Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
The Confessions of Auriga Sinistra
Author's Note: Check me out – two updates in the span of one summer vacation? Surely, it's a miracle! (Let's ignore the part where I'm frightfully lazy and I pretty much suck.)
And regarding Deathly Hallows, I will be as vague as possible so as not to have to type the word 'SPOILER' six trillion times: yes, I am going to factor what we found out about Snape in eventually, because I loved it and it feels too important to just ignore. No, it should not change things too drastically.
-Part 25-
Thursday, December 26, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
3:40 P.M.
HONESTLY.
You know, just because you spent a bit of time locked in a broom cupboard alone with a man you are occasionally known to kiss or maybe throw things at certainly does not mean that anything romantic, racy, sexual, or profoundly kinky went on! We aren't a couple of hormonal sixth years, thank you very much!!
(And come to think of it, we were rather lucky that there weren't any in there. This school has a definite problem in that area. Maybe it's something in the water.)
But try telling that to Victoria, who fancies herself such a genius right now that I have reminded her six times that she forgot to do an anti-unlocking spell on the door – you know, just to remind her that she is imperfect like the rest of us. She seems to go mysteriously deaf whenever I do this, though, so I'm not sure how effective it's been. I refuse to give up trying.
You know, I really do wish Snape and I'd been in one of our throwing things phases a few days ago rather than the stupid kissing phase. (Do two occurrences count as a phase?) That way, none of this nonsense would have taken place, and she wouldn't have bothered to lock us in a cupboard in the first place.
Well, actually, she probably would have. She knows that I have quite the impressive aim with a coffee mug.
And, well, she and Snape really, really do not get along.
But that's not the point here.
The point is that she is driving me crazy.
Yes, all right, I suppose it might have been a mistake to be all mysterious about what we'd talked about, because obviously it would have made it sound like maybe some stuff went on that would not be out of place in the lyrics to one of Wimmy's favourite tunes, but I couldn't very well tell her about the Stone-stealing situation! And so instead I just kind of mumbled "nothinginterestinghappenedIswear" and stared at my shoes.
Maybe this is my fault, a bit.
Ooh, all right, she's just walked in.
Let's see if we can have a normal, civilized conversation. Maybe I am blowing this out of proportion, as I apparently tend to do.
3:50 P.M.
Aaaughh! Who does things like that?! In broom cupboards, no less! Is that all the rage in France?? Is it appropriate to utter those kinds of words out loud??
This is officially not my fault. This is the fault of one Victoria Vector and the fact that she is foul and twisted and lives to drive me insane.
Hmph.
Saturday, December 28, 1991
Teacher's Lounge
2:12 P.M.
All right, fine. I told her that Snape and I made out a little, just to appease her.
It was almost worth it to see her partake in a bunch of squealing and victory dancing. I know that she's my best friend and everything, and that I love her more than almost anyone else I know, but there are few things more delightful than seeing her look ridiculous. I figure I'm justified in feeling this way, considering everything that she's done to me.
And no, Notebook, there is no point in you reminding me that this is going to come around somehow, someday – probably sooner rather than later – and completely and utterly destroy me. I already know that very well, thank you. I knew it while I was saying it, too, but quite frankly, I happen to know that I'm impressively capable of withstanding that sort of thing. Such is not the case for being relentlessly nagged by Victoria Vector.
So there.
Sunday, December 29, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
3:35 P.M.
She told my mother?!??!!?!
Monday, December 30, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
11:32 A.M.
I am beginning to worry about my mother.
She's leaving tomorrow, you know! Her time is running out! She witnessed her distressingly frazzle-brained excuse for an offspring claim to be dating the man appointed the third most eligible bachelor in Witch Weekly Magazine, then make a very public display of "affection" (mind the quotes) with an antisocial cloaked fiend who is surrounded by jars filled with pickled cats at least fifty percent of the time, then apparently make out with him in a broom cupboard!! This is devastating on many, many different levels! This is me failing to seek out proper hair care heightened to the thousandth power!
And yet guess what she's had to say on the matter?
That's right – nothing.
WHY WON'T SHE DISAPPROVE OF ME?!
11:40 A.M.
Perhaps I ought to be enjoying this.
11:42 A.M.
Nope. Not going to happen. It's far too unsettling.
Tuesday, December 31, 1991
Bedroom Quarters
9:30 A.M.
The day is upon us. She's finally leaving.
And yet . . . ugh, Notebook, this is clearly further proof that I am irrevocably twisted and self-destructive, but . . . I'm almost disappointed.
