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 . . .

24. Platonic Frustration

Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit

The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra

Author's Note: Year and three month pause? What year and three month pause? Hum dee dum.

(I AM SO SORRY. You guys are amazing. Thank youuu, I love you all. Forgive me.)

-Part 24-

Wednesday, December 25, 1991

Bedroom Quarters

9:42 P.M.

You know, it was quite nice to have a few precious hours in which Victoria did not flaunt the fact that she is exceptional at driving me out of my mind.

Alas, all good things come to an end. Even, it seems, on Christmas.

The majority of the day was quite lovely and peaceful, with my mother ignoring me in favour of talking to those who make for far more intellectually stimulating conversation (remind me to thank McGonagall sometime, will you?), Snape sitting as far away from me as possible while still remaining at the same table, and everyone getting a bit tipsy from the really excellent elf-made wine served at the Christmas feast.

And by everyone, I mean everyone who wasn't Quirrell or Kettleburn – Quirrell, because he "d—d—doesn't drink," and Kettleburn, because he's finally figured out that when he gets drunk, he frequently winds up sharing personal anecdotes that everyone would be much happier not knowing, not to mention occasionally referring to Snape as 'sweetheart.'

Very much like every other year, Hagrid got steadily drunker until he finally wound up kissing an uncommonly giggly McGonagall on the cheek. Naturally, this led Victoria into an especially disturbing one-sided discussion concerning a potential romantic relationship between them. She rambled on and on about it as we walked back to our quarters afterwards, and I made an effort both to walk with a bit of dignity and grace and to very ardently not listen to her.

"—of course, it's all very well and good until the sex issue rolls around," Victoria rambled on merrily, clearly oblivious to the fact that this was the sort of thing that had the potential to, oh, I don't know, scar someone for life. "Because I'm sorry – no matter how true the love might be, there are certain proportional problems that you're just not going to be able to get around—"

Which was really enough to ensure at least a straight month of relentless nightmares. "Victoria!"

"Hmm?" she asked innocently.

"Just wondering whether you were actually planning on ever looking either of them in the eye ever again," I said in a way that I thought was clear enough to express the issue at hand.

It wasn't.

"Don't be silly, of course I am," she said, completely clueless. "We do work together, after all."

"You mean you're not going to be afraid that they'll be able to look into your eyes and immediately see all the twisted and disturbing things you've thought about them?"

"Why would I be?" she asked. "It's not like either of them is an accomplished Legilimens."

"But what if they were?" I pressed.

"They're not," she reminded me, all annoying and insistent. "Hagrid's not even a full-fledged wizard."

"Maybe there's an exception for especially revolting thoughts," I said stubbornly. "And then they'd know for certain just how sick you are."

"I'm just wondering," Victoria answered impatiently. "Honestly, Auriga. We're not twelve."

"I know that," I said, maybe a bit more grumpily than I should have. "It's just disgusting to think about, thank you very much."

"That's half the fun," Victoria responded devilishly, her eyes sparkling in that way they do when she's only saying foul things because she knows it bothers me. "And really, blame the people around here, not me. That's the closet thing we're going to get to juicy gossip. It's becoming dire, you know. I'm almost tempted to resurrect the How Many Days Will Snape Go Before Washing His Hair? bet."

Hee. I have to admit, my annoyance temporarily ebbed away just a little bit at the mention – and quite frankly, I don't think I can be blamed, considering it was one of Victoria's and my greatest feats to date. It was born one afternoon around three years ago, inspired both by boredom and by Snape's truly appalling hair. Turns out, we apparently weren't the only people around who had contemplated Snape's apparent vendetta against shampoo, because a considerable amount of the staff pitched in. (Even McGonagall, although she forbid me to reveal that particular information. So don't you go telling anyone, Notebook.) Flitwick, surprisingly, walked away from that one with twenty-seven galleons, correctly making the harrowing guess of six days. Except then Snape found out about it and went into twitchshuddersneering overload, which, while a bit frightening at first, might have wound up being more fun than the bet had been in the first place.

Oh, the memories.

This, of course, was back in the days when I hated him properly, and not in the far more confusing way where we are occasionally kissing.

