicely interrupted for perhaps two minutes before being rudely interrupted by—

"Ah, yes. I should have known."

Automatically, my gaze flew to reflection Snape, but he just stood there, all silent and oddly appealing. Which, of course, meant . . .

"What're you doing here?" I demanded in a way that I fancy might have been quite menacing if it hadn't been interrupted by a rather pronounced whimper.

"I was making my way down the corridor when I found myself detained by sounds eerily reminiscent to those of a cat being slowly tortured," he responded smoothly. "Had I known its actual origin, I would have kept walking, I assure you."

Somewhere in the back of my mind the cat-being-tortured thing seemed to click (fits right in with kicking puppies, if I do say so), but I was a bit too distressed to put the two together fully at that time. Instead, I grumbled, "Well, you can go now."

"And leave you here to bemoan the supreme agonies of your existence?" He smirked slightly. "That seems hardly gallant."

"Shut up," I ordered, attempting to wipe my tears away with my sleeve with as much angry empowerment as possible.

"My dear lady disdain," he murmured to himself, all smooth and cruelly amused and generally irritating. Bringing Shakespeare into the conversation when one of its participants isn't coherent enough to successfully recite the alphabet isn't exactly fair.

And therefore, I suppose, utterly fitting of Snape.

"Are you ever not a bastard?" I inquired, feeling rather betrayed upon discovering that the vast amounts of Much Ado About Nothing love I harbor hadn't been enough to aid me in finding some speedy and scathingly clever reply.

"My, my, Auriga," he said softly, eyes glinting, "aren't we charming this evening?"

"Screw off, Snape."

"Downright enchanting," he determined, his lips twisting up into a smile. He just stood there for a moment, smiling to himself at my misfortune or something equally lovely and Snape-ish while I struggled to look like I hadn't been crying. This was hindered slightly by the fact that I was still crying.

"Pray tell, Auriga," he finally began, as apparently leaving after taking a moment to bask in my misery simply wouldn't have been enough for him, "what led you to select this particular spot to lament your countless agonies?"

"Go away."

"Why—" Whatever awful thing he had to say to me, though, trailed off into silence as he finally caught sight of the mirror.

"Ah," he said, almost to himself, after a moment. Then he went silent, which, considering how cruel the things he comes up with are even when he doesn't have a moment to prepare, really didn't bode well. I figured I might as well take a stand, lest I spend the entire night a weepy, inconsolable mess.

"Spare me," I instructed him shortly.

"What?"

"Spare me," I repeated more boldly. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it."

He frowned. "Auriga—"

"Yes, my life is a miserable mess," I snapped. "Yes, it continues to get worse and worse. Excuse me for finding it slightly upsetting to look into a mirror and see everything all fine and lovely when in real life nothing looks like it will ever deign to be fine or lovely again. Certainly this makes me deserving of hours and hours of scathing, perfectly crafted sarcastic remarks from you – never mind that ninety five percent of this is your fault one way or another! Just . . . spare me."

As soon as I'd said it, I figured it had been rather stupid of me to even attempt to make such a demand. Severus Snape, spare someone a ruthless tongue-lashing when the ammunition is so present that it practically begs for merciless mockery? I might as well have thrown in a request for silky smooth hair and Gilderoy Lockhart's undying affection, too.

Let it just be said here and now that that man must derive all of his joy in life from confusing me horribly to the point where I think my head might fall off, or something equally gruesome. (Er, Snape, not Gilderoy. I sense that if we ever did cross paths, he would understand me perfectly. And perhaps provide me with a few hair care tips.)

"That mirror is not worth even your tears, Auriga," Snape said, all quiet and intense, his eyes piercing into me in this way that made my spine feel all oddly tingly. (In a bad way, of course. Though not quite as bad a way as he made Algernon's spine feel, I'd reckon.) "Whatever it might choose to reflect is of no value to you. No matter how desperately you might wish for your fairytale illusions of perfect love or contrived beauty or whatever equally substantial thing you see—" (really, count on him to be bastardly even when he's being comforting – if that was what he was doing. I'm still rather confused), "—it will not come into existence simply from looking upon it. Desires of the heart are little more than a hindrance. You'll do best to remember that."

And, well, what on earth is someone supposed to reply to that? Yes, granted, it was hardly an "aww, you'll be all right, dearie" coupled with a nice cup of tea, but I'm not sure that Snape actually holds any deep understanding of the concept of comfort in the first place. It seemed almost nice, especially when one considered the fact that up until then, he'd been ignoring me – save a few very vicious sneers every so often – for the past month.

Still, a coherent response seemed a bit beyond me.

"Easy for you to say," I somehow finally managed, but found I had to sink down onto a desk while I did so. The tears coupled with the tingly spine made good posture quite difficult overall. "You don't have to buy Slatero Quirrell a Christmas gift."

He stared at me for a moment, an expression of mild bewilderment making its way onto his face, before the smirk came back and he crossed his arms in front of his chest in a rather infuriatingly smug manner.

"Truly the peril to end all perils," he observed wryly.

"Sod off."

He just went on smirking in a perfectly bastardly manner. I figured that was the end of that and crossed my arms in front of my chest and glared at him, hoping he'd get the hint and leave so I could salvage a few lingering traces of dignity.