Why hasn't she said anything?? Has she finally just decided that I'm far too much of a disappointment to endure, and she's just writing me off altogether? Do you know, it really figures: Lyra gets every member of the Weird Sisters tattooed across her back and gets a chuckle and a pat on the head, and then I make the perfectly innocent mistakes of keeping a lecherous house-elf around and standing too close to the man for whom the word 'bastard' was invented under the mistletoe, and find myself plucked right off the family tree.
Lovely.
To be honest, Notebook, a large part of me is determined not to care in the slightest, but, well . . . I do like Dad.
9:35 A.M.
Although, I suppose, if he happens to hear about Snape, he'll probably go completely mental and storm over to Hogwarts, overruling all the anti-Muggle protection with nothing other than sheer rage, and waste no time whatsoever in punching Snape in the face.
9:36 A.M.
Aww. Dad.
Wednesday, January 1, 1992
Bedroom Quarters
1:02 A.M.
Kissed Quirrell. Just kissed Quirrell. Snape is mean. Go away, Christopher. Kettleburn. So weird. SO WEIRD. Not good. Too drunk for more words. Quill feels strange. Heavy. Night.
9:00 A.M.
Ughhhhhh.
I hate New Year's Eve.
9:03 A.M.
A lot.
Teacher's Lounge
10:00 A.M.
All right, Notebook. I'm here. I'm showered. I'm alive-ish. I'm nursing my third cup of coffee in a fit of desperation. I'm not about to ask Snape for anything to make the thousands of little clog dancers in my brain take a bit of a breather, though, because he's decided to be especially foul lately. His wrath at Quirrell isn't lessening by any means – we'll get to that later; hurrah – and to make matters worse, a group of especially crafty fifth year Ravenclaws who stayed for the holidays look to have nicked a couple of bottles of compliance concoction. They apparently meant to use it on Snape in order to compel him to give them all perfect scores on their welcome-back-from-the-holidays-now-suffer-you-fools exam – which, honestly, I find admirable of them more than anything – but one of them chickened out and confessed the whole thing. In retaliation, Snape gave them each two weeks' worth of detentions and took away a collective 450 points, which lands Ravenclaw in the technically-impossible realm of negative-point territory. Still, if you think that that's enough to appease his rage, then you are desperately, desperately wrong.
Such a delightful fellow, that one. Needless to say, I'm choosing to stay away.
And, er, I suppose I should record everything that went on at last night's New Year's celebration in the Great Hall, reluctant as I am to . . . actually relive it. It is really just a universal fact of life that I should not be allowed near alcohol of any sort, let alone firewhisky, but I was feeling a bit stressed and reckless on account of Mum being so pointedly silent and Victoria repeatedly demanding a play-by-play of Snape's and my nonexistent closet snogging and Snape loathing humanity in general even more than usual on account of the Ravenclaw scheme. And well, there's only so much I can take.
Thankfully, I wasn't the only one indulging in the Ogden's: Hagrid and Flitwick got into a good-natured drinking contest, which is the sort of thing that one really wants to keep in their memory forever, even if the outcome was rather predictable. McGonagall was unleashing her customary sarcasm upon Trelawney even more vigorously than usual – another sort of thing that one wants to keep in their memory forever, as it so happens. Even Dumbledore was feeling jovial enough to wear the flowered bonnet he'd got out of the wizard's cracker on Christmas all night, although I suspect he mightn't have had anything to drink at all, and that was just him being Dumbledore.
So, the evening was passing quite pleasantly – Mum stayed away from me to smirk at McGonagall's Trelawney harassing and everything – until a few minutes to midnight rolled 'round.
"Professor!" came perhaps the most unwelcome voice possible. "Are you drunk?"
This was, I think, the third most unwelcome question Christopher Goldstein could have ever asked me, right after "Will you marry me?" and "Did you know that my poor mother's dying wish is for you to [insert some kind of deeply inappropriate, Victoria-approved practice here with me?"
And so I responded in the only way I possibly could have; simultaneously mustering up all my indignant fury and attempting to focus on his face long enough to give him a disapproving glare, I answered, "Of course not!"
"Oh," he said, sounding a bit disappointed.
Unfortunately, I followed this up by attempting to walk away and promptly falling over, which was apparently enough to negate the whole not-being-drunk possibility.
"Maybe a little tipsy," I amended.
"I can help you," Christopher offered at once, chipper as could be, and promptly yanked my arm away to loop it with his.
"That's okay!" I protested as valiantly as I could, attempting to swat him away so covertly that I couldn't actually get in trouble for manhandling a student. "I really—"
And then, of course—
"Oh dear," Snape said, appearing out of nowhere in particular with a smirk on his face. "What have we here?"
