Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Aah, I am a crazy updating fiend! I actually wrote this part in the same sitting as part 21, as it was supposed to be part 21 (as is some other stuff that hasn't actually shown up yet because I draw everything out far too much), but then it kinda mutated into this gigantic merciless beast known as part 22. This chapter rather took on a life of its own about halfway through. Therefore, I cannot be held accountable for my actions. I'm just sayin'.
I'm not sure when the next update is going to be, since I've got school and scary impending graduation going on, as well as the fact that I somehow managed to land the female lead in the spring play. (And while we're at it, let it just be said that much of this last school year's Lamentations neglect can be entirely attributed to The Sound of Music and how much dedication is required to be a steadfastly glamorous Elsa Schraeder. And, uh, stuff.) I will try not to abandon you again for months and months, though! Pinky swear!
Once again, thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews. I honestly don't know what I've done to deserve such wonderful treatment. In her last review, imelda72 voiced the question, "Is it at all worthwhile for you to hear what parts your readers liked most?"
To which I must respond with an emphatic, "YES!" Because I am crazy-emphatic. But, seriously, I love hearing the lines/scenes/whatever that people liked the best, because while writing I always find myself wondering what's gonna work and what's not. So, yes, specific reviews just brighten up my day. Birds suddenly appear and everything. Or perhaps not.
I'm going to stop now, lest I otherwise fully reveal why it's so easy for me to write the everlasting ramblings of a thorough and complete spaz.
-Part 22-
Monday, December 23, 1991
Great Hall
8:40 A.M.
She's not here. Not yet, anyway.
Of course, that doesn't appear to matter in the slightest.
All around me, everyone is talking about her.
McGonagall's all smiles at the thought of her coming, which is just disturbing. She had my mum in her first years of teaching, and apparently she's still one of the best students she's ever had. Hmph.
And then, of course, Flitwick had to bring up that she'd come this close to actually teaching here before she'd been forced to decline on account of that little Minister of Magic invitation.
"Her Arithmancy skills were truly exceptional," he squeaked, all merry and tiny and donning a Santa hat to get into the Christmas swing of things. Honestly. If he thinks I'm not willing to hurt him just because he's small and kind, then he's got another thing coming. Where my mother is concerned, I cannot be held accountable for my actions. "Victoria's a blessing, of course, but Lucinda was unparalleled. Can you imagine that, eh, Auriga – teaching alongside your mother?"
Before I could quite stop myself, I was baring my teeth at him rather viciously. Luckily, I think he thought it was a smile. At least I was able to stop myself before any growling made an appearance.
So, yes. She's due to arrive at ten, and I am savoring my last moments of sanity. Unfortunately, they are being slightly jeopardized by the fact that Christopher, for whatever reason, has chosen to remain here over the holidays, and keeps staring at me.
Rather heartless conduct, really, to stay at school while your mother is apparently wasting away from some tragic and mysterious disease.
Hah! I knew he was lying. The little cad.
. . . Unless, of course, his mother is anything like mine.
Then I suppose I can't blame him for staying as far away as possible. I don't even want to imagine my mother with a tragic and mysterious disease. She'd probably lounge around on satin sheets all the time, wearing flowy white peignoirs and sighing tragically all the time. "Camille had nothing on me, darling! Oh, the injustice of it all. Sigh!"
Ugh.
I can't handle this.
I need to get out of here.
Bedroom Quarters
9:38 A.M.
Oh my . . . I'm just . . . well, I'm not precisely sure how to accept this, or what exactly to say.
Other than that I have the sneaking suspicion that Prince Charming may in fact actually exist, and it was very, very stupid of me to let him get pushed off a tower.
Ohhh, my heart's still a bit fluttery. I have to compose myself. He's waiting for me right now in the teacher's lounge, and God only knows what could happen in there.
So, after deciding that staying at the breakfast table would drive me to swift and murderous madness, I proclaimed as pleasantly as I could to everyone that I needed a walk and fled outside. I've never exactly been one for fresh air, on account of it being so cold at this time of year, but I was rather overcome with the need to do something drastic.
Except then it just so happens that virtually as soon as I stepped outside, who should be coming up the walkway but Algernon.