I do miss those days. Very, very much. A lot. In fact, I didn't know how good I had it, back when he would sneer and I would glare and we'd argue like children and occasionally inflict "accidental" minor physical harm upon one another and that would be that. Believe you me, Notebook, when lips and physical contact enter into the equation, nothing but badness can result! It's a proven fact, plain and simple.

. . . unless it's CPR, I guess.

That is occasionally beneficial.

But still.

Anyway, because the rambling that just unfolded on this page was more or less exactly how my brain was functioning during the time the conversation took place, I responded to her mention of the How Many Days Will Snape Go Before Washing His Hair? bet with, "I kissed Snape."

I am at times so idiotic that it is almost magnificent.

Victoria's jaw dropped. "What??"

"Me," I attempted to correct at once, because I didn't want her getting the idea into her perverted brain that I had been the aggressor in that particular situation, "was kissed. He . . . kissed me. He did the kissing. Snape kissed me. Not, y'know, the other way around."

"Auriga!" she gasped, with the sort of joy that normal people reserve for newborn babies and gigantic sums of money being left to them by dead uncles and new books by Gilderoy Lockhart. "How dare you leave me here blathering about McGonagall and Hagrid's theoretical sex life when this happened?! You're demonic!"

"Right back at you," I answered in advance, because I was (correctly) sure that now she was going to do something absolutely, world-shatteringly horrible.

"Well, quick, now!!" she gushed, grabbing my arm with her perfectly manicured nails so hard that I am at least fifty-six percent sure she drew blood, "give me details!! When? Where? Tongue? How? What did he say? What did you say? Was it as good as that time the Weasley twins spiked the punch at the ball and you both accidentally got spectacularly pissed and made out by the rose bushes? Personally, I don't know whether I'd be able to handle being that close to the man while completely sober; you're a lot braver than I give you credit for! Come on, now! Spill!"

"Come to think of it," I said, in a hearty attempt to change the subject, "who spikes punch when they're only in their second year? That seems like criminal behaviour, don't you think—"

"Auriga," she cut in, with this sudden deadly fierceness that very well might have frightened a Death Eater, let alone me. "Tell. Me. Now."

And it's not like I had any say in the matter at that point, now, was it? My life was on the line! And so I told her – reluctantly, mind you – about the argument and Christopher and the mistletoe and the fact that the entire Great Hall happened to witness it and the mistletoe and the kissing and did I mention the mistletoe? And then, just in case the whole mistletoe aspect of it all hadn't been reiterated quite enough, I went over a brief explanation of the whole mistletoe tradition, and how you sort of have to kiss the person lest you otherwise bring a curse down upon your whole family for the next seven generations. Which I am relatively certain I made up in a fit of panic. At any rate, Victoria clearly wasn't having it either, because right in the middle of the "seven generations" part, she kicked me in the shin.

"Ow!"

"Oh, quit whining," she said impatiently. "Now, what are we going to do about this?"

Which immediately cued a nice shiny sense of dread. "What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

"This!" she exclaimed. "Obviously, the two of you are at the start of something here—"

"No!" I cut in frantically. "I thought I'd explained the mistletoe bit very clearly – you see, it's the rules—"

"I did notice earlier that he seemed even more surly around you—"
"—and Trelawney kissed him, too, did I mention, and that certainly doesn't mean that they're at the start of something—"

"—but that can just be chalked up to sexual frustration, no doubt—"

"He isn't sexually frustrated!" I told her desperately. "He's just the normal kind of frustrated! Because we frustrate each other!"

"Yes, yes," Victoria said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Sexually."

"Platonically!" I yelped.

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "There's no such thing as platonic frustration."

"Oh, really?" I demanded, getting a bit irrational. "Then perhaps I should be a bit worried about what's going on between the two of us right now!"

"Oh, Auriga," Victoria sighed, in the same voice she used with her less gifted Arithmancy students, "Don't attempt to convert to lesbianism just so you can escape from your feelings for him."

"There are no feelings!" I snapped.

She lifted one perfect eyebrow at me.

"Fine," I admitted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "Maybe there are feelings, but they're bad feelings that I don't want in the slightest, and I hate them, and as it so happens, they're mostly feelings of hatred anyway, so it all really works out very nicely, and will you please, please leave me alone about this??"

She snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. Not in a million yea—"

Except then she fell quiet very abruptly, and her expression shifted from all crafty and mischievously amused to freakishly kind and understanding in around two seconds. I knew at once that she wasn't to be trusted. I'd seen that transition on her face before, and it had resulted in a double date with her twin brother Lester who, interestingly, possesses no qualities remotely like hers, and instead only the misfortunate attributes of a man whose ears are twice as big as a normal person's and who has known a lifetime of adversity thanks to the fact that his first name more or less rhymes with his last.

Depressingly, he was one of the more thrilling men in my life.

But this isn't the time to reminisce about Lester, and I'm not only saying that because I'm still ridden with guilt over the fact that I told him I'd see him again sometime and then sent him a fake postcard from Alaska proclaiming that I'd decided to move there and embrace Transcendentalism in the heart of the deep dark wilderness. (Victoria, in a rare act of kindness, has yet to reveal the truth to him, but don't think it's not hanging over my head every day.)

"All right," Victoria said with a bone-chillingly sweet smile. 'I suppose I'll leave you alone. It's the least I can do, after I inadvertently got your boyfriend's spine broken and destroyed your only functional relationship to date and all."

Which is the sort of thing that you should be able to take at face value, but I knew better.

"Don't," I warned as menacingly as I could.

"What?" she asked, her blue eyes huge and innocent in a way that was about as convincing as Celestina Warbeck's brief foray into acting.

"Don't you dare!"

"Don't I dare what?" she persisted.

"I can see some horrible plan forming behind your eyes!" I exclaimed. "And just . . . stop it! It's not going to work, just like all of your other plans! And maybe this time," I added, on a streak of inspiration, "the spine that gets broken will be yours. Did you ever think about that?"

"Really, Auriga," Victoria said warmly, and looped her arm through mine. "You're ridiculously paranoid, do you know that? I said I wasn't going to do anything!"

"Which means that you are going to do something," I reminded her impatiently.

"Nonsense!"

"Quit planning!" I yelped, on the verge of hysteria.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Victoria responded with positively lethal pleasantness.

At that advanced a stage in the planning-of-doom process, my only hope was radical distraction.

"So!" I began as enthusiastically as I could. "How about Hagrid and McGonagall, hmm? Come on, let's contemplate the intricacies of their potential sex life. You know you want to."

It probably won't surprise you, Notebook, to find out that McGonagall was, in fact, right behind us in the corridor at that point. Honestly, it didn't quite surprise me either – the humiliation still burned bright, of course, but I couldn't quite muster up the 'oh dear God, I can't believe this is happening' feeling that I have come to be so well-acquainted with. In fact, I would have been a bit worried if she hadn't been standing there.

Such is life.

Fortunately, she wasn't at her most terrifying – I am occasionally very grateful for the existence of the alcoholic beverage – but she still managed a reasonably intimidating "Good evening, ladies" and accompanying eyebrow raise. I attempted to explain to her that we were talking about something very different that only sounded questionable when taken out of context, but I'm not entirely sure she believed this. For now, I am living in the lovely fantasy world where she was not only tipsy, but in fact smashed enough that she won't recall anything about the occurrence come tomorrow morning.

A girl can dream.

Anyway, we headed back to our quarters, with me repeatedly insisting that Victoria not act on whatever cruel and sadistic thing she's planning, and Victoria in turn insisting that she was planning no such thing (and then offering to bake me cookies, because kindness does not come naturally to her, and she clearly does not realize when she's overdoing it to a highly suspicious degree). As soon as I got back here, I vowed that I wouldn't leave the room with Victoria no matter what temptations she might attempt to hurl at me.

Yes, even cookies.

Because no matter how convincing or charming she might seem, I just know that it will inevitably result in Snape and I getting locked into some sort of small enclosed space until we agree to confess our love to one another.

Which we most certainly wouldn't, on account of there not being any.

So you recognize my predicament.

Therefore, Notebook, I am just staying put. You mark my words. Nothing can drive me from this room.

Not even Wimmy's rendition of Tainted Love.

10:06 P.M.

Ack, it's even worse than it was the last time. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't put so much emphasis into the line "Don't touch me please; I cannot stand the way you tease", and stare at me so pointedly and yearningly with his great big elf eyes.

10:07 P.M.

And it's not as if I ever touch him anyway, so I don't know what he's going on about!!

10:08 P.M.

Well, all right, occasionally I'll pat him on the head, but I'm quite certain that that's not the sort of touching Soft Cell is talking about!