"Bugger off," I ordered, making an attempt at pulling my arm from Christopher's and subsequently almost losing aforementioned arm altogether.
"Language, Auriga," Snape answered, eyes glinting. "What are you teaching our impressionable students?"
It didn't take a genius, or even a remarkably sober person, to realize from the look on his face that he had stupid scathing Nabokov references positively erupting in his detestable brain.
"I was just helping Professor Sinistra," Christopher said, innocently as could be.
"Which you probably don't approve of in the slightest," I was quick to add. "What do you think, Professor Snape? Detention?"
"For helping a teacher?" Snape repeated, unconvincingly feigning surprise. "Goodness no, I think not. In fact, Goldstein, five points to Ravenclaw."
This really says a lot about the nature of our relationship, when one pauses to consider his current vendetta against Ravenclaw. Sure, he might be so furious with them that he will do everything in his power to punish them to a near wildest-dreams-of-Argus-Filch-esque degree, but, when it all comes down to it, my suffering is still his top priority.
Touching, that.
"I hate you," I informed him as ardently as I could.
"Professor Sinistra, perhaps you ought to work on setting a better example for your students," Snape finished, in all his merciless, sardonically smirking glory. "Good evening."
Which really would have been quite fine and dandy with me, except at that precise moment, everyone started counting down the seconds 'til midnight. And, well, I was still essentially arm-in-arm with my boy-Lolita, and damned if I was going to let Snape walk away, smirking and carefree, while I was forced to endure what would unquestionably be the worst liplock of my life.
Well, maybe the second worst.
Third worst.
"TEN – NINE – EIGHT –"
And so I sort of attempted to fight my way through the crowd after Snape, dragging a very merry Christopher along—
"Snape – wait – damn it, Snape—"
He didn't, shockingly.
"—SEVEN—SIX—FIVE—"
"Don't worry, Professor! I've got you!" Christopher assured me, a positively lecherous grin across his face. "And I'm not letting go, either!"
"—FOUR—THREE—TWO—"
"A—Auriga?" The tap on my shoulder was just about the most welcome bit of physical contact I've ever received, and no, that is not the sort of thing that should be contemplated after the end of this sentence. "I was w—w—wondering if I might h-have a wor—"
"Thank you," I said fervently, and threw myself into the arms (and onto the lips – er, with mine, you know; not in general) of Slatero Quirrell.
10:16 A.M.
Well, now, don't look at me like that, Notebook. I was desperate. It was either Quirrell or Goldstein, considering Snape apparently only yields to holiday-related kissing traditions when it suits him, and quite frankly, Quirrell definitely comes off as the more appealing of the two. Funny-smelling turban and all.
Thankfully, more or less everyone was enduring their own kissing adventure of some sort, and nobody seemed to notice. Well, nobody save for Christopher, whose arm was still looped through mine, Quirrell, who obviously couldn't have missed much, and Snape, who was watching from afar with an especially pronounced scowl.
"Er," I said, as casually as I could, and tried to shake Christopher off. "Happy New Year."
"Y-y-yes," Quirrell answered, his eyes big enough to resemble a house elf's. "L-likewise."
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
Quirrell cast a rather hasty glance in Snape's direction, then answered, "N—nothing. Goodnight."
It was clear – or at least somewhat recognizableish through my firewhisky-induced haze – that this had something to do with Snape's belief that Quirrell is the antichrist's especially greedy cousin, which immediately piqued my curiosity. I watched Quirrell scamper off, and was just about to trail after him, only to find that Christopher was still attached to my arm in a way that might make a Permanent Sticking Charm a bit envious.
I was a bit impatient at this point, not to mention losing all of the feeling in my arm, and snapped a touch impatiently, "Did you want something, Christopher?"
"No," he said, with a rather morose sigh, and wandered off. However, I'm not quite sure I truly believe that being mere inches away from me as I kissed Slatero Quirrell with reckless abandon is going to be enough to get rid of his infatuation with me. I am far too jaded for that kind of optimism.
At least I'm temporarily free.
Probably.
Anyhow, things were blissfully uneventful for the next half hour or so until everyone started heading off to bed. In an attempt to avoid Mum (who, granted, probably didn't even give a damn that I'd locked lips with yet another vaguely freakish Hogwarts staff member, but just in case), I took a detour down one of the emptier corridors and found myself across the hall from an abandoned classroom that Snape just so happened to be ushering Quirrell into. I crouched down behind one of the suits of armor and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.