Honestly, for a moment I thought I had gone off the deep end and slipped right into fantasy land, and in this lovely place in my head he was coming to save me from my mother and all would be all right except for the part where they'd have to lock me up in a padded room because I was completely far gone.
The fact that he spotted me and promptly stopped walking with a bit of a strange expression on his face, though, made the whole fantasy thing fall a bit flat, as I'd been expecting him to come all the way up, take me into his arms, and kiss me like there was no tomorrow.
Instead, he just sort of stared for a moment before going, quite faintly, "Auriga."
"Oh," I said, because my social skills are helplessly limited and that was about the most charming reply I could craft at the time. "Hello there."
"Hello," he said, rather strangely.
And then we just sort of stared at one another for awhile, the snow falling down around us and the air going all heavy with things unsaid (or, okay, probably just rather extreme levels of awkwardness); it was all quite cinematic and surreal, really, to the point where I was utterly at a loss regarding what to do.
After about twenty seconds, though, it had gotten so unbearable that I finally said the first thing that came to mind.
Unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind happened to be, "Um, I don't suppose you've come here to save me from my mother's everlasting disapproval, have you?"
Really, I haven't the faintest clue as to why he might have been interested in me in the first place. Even when I'm trying to pretend to be sophisticated and charming, I can't be all that much of a catch. My essence is too undeniably flawed.
Instead of continuing to stare in bewilderment, though, he was nice enough to smile slightly and reply, "Actually, no. I've just come to pay my best to Albus. Season's greetings, you know."
"Ah," I said, and, despite myself, couldn't quite shake the disappointment from my tone. "Right."
My presence, surprisingly enough, didn't seem to be enough to drive him away: he continued walking until he was up the steps and standing next to me, all up-close and handsome and rather depressingly perfect.
"Now, what's this about your mother?" he asked, perfectly friendly.
"Oh," I said, and laughed a little in an attempt to buy myself time to find a way to explain it that would appear remotely sane. "Well, she's coming to visit – in about two hours, actually, and . . . er, she's a bit difficult."
"Lucinda Sinistra?" he asked.
I nodded rather glumly. "How'd you know?"
"My mother knows her," he responded. "I believe they're both part of one of those high society witches' organizations. Organizing tea parties, commemorating witch burnings and all that."
"Ah, yes," I said, and couldn't help wrinkling my nose. "I've listened to her rambling quite extensively about planning society functions more than once."
"I actually went to one of them," he responded, his expression conveying very well just how much he valued that particular memory. "At which I believe I actually met your mother."
Which gave me the faintest bit of hope, right then and there. "And . . .?"
"A quite thoroughly terrifying woman," he determined, and grinned good-naturedly at me.
I couldn't help laughing out loud at that one, more out of relief than anything else. Because, well, the very opportunity seemed as though it had been handed directly to me from a bunch of bright and smiling angels, really – his showing up, and being all kind and gallant and perfect, at that . . .
But at the same time, it was a bit iffy to suspect he didn't harbor any hard feelings whatsoever about the slight . . . spine incident.
"And she's coming here?" he asked, shaking me out of my reverie.
"Yes," I confirmed rather glumly. "A lovely little Christmas gift from hell."
"My sincerest apologies," he said, and his eyes were all bright and sort of sparkling in amusement and before I knew what I was doing, it was happening.
"Can you pretend to be in love with me for an hour or so?"
Not exactly the ease-into-it approach I had originally intended.
He sort of froze and stared at me, and then came the desperate flood of rather sloppy attempts at explanation.
"You see, I sort of wrote to her while we were dating and told her about you because – well, because you were really wonderful, so wonderful, and I suppose I sort of wanted her to see that just because I'm unmarried and sort of a miserable mess, that didn't mean my life couldn't be wonderful sometimes, and so I told her but then after . . . well, after everything, I sort of never got around to telling her that we'd . . . you know," I finished, rather hopelessly, "that things weren't so wonderful anymore."
His expression was rather indecipherable, so I just kept on going.
"And, well, now she thinks she's going to meet you," I said weakly. "Because I guess if we were dating we might be spending Christmas together, and, well, so she just . . . thought you'd be here. Which you are," I added rather uselessly.
And the staring just kept on coming. After it had gone on for approximately seven seconds, I found that I couldn't take it anymore and forced myself to give up all hope.