10:09 P.M.

Maybe head pats mean something entirely different to house elves.

10:10 P.M.

Oh God. Oh God.

10:12 P.M.

Still not leaving.

Thursday, December 26, 1991

Broom Cupboard

12:51 A.M.

Shut up.

12:53 A.M.

At least Snape left. You know, it's not so bad in here, really. Maybe I'll just stay for all eternity – there's not a whole lot worth leaving for, come to think of it. My best friend, the antichrist? My maddeningly perfect and eternally disappointable mother? My relentlessly pining house elf? My relentlessly pining underage student? My not-my un-boyfriend of doom and endless sneering and (platonically) frustrating conversations?

I think not, thank you.

That's it. I'm moving in.

12:55 A.M.

SPIDER.

Bedroom Quarters

1:03 A.M.

Ahhh. It's good to be home.

Now, excuse me while I collapse into bed and sink into a blissful oblivion, where I can't remember a single bit of what just happen—

DAMN IT.

Mum's awake.

Broom Cupboard

1:14 A.M.

Right. Apparently, I had the right idea when I was here the first time.

Spiders aren't so bad, really. All you have to do is compare them to my mother.

Of course, spiders aren't the only problem here; oh, no! This place will also forever be tainted by oh-so-lovely memories of Snape.

Wonderful.

I suppose it could have gone much worse. I mean, both of us survived and everything, and the awkwardness was even quite minimal, considering it's my life. A strange solidarity comes alongside being conned by Victoria Vector.

Admittedly, I was something of an easy target. Yes, all right, Notebook, I was rather steadfast and adamant about never succumbing to her evil plot a few hours ago, but that was before I was subjected to both Wimmy's tormented serenade and my mother's company. Truthfully, by the time Victoria showed up and very innocently asked if I wanted to come over and see what her fiancé had sent her for Christmas, I decided that her sadistic attempts at matchmaking quite simply couldn't be as misery-inducing.

Granted, being Stunned and shoved into a closet isn't really my ideal way to spend a Christmas evening, but it could have been worse. And once I was actually here, among buckets and mops and (although I didn't know it at the time) my new friend the great nasty spider of doom, I found myself a bit curious as to how she was going to get Snape there in the first place.

After about fifteen minutes, I heard their voices outside the closet.

"She's been crying in there for the past half hour," Victoria said, sounding rather convincingly panicked. "And I just don't know what to do. I tried consoling her, but she wouldn't budge."

At which point, I just had to roll my eyes at her incredibly flawed plan to unite us – it's already been very much established that Snape doesn't care nearly enough about me to get worried when I'm crying. Oh, no. Instead he just acts uncommonly sweet-ish and abruptly makes up for it by poking me in the eye.

Bastard.

"And you're certain she's a Slytherin?" Snape asked, sounding rather irritated. I realized then that Victoria was, surprise surprise, craftier than I'd given her credit for.

"I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise," she said earnestly. "But I figured since she's in your house, she's really your responsibility."

"Move aside," Snape said tersely. After a second, there were a few sharp raps on the door. "There, there, that's quite enough. Come out."

"I'm not sure that's going to work," Victoria said. "You might have to go in and give her a bit of a talking-to – she's really being quite irrational."

"I'm surprised you weren't able to handle the situation on your own, Professor Vector," Snape replied, in that lovely detestable way he has. "You do pride yourself on being so competent, do you not?"

I could hear him muttering in irritation, and watched as the door swung open. His eyes widened in not-too-pleased surprise when he realized that it was me and not some poor random weepy little girl, and he turned around just in time to meet a helpful shove from Victoria, then the door slamming merrily shut.

"Auriga—" he hissed from between clenched teeth.

"Don't blame me," I cut in crossly. "You think I can control her?"

Victoria's voice rang out cheerfully from the other side of the door. "Now, you two take some time to discuss recent events, all right? Don't be afraid to let it all out in the open. Your thoughts. Your feelings." (Snape twitched violently.) "I'll be back to let you out in a couple of hours!"

"Fantastic," I yelled back sarcastically.

I could hear her very chipper footsteps as she sauntered away; they were quickly replaced by a horrible, stifling silence. I glanced at Snape. He was glaring furiously at a mop around three feet in front of him. I started counting the seconds that passed, for lack of anything else to do. I'd gotten to seventy-three when he finally spoke up.