"Quirrell – might I have a word?" Snape asked. And, all right, writing them here, they don't seem particularly menacing, but honestly, Notebook, I shivered once or twice in fright, and I wasn't even his target! You see, with Snape, it isn't the words that matter – it's the sinister message laced within them. And in this case, "Quirrell – might I have a word?" can be roughly translated to I hope you told your iguana you loved him before you left, because guess what? You might not live another day to impugn his reptilian masculinity.
Quirrell, naturally, was distressed. "I'm quite t-t-tired, actually, Severus, and I-I—"
"Oh, it will only take a moment." That's right; there's a good chance you'll die here, cowardly turban-wearing scum.
"I—"
"I must confess myself curious about your recent activities." I see through you like a piece of glass, and I can kill you where you stand with nothing more than the tone of my voice. "The Restricted Section, Quirrell?" Nothing more. Than the tone. Of my voice.
"I – I d-don't know what you—"
"Harry Potter performed admirably in the first Quidditch match, did he not?" You know, that time that you tried to kill him, much like I am going to do you.
"Y-yes, c-certainly, but—"
"It would be remarkable, wouldn't it, to possess that inherent skill for glory?" I understand every interworking of your mediocre, fiendish mind, and will not hesitate to use it against you.
"I d-don't know what you're—"
"Of course you don't." Yes you do. "Just know that I am onto you, Quirrell. Tread carefully." Bitch.
And then he was gone, leaving Quirrell to stand there alone and look utterly and completely miserable, like he didn't quite understand what he'd done to deserve winding up on Severus Snape's bad side. And if he is as evil as Snape says he is, he sure does an impressive job of hiding it, Notebook: he looked genuinely chilled to the bone, and it wasn't as though there was anyone there to witness it.
Well, except for me, but I can be quite stealthy when I need to be, thank you.
Except for the part where I sort of failed to notice that I was, in fact, not the only person there to witness it.
Oh, shut up. I was smashed-ish, remember.
"Auriga?"
I turned to find Kettleburn there, his harsh features creased in a frown.
"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding very much like he might have if I was a student who had just accidentally snapped a bowtruckle in half.
"Oh, just, er, clinging to this suit of armor," I answered, quite nonchalantly. Let no one say I can't think on my feet.
He just eyed me skeptically, though, all 'You genuinely expect me to believe that this bowtruckle decided to break itself into two, then?' (Not that I speak from personal experience back in my own schooling days. Most certainly not.)
"Really?" he asked, his quizzical raising of his left eyebrow not at all impaired by the gigantic scar running through the middle of it.
"I'm quite drunk," I added as sincerely as I could.
Apparently, even that wasn't explanation enough for him. "Are you sure you weren't eavesdropping upon the conversation going on in that classroom?"
"Maybe that too," I confessed, deciding there wasn't much else I could do considering the circumstance. "A little."
Strangely, he actually seemed to take personal offense to this, which I still can't quite figure out. He's never shown any particular attachment to either Snape or Quirrell (except for the drunken "sweetheart" incident); really, who could blame him? "Not particularly considerate behaviour, now, is it?"
"I'm sure they won't mind," I answered lamely.
"Oh, really?" Kettleburn demanded, on his way to irate now. "Shall we ask them?"
"That's unnecessary," I informed him, trying to sound pacifying and mostly just managing to come off as ineffective and drunk. "Really, Professor, it's nothing—"
"You think that's all right, then, don't you?" he asked furiously, accidentally giving the suit of armor a bit of a punch in the face in the middle of his emphatic gesturing. "Spying on the private business of your coworkers?"
Considering Kettleburn and I have never had much interaction not of the 'How about the weather today, hmm?' and 'Really, I am sorry about that bowtruckle' variety, I wasn't exactly sure how I was supposed to respond to this very random psychotic outburst. "No, of course not! It's just that this is sort of a – a special situation, and—"
"I'm unimpressed, Auriga," he cut in angrily. "That's hardly displaying any sort of respect for us."
"Hold on a minute – I didn't mean—"
"Who's next? Minerva? Dumbledore, maybe?"
"Of course not!" I cried. "I just – come on, surely you must know about Snape and I – I spy on him and he steals my sweater and it all balances out very nicely—"
"SWEATER THIEVERY??" he boomed. "IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF??"
"Um," I replied, "yes?"
He looked for a second as though he was going to actually explode; then, luckily, he seemed to decide against it. He took a couple of deep, indignant breaths before saying, very sharply, "Lovely. Just lovely. Goodnight."
Then he spun around and walked away.
"Goodnight, then," I called rather weakly after him.