"God, I'm sorry," I said, all the while trying to convince myself that bursting into disappointed tears really wouldn't be the way to go about this. "I have no right to ask anything of you after everything that happened, and I should just be able to face her and tell her that we're just not—"
"I believe I can manage it."
And now it was my turn to stare.
". . . What?"
"I have an appointment this afternoon in France, but I'm quite sure I can spare an hour or so."
I sort of just kept on staring, only now it was in a rather horribly unfortunate way where my eyes were filling with tears and I wanted nothing more than to throw my arms around him and then perhaps build a shrine or two and spend the rest of my days devotedly worshipping the man.
"Really?" I asked, my voice sort of breaking on the word.
He smiled slightly. "Consider it a Christmas gift of sorts."
And then, rather stupidly, I sort of choked out, "But I haven't got anything for you!"
"Perfectly all right," he murmured rather reassuringly, and had just taken my hands comfortingly in his when—
"Really, Auriga, if you've drawn the conclusion that freezing yourself to death is a practical solution to all of your problems—"
I am now quite positive I know exactly how Lizzie Bennet felt when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham first caught sight of each other. Not that Algernon is any sort of Mr. Wickham, of course, because he is doubtlessly the most perfect man I've ever met, and certainly not hiding any sort of dark and detestable secrets.
. . . And not that Snape is my Mr. Darcy.
Of course not.
Needless to say.
But anyhow, there he was, pushing open the door and looking irritated, and all of a sudden he fell silent and his eyes just got incredibly dark as he took in the sight of us. I pulled my hands out of Algernon's at once, all overcome with the ridiculous feeling that I'd been caught at something utterly unforgivable. I mean, it's one thing if you are caught making out on your parents' bed by your father (dreadful as my mother might have been after he dumped me, Paul really was not a huge hit with either of my parents) but quite another if someone you hate and have no involvement with whatsoever just so happens to see you sharing a nice moment with a friend.
And yet, for God knows what reason, I found myself sort of stammering out, "Severus—"
(Where the first name came from, I haven't the slightest.)
But there was no stopping him: he fixed us with a sneer so disgusted that all of the others I've witnessed suddenly seemed to pale in comparison and slammed the door shut again.
It was horribly silent for a moment, and then I finally worked up the courage to actually look at Algernon. He wasn't smiling anymore; instead, just staring and looking sort of displeased.
I figured that was the end of everything, and sort of just mumbled out, "If you want to leave, that's completely fi—"
He cut me off, though, with a slightly forced smile and rather decisive intake of breath. "And miss seeing your lovely mother again? Not for the world."
And so, rather stunned, he and I went inside and he went off to find Dumbledore with the promise that he'd meet me in the teacher's lounge at ten, and here I am.
Goodness.
I suppose I should actually freshen up before my mother gets here. Attempt to brave the eye makeup, or something of the like. Of course, I think if I so much as touched eyeliner, I'd just wind up with a load of black lines straggling down my face.
I just . . .
This is all very strange.
And oddly wonderful.
And I need to shake this urge that I ought to apologize to Snape, or something mad like that. Because, honestly, for what? He's the one who ruined our relationship, thank you very much! If he were any sort of human being, he'd be damned thankful that Algernon doesn't hate me entirely, lest the guilt otherwise drive him mad!
But no. Of course not.
It would be one thing if he was my Mr. Darcy. You know – sort of perfect and very necessary in his own maddening way, underneath all of the sarcasm and the emotional distance and the general unpleasantness.
But he's not.
Because . . .
Well, obviously because . . .
Um . . .
I have to go.
Wouldn't want to keep Algernon waiting, and everything.
Astronomy Tower
5:52 P.M.
HAH! Take that, Mummy Dearest!
Er.
Sorry.
It's just that I've found myself rather overwhelmed with the urge to do that for quite a few hours now, and have finally got the opportunity. Mum's freshening up before dinner, and as she's already completely taken over my bedroom quarters – really, I hadn't expected anything less – I decided I might as well hide up here for a bit of peace and quiet.
I just . . . hah! I haven't felt nearly this competent where she's concerned in years.
Hah! Hah! Hah!
. . . I'm done now.
Promise.