"You put her up to this, I don't doubt," he said darkly.

"Hardly!" I exclaimed, scowling at him. "Do you really think this is my idea of a holly jolly Christmas?"

"Judging by your past actions, Auriga, I would hardly be surprised," he responded evenly.

"What past actions?" I demanded, perhaps a little unwisely. "In case you've forgotten, I didn't maul you in front of the entire Great Hall!"

"Oh dear," Snape said, in that extra-smooth way of his that is essentially evil in liquid form. If voices could be liquid. "You haven't been dwelling upon that, have you?"

"No," I said as convincingly as I could. Apparently it wasn't very, because his eyes lit up in an especially cruel and nasty way.

"Something compels me not to believe you," he announced.

"Well, if you're not careful, something's going to compel me to shove that mop down your throat, you stupid greasy idiot."

"Touchy, are we?" he asked, smiling cruelly.

"No," I responded saccharinely. "The memory just happens to make me a bit nauseous, that's all."

"And I suppose," he said, in a tone that immediately let me know I was in for something even more detestable than usual, "you've been too wrapped up in your own petty self-delusions of your . . ." (sneer) "—irresistibility to consider that I was actually doing you a favor."

"What?" I asked, completely caught off-guard.

He brought his fingertips together and began drumming them against each other idly. "Do you or do you not recall the fact that there was someone else standing with us beneath that fateful bit of mistletoe?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "Christopher."

"Precisely," he said, with a sadistic sort of triumph. "And if I hadn't taken action, it would have resulted in a far more . . . shall we say, memorable kiss. This is, of course, judging upon the boy's apparent infatuation with you. While personally I can't help but suspect that this is nothing more than wishful thinking on your part, I decided to take the necessary precautions." His mouth twisted into a smirk. "I was moved, perhaps, by the Christmas spirit."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that one, because honestly. "Oh, that's complete rubbish and you know it."

"Is it really?" he asked, eyes flashing.

"Yes," I said boldly, and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Then by all means, Auriga, do explain to me the true motivations behind my actions." He took a mocking step toward me. "Do they by any chance include a deeply buried passion? True love, perhaps?"

"Don't be stupid," I retorted, trying very hard to ignore the fact that my profoundly stupid heart had started beating far faster than usual. "You were angry and you weren't thinking and saw the mistletoe and you kissed me."

"Because I adore you desperately?" he asked, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "Tell me, am I consumed with secret wanting for you?"

"I hope not," I scowled.

"Of course," he said quietly, but he was still all smirky and smug and apparently completely convinced that I was desperately in love with him. I still don't understand how on earth that man can twist absolutely anything out of being his fault. It's hardly fair.

I sulked in silence for a few minutes before the aforementioned silence really started to creep me out a little.

"Well, now that we've got that all sorted out," I ventured, "what do we do? Victoria's not going to be back for ages."

"Splendid," he deadpanned.

"Oh, as if you had anything more important to do," I spat.

"Indeed," he responded sarcastically. "I can't think of a more thrilling way to spend the evening. Thank goodness your little friend came along and enslaved us."

"Well, what were you going to do?" I demanded. "Sit alone in the dark and think of ways to become more unpleasant?"

"A practice that pales in comparison to staring into space crafting even more elaborate scenarios in which scores more men fall desperately in love with you," he shot back.

"When are you going to shut up about that?" I exclaimed, glaring at him. "I don't think everyone's in love with me! In fact, it's something of a miracle that I've got a student and a house elf under my spell, as both of them should know better. There! Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," he drawled.

But just between you and me, Notebook, he did seem to sort of . . . lighten up a bit, after that. Honestly, I have no idea what goes on in his mind.

Nor do I want to know. Because that would imply that he interested me, which he doesn't, and I'm not going to continue this particular trail of denial, because it's quite late and I'm tired and I don't especially feel like making yet another epic profession about just how much I don't care about Severus Snape.

Which I don't.

By the way.

So, anyway, considering anything resembling a personal discussion was clearly doomed to fail, I decided to pursue a different subject. "How do you know Quirrell's a servant of You-Know-Who?"

He frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"It's just . . . I've been watching him," I answered, a bit awkwardly, "on account of how I know that he's evil and could very well kill us all at any moment, and . . . I just don't see it. He doesn't seem evil in the slightest! He gets afraid in the dark and refuses to drink alcohol and carries his beloved pet iguana everywhere, for Merlin's sake! It's just not evil behavior."