So, in addition to my other not-so-savory accomplishments, I am now responsible for having driven the normally pleasant Care of Magical Creatures professor completely mad with my inebriated eavesdropping-type ways.
And I thought that I couldn't get any more offensive than the Whore of Hogwarts.
And of course, Snape and Quirrell couldn't very well miss his little outburst – Snape, of course, went into angry sneering overdrive at discovering my presence there, pausing to mutter "Typical" at me before swooping off into the night. Or, er, well, down the hall, I suppose.
Quirrell just stared at me for a moment, looking frightfully torn, before giving a sort of hopeless shrug and scampering off in the opposite direction.
So now, not only do I have to deal with the renewed wrath of Snape, who has discovered that I dare not to take his word as law and am actually attempting to understand things for myself – oh no, there's the added complication that Kettleburn might very well start snapping his own bowtruckles and blaming it on me out of vengeance. Not to mention poor Quirrell, who I can't help suspecting hopes I'll protect him from Snape. And might also think that I'd like to sleep with him.
And in addition to all of that, there is, of course, the hangover.
Blargh.
And Mum.
Blaaaargh.
4:55 P.M.
The good news: she's gone.
The bad news: she approves.
I just . . . I don't . . . what am I supposed to do with this information?? Is she serious, or is this all some cruel, manipulative joke that only makes sense in her freakishly brilliant, I-practically-understand-the-interworkings-of-Albus-Dumbledore's-brain mind??? Because quite frankly, if that's the case, it's a little unfair, don't you think?? Yes, I was in Ravenclaw, but it's still a little much to ask.
Maybe she didn't mean it at all. Maybe it's just . . . revenge, for Paul breaking that vase of Gran's when he came home with me for the Christmas holidays, or for me keeping Wimmy around. I knew I should have told him to lie low after the Santa Baby incident, I knew it!
Er, Wimmy, I mean.
Although come to think of it, I suppose that does apply to Paul as well.
Well, either way. Oops.
But still! I can't quite bring myself to believe that that gives her the right to do this.
And, okay, Notebook, I guess we've reached the point where I should probably tell you what, precisely, 'this' is. But I warn you – it's shocking and unsettling and disgusting and a number of other adjectives that convey that particular sense of horror. So just . . . be warned. And hold me, possibly, because I am suddenly in need of quite a bit of emotional support.
All right. So, Mum finally decided that she had to be going, and I, the dutiful daughter that I am, volunteered to go with her down to Hogsmeade for a bit so we could stop in at The Three Broomsticks for a drink and then she could Apparate on home. All the while, she chattered airily on about the state of things at Hogwarts, wondering politely-yet-disdainfully whether Trelawney was "quite fit to be teaching" – for once, something we agree upon – and commenting that Kettleburn seemed much jumpier than usual. (I remained conveniently silent during this part.) Almost unsurprisingly by that point, she didn't as much as come close to mentioning a certain dark and greasy sporadic kisser. I tried to pretend that some part of me wasn't waiting for her to, because honestly, with her perhaps twenty minutes from being out of my way at least 'til summer, I didn't want to accidentally compel her out of silence with the fact that Snape was lingering behind my irises.
Or, er, maybe another sentence that sounds a bit less Destiny du Maurier.
So, we stopped in and got a couple of Butterbeers; as we sat down, the conversation shifted to Mum's very favourite topic, the criticizing of my appearance. Within approximately twenty-seven seconds, I was so irritated that I sort of wanted to hit something. It was strangely comforting, though. Familiar. Of course, now I can't help but suspect that she was just attempting to lull me into a false sense of security. Right after a four-minute lecture concerning how easy Sleekeazy's is, if only one is willing to show the proper hair care initiative, she just sort of fell silent for a moment and then said, frowning slightly, "Darling?"
Annoyed as I was, I responded with a rather snappish, "Oh, what now?"
Very crisply, as though this was something that had to be said rather than something that would shatter the foundation of my existence, she answered, "Love is often blind. Perhaps it's best to just acknowledge that."
Needless to say, this resulted in me spilling butterbeer all over myself in shock.
"What on earth is that supposed to—"
"Kisses!" She chirped quickly, threw a couple of air kisses in my direction across the table, and Apparated away, sudden as you please.
And so there I was, alone and dripping with butterbeer, left to come to terms with the most mystifying realization I have ever had to endure.
. . . My mother approves of Snape and I. My mother. My mother hasn't approved of anything related to me since that fateful instance when I was four and, in the act of dressing myself for the first time, chose my blue jumper over my pink one.
If I didn't know better, I'd think the two of us were destined to an unnatural degree.
5:02 P.M.
I do.
Y'know, know better.
Just for the record.