She showed up precisely at ten, which was, of course, to be expected, and looked utterly impeccable – which was, of course, to be expected. I still really think it's terribly unfair that Lyra wound up virtually a carbon copy of her, whereas I'm a bit like what you'd get if my mother looked at herself in a funhouse mirror. But, yes. Her flawlessly silky smooth auburn hair was put up into a perfect French twist, and she looked the rather maddeningly perfect sophisticate in a cream-coloured dress suit. Of course, the second she got here she started fretting about how she felt so horribly out of place in Muggle clothing instead of robes. (Never mind that I was in slacks and a sweater – apparently, she immediately wrote me off as the Hogwarts pariah.) Then, naturally, practically the whole staff rushed to assure her of how perfect she looked, and, oh, I can tell it would have all been downhill from there if Algernon hadn't been around.
But, yes, he was standing there, looking all charming and perfect; while Mum was gushing to McGonagall about how lovely it was to be back, he threw a wink my way that got me all inconveniently fluttery again.
I'll admit to you, Notebook, that I was still a bit skeptical about the whole thing. Not about Algernon himself, precisely, because he is perfect, but about the fact that if anything felt even remotely amiss, my mother would pick up on it in about half a second. She's eerie in that way. (Among countless other ways, of course.)
Algernon, however, just so happened to succeed in going above and beyond perfect.
After she was satisfied that she'd charmed every one of my colleagues, Mum came over and air-kissed both my cheeks before pulling away and entering the obligatory scrutinize-Auriga's-appearance-entirely phase. I've reached the point where I know better than to try to escape this, but it was still a bit embarrassing; after all, it's not as though I'm thirteen anymore. (Although admittedly there haven't been many significant physical changes since then.)
"Auriga," she sort of murmured under her breath; her eyes lingered on my hair for a moment before she inhaled rather composedly and then wisely chose to focus her attention elsewhere. "You're so petite."
Hmph. Easy for her to say. Apparently, it is rather hard for her to contemplate not having the exact build of a fashion model.
"Yes, Mum," I said, staring dutifully up at her. "There's really not much one can do about that."
"You could try wearing heels," she said, which was promptly followed by a rather perfect frown creasing her features. "Although I suppose that does require a certain natural grace."
"Mum—"
"And those terrible glasses. You know that they've developed spells for that—"
"Mum—"
"—Although I suppose they hide those circles under your eyes. Have you been sleeping at all?"
"Mum—"
"Do you know, I read that—"
Algernon, mercifully, rather pointedly cleared his throat at that moment, and my mother trailed off as her gaze shifted to him.
Her eyes widened slightly, but other than that, there was no notable change in disposition. My mother is rather above actual blatant displays of emotion.
"I don't believe we've been introduced," she said, a smile playing around the corners of her perfectly lipsticked mouth.
"Mum," I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, "this is Algernon."
"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Sinistra," he said; she offered her hand to be kissed (honestly!) and he gallantly obliged.
"Indeed," she said, still managing a perfect high society smile that – I could tell – was accompanied by the faintest trace of unadulterated awe. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for quite sometime. Auriga has quite a lot to say about you," she threw in, casting a glance tinged with suspicion my way.
"Does she?" Algernon asked, entirely undaunted. "I hope it hasn't made a terrible impression." He smiled, the very picture of charm, and slid an arm easily around my waist.
"On the contrary, it was all rather flattering," my mother responded with a widening smile of her own. "And I can certainly see why."
Honestly, Notebook, it was something akin to freakish – like being in the middle of a charm battle, or something of the like. And seeing as how charm is hardly my strong suit, all I could really manage to do was stand and sort of stare back and forth between them while the witty banter flew.
"I suspect she brings out the best in me," Algernon pronounced, kissing my temple. By that time, it all felt nothing short of spooky – like I'd accidentally stepped into the ideal life. "If you don't mind my saying so, you've been blessed with quite the wonderful daughter."
"There's no one quite like her," my mother responded pleasantly. (Hmph. Thanks, Mum.) "Will you be spending Christmas here?"
"Unfortunately, I have a business engagement in France this afternoon that may last for sometime," Algernon replied smoothly. "I've tried to get out of it, but it seems dead set on being inevitable."
"Working through Christmas!" Mum commented, the very picture of sympathetic horror. "How abominable."