"Oh, really?" Snape asked wryly. "And what does constitute evil behaviour?"

"Swooping around like a great evil bat and being mean to people who are stuck in broom cupboards," I couldn't resist answering.

It was quiet for a moment, and then Snape said, "I never said he was a servant of the Dark Lord."

"What?"

"You jumped to that charming assumption on your own," Snape said. "In fact, I do not believe Slatero Quirrell has anything to do with You-Know-Who." He drew out the last three words a bit jeeringly, as though he thought it funny that I wasn't comfortable saying the name of the most horrific monster the wizarding world's ever known.

"Really?" I repeated, bewildered. "But . . . he's stealing the Stone. Couldn't he use it to restore life to You Know Who, if he still exists at all?"

"Most people aren't aware of that particular property," Snape commented. He almost seemed a bit impressed. "They're usually blindsided by the prospect of eternal life."

"I did a report on it for History of Magic in fourth year," I responded. "It stuck." Impatiently, I went on, "So couldn't he be doing that? Using it to bring him back?"

"Your mind leaps to ridiculous conclusions," Snape answered. "The Dark Lord is gone."

I took a breath, then asked, a bit unsteadily, "Is he?"

Snape glared at me. "Your melodramatics are hardly appropriate on this particular subject."

"But really," I pressed on. "It seems too easy, doesn't it? He goes up against a baby and that's that? Forever?"

It made me feel a bit sick, saying it out loud – because honestly, Notebook, there's a little part of me that's always wondered, but I've never quite been brave enough to say it aloud. Somehow, that makes it too real, and after living through You Know Who's first reign of terror – well, I really, really don't fancy the idea of a second one. And yet.

"There is no evidence to suggest he still exists," Snape said sharply.

"But—"

"Auriga," he snapped, "must you insist on complicating everything?"

"Sorry," I said – I could tell by the look on his face that it wasn't smart to continue on about it any longer. "So what do you think Quirrell's up to, then?"

"I believe he is out for glory, plain and simple," he responded bluntly. "It makes sense. He's a mediocre man, hardly impressive in any aspect. Imagine the exhilaration, the triumph in finally attaining such significance." His lip curled. "You of all people should understand that."

Normally, I'd have taken the time to get offended, but honestly, Notebook, at that point I was so interested in the conversation that I didn't bother. "So that's it? That's what you're basing all of this on?"

"It's no secret that he spent time with vampires in Germany," Snape said. "It's certainly enough to spark a fascination with eternal life."

And it made sense, I suppose, but something about it just didn't ring true.

"But then why did he curse Harry at that Quidditch match?" I asked. "If he's not working for You Know Who, then what on earth would he have against him?"

It seemed for a second like he wasn't going to answer me at all; his eyes sort of flashed, and his features seemed even more harsh than usual, somehow. But then he returned, quite quickly, to his normal level of unpleasantness, and started to speak.

"Harry Potter was nothing more than an infant when he destroyed perhaps the greatest wizard in history—"

"Except Dumbledore," I interjected automatically.

"Except Dumbledore," he allowed. "To a man whose entire life has been meaningless – whose very existence could very well fade into obscurity the very second it ended – it could ignite a resentment completely independent of the sides of a war, don't you think?"

"I don't know," I responded, frowning. "I don't see for a second how that can justify murdering a child."

"Well, then clearly you're a great deal more well-adjusted than one would think to look at you," he said after a moment's pause.

"Haha," I scowled.

He seemed to consider me for a second before observing, "You really haven't the slightest idea of what darkness can do to a human being."

"I suppose not," I answered, a bit irritated. "What – should I apologize or something, then?"

"No."

But the thing is, the way that he said it – it was like he wasn't Snape, or if he was Snape, he was talking to someone he didn't despise, which is impossible because Snape hates everyone and therefore, it was, in fact, like he wasn't Snape. He just said it truthfully, like he was genuinely . . . well, like he felt some sort of genuine emotion on account of the fact that I'm not completely corrupted by the dark side of things.