But oh no. Of course he couldn't make things that simple. Instead—

"Sibyl Trelawney," he said gravely, and sort of perched onto the desk next to me.

It took me a moment to figure out what on earth he was talking about, but once it dawned on me, I couldn't help letting out a short laugh. It still sounded a bit like a sob – possibly because I was expecting some grand punishment for laughing – but still. It was almost . . . nice, to sit there and envision him attempting to pick out a gauzy purple scarf or bangle bracelets.

Snape wasn't quite smiling, because I have determined this is a complete impossibility unless he is bearing witness to some great display of suffering, but he wasn't smirking or twitching or performing any other erratic movement either. And so I sort of caught his eye and didn't quite smile at him, and there we were, sort of . . . not quite smiling at one another. It was almost peaceful, all silent save for the muffled sounds of Filch scaring the wits out of a few first years for smuggling in snowballs.

"Really, Auriga," Snape chastised, but all softly and almost . . . I will not say 'fondly,' because the very concept makes my brain hurt slightly. Let's just leave it at 'strangely.' "You look like the poor man's Ophelia."

"Oh, like you're one to critique appearances," I retorted, but nevertheless removed my glasses and began attempting to make myself look a bit less like a drowned rat. It seemed like a rather innocent course of action – one that made sense, and would in no way lead to . . .

Except suddenly his hand was reaching out and his thumb was brushing the spot just to the right of my right eye and my poor spine seemed seconds away from dissolving entirely and it was all just very surreal to the point where I'm almost wondering whether I made it up or perhaps he was under the influence of some curse or maybe alcohol because occasionally when there is alcohol involved he tends to accidentally touch me but not so much of his own accord and therefore the whole thing was rather unnatural indeed and this is all one sentence isn't it oh dear I suppose this is rather rebellious grammatically but it's just that it was all very strange and incorrect and defying the rules of everything I have ever come to know much like run-on sentences. Like that.

Well, luckily, we both figured out in approximately a tenth of a second that there was something very, very wrong going on. I sort of reached out and swatted at his hand – defense mechanism – which prompted him to sort of poke me in the eye, which prompted me to cry out and then slap his arm again. Meanwhile, he had somehow managed to break out a scowl, a sneer, and the formidable eye twitch all at once; the three were working in rather horrifying unison, like a synchronized swimming routine from hell.

"What are you do—"

"Get out!"

"Me get out? I was here first! Why—"

"Remove yourself from my presence at once, Sinistra, or I will not be able to be held accountable for my actions—"

"How was that my fault? You're the one who—"

"Took pity on you? You were obviously desperate for some display of compassion; if I hadn't adopted a façade of interest, that Goldstein boy doubtlessly would have fallen prey to your insatiable hunger for male attention—"

"How dare you even suggest that, you great awful son of a—"

"Ha! I knew you were onto somethin', my sweet – ah. Professors!"

And suddenly, there was Filch, standing there clutching Mrs. Norris in that slightly-too-possessive-to-be-appropriate way that lots of faculty members seem to assume where their pets are concerned in this place and staring at us in a way that a man who calls his cat 'my sweet' really shouldn't be able to look at anyone, thank you.

"Argus," Snape swiftly responded, and pushed me – pushed me! – out of the way as he swept over toward Filch. "I was just looking for you."

"'Course that's what you were doin', Professor," Filch said, eyeing me in a highly suspicious manner that really seemed very unnatural. It wasn't as though I was smuggling dungbombs into the castle.

"I would like a word," Snape went on, composed as you please, "concerning the matter we were discussing earlier."

"O'course," Filch said, still staring at me. Mrs. Norris let out a rather demonic mew and glared at me. Where he got that cat, I am not precisely sure, but I can't help suspecting a group of Satanists had something to do with it somewhere along the line.

"Now, if you don't mind," Snape went on, a slight edge to his tone. "I don't have all night."

"Right," Filch said, and kept on staring, freely as you please.

"Goodnight, Professor Sinistra," Snape said, more than a bit viciously.

"You still expect me to leave?" I demanded.

He responded with a sneer that momentarily prompted me to lose all faith in humanity, goodness, and even Moira K. Mockridge. And so, with as much dignity as I could muster, I left. (But not without "accidentally" stepping on his foot on my way out. He poked me in the eye. I feel I was entitled.)

And so here I am.

Really. I just . . . am I supposed to know what to do about this? Wiping tears away tends to be a rather romantic gesture, you know! And yet he managed to make it about as classically chivalrous as leaving up the toilet seat. I'm almost convinced that he just slipped and his thumb chanced to fall on my face.

My eye hurts.

I miss Algernon. He never would have poked me in the eye. Not even after my actions kind of indirectly wound up getting rather brutally attacked by a raging Potions master.

What did I do to deserve any of this, Notebook?

10:22 P.M.

Notebook.

10:23 P.M.

Damn it.

10:24 P.M.

You know, maybe this isn't a display of weakness in the slightest. Rather, I like to think that . . . you complete me.

Yes.

That'll be it.

10:25 P.M.

. . . But not in a Filch-and-Mrs. Norris way.

That would just be disturbing.