"Yes, well," Algernon said, and stared down at me so fondly that I went rather lightheaded, "It's not so bad when you know you've got something to look forward to."
And, really, it just went on like that for the next few hours; Mum kept firing all these witty, charming comments at Algernon, and he kept responding utterly perfectly. The man never faltered once. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone interact with my mother quite so successfully. There's even a point where my dad tends to give up where she's concerned.
By the time he actually had to leave, I found myself feeling leaps and bounds better about the entire ordeal. Mum hadn't offered me nearly as many maddening critiques as she usually manages to come up with after not having seen me for months, and I still can't help suspecting that the notion that someone charming actually likes me might have been enough to put her in her place. (In which case it is probably a very, very good thing that Snape didn't show any trace of gallantry in my moment of desperation, because there's no way he would have been able to impress her in the slightest.)
Anyhow, I walked Algernon back out to the front doors, and I'm still not precisely sure what to think about the exchange we had there. I mean, I'm such a terrible mess that I'm sure there's no chance of things ever just being okay again, and his behaviour today was doubtlessly just further proof that he's a complete gentleman, and yet . . .
Well, once we reached the front doors, I wasted no time at all in saying, "Thank you so much for doing this. I'm quite positive I would have gone utterly insane otherwise."
"It was my pleasure," he said, smiling slightly. "I haven't had a conversation that reminiscent of combat in quite sometime."
I laughed and then we just sort of looked at one another for a moment, and this wave of terrible regret just washed over me, and almost before I knew it, I was saying, "I'm so sorry about what happened. With . . . with Snape, and that awful fight, and me lying to you about all those stupid things. I'm just . . . sorry."
He looked at me, and although it was completely unfounded, of course, something in his expression almost made me think that perhaps he felt as bad as I did. Finally, he replied, very quietly, "I know."
Which was, of course, a bit of a Han Solo rip-off, but he's so wonderful and he did so much for me today, and who even knows he has any familiarity with Muggle films whatsoever? Anyhow, I figured I was kind enough to let it pass. In fact, I could even rather identify with Princess Leia, because it was honestly just rather perfect.
Really, who knows what would have happened if the Weasley twins hadn't picked that precise moment to burst inside hurling snowballs at one another?
But as it was, one flew right into Algernon's shoulder and another into the back of my head (honestly, I am almost used to this kind of treatment by now), and that was enough to effectively shatter whatever sort of meaningful moment we might have been engaging in. And so we wished each other a happy Christmas and he kissed my cheek, and then he was gone.
6:02 P.M.
Sigh.
6:05 P.M.
Anyway!
Things have been quite uneventful since. Mum filled me in on what Dad and Lyra are up to, and looked around my room with an expression of vague yet elegant distaste for about fifteen minutes before wasting no time in making herself utterly at home, and now she is apparently working to better her already flawless appearance.
I suppose I ought to head down to dinner.
Do you know, Notebook, I think I just might be able to survive this visit.
Astronomy Tower
8:25 P.M.
DAMN IT.
Just . . .
Well, thank you. Thank you, Severus Snape, for once again managing to tear everything to shreds. I really, truly appreciate it. You do so light up my life, you soulless detestable bastard.
Things were going perfectly, Notebook! You know! I told you! For once, for once, everything was flawless! My mother's presence was not going to fill me with the overwhelming urge to drive my head repeatedly into a brick wall! Everything was going so well that I actually got rather rescued by Prince Charming! These are not the sorts of occurrences that pop up all too frequently in my life, you know!
But then there was Snape. Of course there was Snape. Of course things couldn't just stay . . .
Aaaugh.
And it could have been so easily avoided, as well! If I'd just waited five more minutes to come downstairs, or if he'd taken another route . . .
But nooo. Of course not.
Instead, we just so happened to bump into one another on our way to the Great Hall. (Yes, literally. Is there really any other way it could have happened, considering my good fortune?) Now, I wasn't precisely sure how I was supposed to approach him, because I still felt a bit awkward about whatever the hell it was that had gone on outside when Algernon first arrived. Never mind that the last time we'd had any sort of extensive interaction, it had been him abandoning me in The Leaky Cauldron after making a mockery of my very existence. Again.
I finally chose to take the approach that felt the most natural.