I really, really hate those moments where I can't help but wonder what went on when he was a Death Eater, and what drove him to it in the first place, and everything. It inevitably means that I have to hate him and pity him at the same time, in addition to the bizarre absolutely unromantic feelings that complicate everything already, and it is entirely too much for my poor addled brain to endure.

These were the types of thoughts I was putting up with at the time, and so I finally just forced myself to temporarily forget everything that had just happened.

"You know," I pointed out instead, "We didn't try Alohomora."

"Alohomora won't work," Snape said impatiently. He sounded exasperated with my ridiculousness, which was oddly comforting. "Vector might be a maddening self-obsessed shrew, but she isn't stupid."

"Just in case," I said, and retrieved my wand.

And, delightfully enough, the door popped right open.

Snape looked positively livid, which is usually enough to brighten up my entire life for an hour at least, but I couldn't quite shake the seriousness of the conversation we'd been having. We started off down the hall side by side, neither of us saying anything.

"So you really think it's Quirrell, then?" I couldn't help but ask (in a whisper, though – I'm not completely daft).

"Yes, I really think it's Quirrell," he whispered, clearly not exactly thrilled with me, "and you may stop meddling now."

"What if it's not?"

"Auriga—"

"Well, there's a possibility!" I insisted. "What if you're completely off-base?"

"I'm not," he said, gritting his teeth.

"What if you are?"

"I'm not—"

"But what if—"

Except then our potentially everlasting argument got abruptly interrupted by the sound of a great deal of wheezing as Filch sprinted very unimpressively down the corridor.

Snape immediately stood up a bit straighter, then glanced at me for a split-second; it was quite obvious that he suddenly didn't want me around. More than usual, I mean.

Filch didn't seem to share the same concern, because he announced, in that lovely crackly voice of his, "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library - Restricted Section."

"The Restricted Section?" Snape repeated, frowning thoughtfully. "Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."

And, well, I couldn't help but be horribly intrigued, Notebook! It was obvious that Snape thought it was Quirrell skulking around doing apparently-evil things, and this was my chance to finally see him at it. Because quite frankly, I don't think I'm going to be able to go on believing that he's as fiendish and desperate for glory as he apparently is just based on what Snape says. He seems perfectly nice, if a little bit shy to a near-psychotic degree, and there's something very depressing about living in mortal terror of a man who has an iguana called Herman just because. I wanted validation, damn it, and I was going to get it!

"Maybe I should—"

"No," Snape whispered fiercely.

"But—"

"Stay," he hissed, and then took off down the hall with Filch.

And I suppose I could have followed them, or something, but considering how (still platonically) frustrated he was with me, I wouldn't have put it past Snape to trip me, or use me as evil-Stone-stealing-fiend bait. And besides, it's not as though this is the only opportunity I'll have to find out more about Quirrell. In fact, I'm determined to get to the bottom of this!

It's not that he's not suspicious, or anything – except that, well, it is. Beyond the fact that he wears a turban, which is rendered quite unintimidating by the fact that it just smells strange, there is nothing conspicuous about the poor man. And quite frankly, it sort of seems like Snape is overidentifying just a bit. It's not as though I don't remember the way he was treated at school. And all of that about mediocrity and insignificance and desperation for glory? Well, I doubt that he was just making that up off the top of his head.

And Snape may understand what darkness can do to a human being, and refer to You Know Who as 'The Dark Lord,' and know everything about the dark arts, and look far more menacing in black, but there's a perfectly good chance that his judgment is clouded in these particular circumstances. For God's sake, he can't be trusted to save the entire school – not to mention the world at large – from the Stone Stealer Who May Or May Not Be Quirrell (But Personally, I Can't Help But Lean Towards Not)! Oh, no. Someone else is going to have to handle things this time around, and considering I seem to be the only person who's even noticed that something fishy is going on, I suppose it's going to be me.

And you know what, Notebook? That's just fine with me! In fact, it's spectacular! I may not be able to keep a man, or use a mascara wand, but this is a turning point for Auriga Jane Sinistra! No longer am I completely and utterly incompetent – oh, no.

I'm going to get to the bottom of all this, and the Stone Stealer Who May Or May Not Be Quirrell (But Personally, I Can't Help But Lean Towards Not) is going to rue the day they decided to try to rob Hogwarts School of the Philosopher's Stone.

Go on. Revel in my Gryffindor-esque bravery.

1:49 A.M.

OH, GOD, THE SPIDERS.