"You know, for someone who swoops around all intimidatingly all the time, you're surprisingly graceless," I informed him rather crossly while attempting to regain my footing.
You know, in retrospect, I had been almost kind with that one; I had entirely set myself up! I mean, 'graceless'? I almost might as well have said to him, "Guess what? I lust after iguanas and underage students!" He could have had nearly as much of a field day with this.
But no.
Instead, he just sort of sneered at me for a moment and then kept walking.
And, well, I don't know precisely why, but I couldn't help being rather offended by that. What gives him the right to just walk off after I've clearly initiated a bickering session? Nothing, that's what! It felt downright unnatural – as though he'd contradicted the very foundation of the universe, or something.
"That's hardly the way to treat a lady," I ventured, making it even easier that time. A lady? Well, he would certainly be glad to keep that in mind the next time he came across one; wasn't it fortunate that this time it was nothing more than a swiveling twit and therefore he needn't worry?
(Never mind that I am now able to craft his replies entirely on my own. This means nothing.)
He just kept on walking a few steps ahead of me, as though I wasn't even there. And, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Guess what?" I asked, and tugged on his sleeve just to make extra sure I would come off an utterly un-ignore-able force of nature. "I lust after iguanas and underage students!"
Which was like a Christmas gift in itself, really, but of course he didn't appreciate it in the slightest.
"Do you want something, Sinistra?" he sort of snarled over his shoulder, and just kept on walking in a way that was actually more like striding, and could only be kept up with by an activity approaching running on my part.
"You're ignoring me," I accused, speeding after him.
"It surprises you that I choose to spare myself the tedium of your inane proclamations?" he threw over his shoulder.
"Yes!" I practically shouted, without really bothering to think about what this might actually suggest.
"Why?" he snapped.
"Because," I swiftly discovered that coming up with any kind of profound answer was thoroughly beyond me at the moment, on account of the fact that most of my attention was consumed by keeping up with the insane bastard. "Well, because you're supposed to listen to me!"
"Oh really? And what binds me to such a fate?"
"Because that's just how it works!" I informed him, irritated, and miraculously made my way down a flight of stairs moving about three times as fast as I usually bothered to. "I say things and then you're a complete heartless bastard about them!"
"A service which I believe I've chosen to give up."
"Well, you can't!"
"Why not?" Snape demanded icily, a couple of first years diving out of his way as he swept around a corner.
I shot an apologetic glance at them, but couldn't bring myself to actually stop and check on them properly. "Because that's how we work!"
"'We'?" he repeated, tone drenched in disgust. "How very sentimental."
"Would you stop being such a—"
"Alas, I fear the twisted attachment you seem to harbor to me is unrequited," he went on coldly.
"Oh, please!" I was shouting despite myself. One of the suits of armor lining the walls cowered as we sped by. "You need me!"
"That's ludicrous."
"You do!"
"What possible reason would drive me to sink so low, Sinistra?" he turned another corner with ease; my shoulder slammed against the wall, but I was far too pissed off to actually register the rather considerable amount of pain.
"Well – Quirrell, take Quirrell!" In retrospect, it was probably incredibly unintelligent to be yelling this. "I'm the only other person who knows!"
Strangely enough, Snape didn't even seem to notice. Instead, he simply snarled, "Ah, yes, your ridiculous paranoid obsession with a man who can't even pronounce his own name truly binds us 'till the ends of eternity! How could I have been so blind?"
"You can't just handle a thing like that alone, you know! You need me there!"
"Need what, precisely? Do make this clear for me. Your ceaseless psychotic ramblings, perhaps? Your delusions of gloriously triumphing over evil side by side? You are nothing but a hindrance, you foolish woman—"
"Why won't you tell Dumbledore, then? You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're doing something about it! As long as I know this is going on, I'm not just going to sit back and let him off The Boy Who Lived—"
"As if you could do anything to stop it—"
"You think I couldn't?"
"I would go so far as to know you couldn't; your uselessness is unparalleled!"
"You're just afraid!" Honestly, I don't precisely know where that came from, but at the same time, saying it felt so strangely correct that I just let myself keep on going, although the Great Hall doors had come into sight and our voices would no doubt be overheard. "You're miserable because no one's ever liked you and you hide behind some great solitary façade just so no one will see what an embittered, lonely coward you are!"
"You have no right—"
"All your dark, shameful past actions – all of that was probably just some twisted attempt to belong—"
"Don't you dare talk about things you could not even begin to understand, you ignorant—"
"I understand you a hell of a lot more than you'd like to think, you son of a bi—"
We had arrived at the doors by then, and coincidentally (ha), so had Christopher, who stepped in between us and cut me off with a rather pleasantly oblivious, "Oh, look, Professors – mistletoe!"
And without even bothering to glance upward, Snape shoved Christopher out of the way, pulled me to him in one jarringly swift movement, and rather violently pushed his mouth against mine.
8:39 P.M.
I don't know what to say.
I just don't.
And so, Notebook, tell you what. We're just not going to talk about it.
Not at all.
We're not going to talk about what it was like, or the way I was quite sure I would die because one's heart cannot possibly beat that fast without a rather inconvenient death side effect, or the way it was far more vivid than that last unfortunate kissing incident because this time I was not drunk out of my mind. We are not going to talk about how my lips still feel incredibly strange and tingly even though it's been a good few hours since and we are not going to talk about how the world has sort of been moving in bizarre slow motion since.
We are not going to talk about what it meant or why he did it or what the hell might have been bothering him so much anyway, although I suspect maybe perhaps seeing me with Algernon might have done something to him although I'm not sure why it would because he seems so completely determined to despise me entirely. But we aren't going to talk about that.
Or anything.
We're just . . . not.
Okay?
Okay.
8:41 P.M.
So, um, yes. Snape kissed me. A bit fiercely, too, considering mistletoe kisses generally tend to consist of rather abashed pecks on the cheek.
The mistletoe was, however, still a perfectly valid reason.
Anyway, so, it, er, went on for a bit. And then it sort of softened to the point where our mouths were just sort of brushing and then not even touching anymore, but our foreheads sort of came together for a moment and I really could not even begin to convey what on earth might have been going through my mind at that point in time, so it's probably quite a good thing that we're not going to talk about it.
But then, all of a sudden, it all came back to me that we were in fact standing in the Great Hall.
And so I opened my eyes, and there he was, and we sort of stared at one another for a few seconds before the sneer came fully back into place and he rather swiftly pulled away and stalked toward the table, muttering disgustedly to himself.
I just sort of stood there, as my legs had not yet remembered quite how to function beyond the whole knees-weakening action.
"Such an amusing tradition, is it not?" Dumbledore said merrily from where he sat, and took a sip of eggnog.
That was enough to sort of break the tension, and everyone began chattering again – though admittedly it was interspersed with many an unwelcome glance at either me or Snape. I took a moment to see who, exactly, had witnessed it: thankfully, not many students had arrived yet. Percy Weasley was sitting next to Professor Flitwick, and looked as though he might die of a heart attack (but honestly, that boy needs to loosen up anyway). Relief was just beginning to overcome me when my eyes flitted to the left of McGonagall and suddenly locked with my mother's.
And, oh, God, Notebook, it's all over.
She knows.
I mean, I'm not even precisely sure what she knows because damned if I know what is going on between Snape and me, but whatever it is, she knows. And she will use it against me somehow. I'll probably get lectured for hours about how I'm tarnishing my nonexistent relationship with the perfect man, even though I tried my best to ease over the situation when I sat down next to her by throwing out a jolly, "That mistletoe really can lead to interesting yet ultimately meaningless situations, huh?"
In retrospect, that might have been trying slightly too hard.
But the point is, she knows.
Which is why I am hiding up here all by myself. I told her I was grading papers, but I'm not precisely sure how plausible that excuse is, considering I know I won't get around to doing so until the night before school starts again. I just . . . can't be around her. Not after that.
And honestly, I'm not so keen on being around anyone else, either.
At least now perhaps if the rumours start up again, Professor Sinistra, The Whore of Hogwarts will have a partner in crime.
Although I guess that just sounds rather ridiculous. What would they call him? Sporadic Angry Kissing Attacks Man?
8:48 P.M.
If we were talking about the kissing, I would feel faintly inclined to wonder whether he will strike again.
But we're not.
So I won't.
8:49 P.M.
Right then.