Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Thanks once again to all the dahlings who have so graciously reviewed this little fic. Glad to know that you all are enjoying reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. And believe me, Snape torture is great fun.

Just a note. Destiny du Maurier belongs to the absolutely brilliant Milla (drama-princess). Haven't gotten enough Snape/Sinistra-ness here? Then go read her fabulously hilarious story Family Matters.

-Part Three-

4 September 1991

4:34 a.m.

Office

Sometimes I wonder why I waste my life thus... spending each day in dreadful monotony, teaching dimwits that could never tell the difference between wormwood and wormroot, nor would they care to tell, 'playing nice' with coworkers I despise, being hit upon by flying instructors, restraining myself from murdering Potter in his bed, being assaulted with coffeemugs...

I suppose it is due to the fact that I am supposed to feel guilty. Well, I do... but not nearly enough to submit myself willingly to daily torture. Voldemort was less cruel.

At least one of the Death Eaters was not named ... Destiny du Maurier. Gah. I loathed the woman. She actually described me as 'strands of silken oil spills smoothing in iridescent waves over pools of deepest, scintillating obsidian.' Then she had offered to share a batch of 'sepia-tainted muffins' with me in her chambers.

I had flatly declined, all the while gagging on my own bile. Which is not, by the way, a pleasant experience.

And they say I need a psychiatrist.

I'm going to bed.

4:55 a.m.

... I wonder what she meant by 'oil spills'?

5:10 a.m.

Bloody insomnia.

5:34 a.m.

I give up. I cannot concentrate, and without concentration, I cannot sleep. I heard Quirrell talking the other day in his classroom. What? I don't have the right to eavesdrop on the new teacher? After all, any incriminating information can be used to fire his arse and allow me to step in and show them how it's really done. Perhaps Albus will allow me to demonstrate hexes on volunteers. Preferably these volunteers will be from Gryffindor house. They are supposedly brave, after all. Perhaps they are stupid as well.

I volunteer Potter.

Anyway.

I was passing by Quirrell's rooms... slowly passing by, mind you, and overheard him talking. I suppose it was to that damned iguana of his. He told me that its name was Herman.

Loon.

Though I cannot understand why he would mention 'death', 'broomstick', and 'never know' to the sorry excuse for a pet. Ah well. This only solidifies my conclusion that he is mad. Or perhaps an evil agent of Voldemort.

Snort. Riiiiiiiiight.

And I'm in love with Sinistra.

6:02 a.m.

I just thought that I would clarify the last sentence I wrote. To just look at it without reading it in proper context, it might be taken to mean that I am physically and emotionally in love with that starry-eyed wench of a witch. Which I am not. NOT. If I feel anything at all towards her, it is merely my customary maliciousness.

I meant the words in sarcasm, you see. Like comparing the idea of that quivering idiot being in league with the Dark Lord to the idea of my desiring the dim-witted Astrology professor. (S-T-A-R. Honestly.)

Sarcasm. That was all I meant. Nothing romantic should be read into the last entry.

It was simply sarcastic.

Funny. I always thought that sarcasm was my strong point. Perhaps it simply does not have the effect on paper that it does when speaking. I should stick to sneering, I think.

Me in love with that frizzy-haired, ill-tempered wench?

Sneer.

6:29 a.m.

That didn't have quite the same effect either. Damn.

12:45 p.m.

Great Hall

Came for an early lunch before sneaking Albus' 'In Style' magazine back into his office. I wonder what else he has in there.

Wait no, not wonder as in "Ooh, I wonder what magazine I can borrow next."

Just... innocent wondering.

Right.

1:48 p.m.

On my way to Albus' office, I unfortunately passed Sinistra. I am slightly worried that she may have seen the magazine I was carrying. Little matter. She was probably too busy pondering the heavens (and their spellings, ha!) to notice.

Though I did notice that she had a copy of the author Gilderoy Lockhart's Bullshit with Banshees... or something to that effect. I read one of his works once... and found them disgustingly filled with self-portraits. I think I was nearly blinded by his teeth. By the Mark, no wonder he's one that damned Smile Award so many times... the judges are all so blinded by habitual viewings of his 'pearly whites' that they cannot see a thing save for the bright glare coming from the general direction of the man's mouth.

I'll bet she fancies him.

Probably sleeps with his picture by her bed.

Or under her pillow.

She's probably written him some disgusting love letter, declaring that 'their saccharine romance was written in calligraphic beauty across the venemous radiance of the star-studded night sky.'

Curse me. I'm recalling what was scrawled on the 'casual note' du Maurier left in my teacup. That is, what was written before I tore it to shreds and burned it. While she was watching.

I don't think she got the point.

Dense, that one was.

Maybe I should give Sinistra suggestions for her letter to the pompous author. Give him my regards.

And sympathy.

Don't think that I do not know about her obsession with ex-professor Sandersought. Because oh, I do.

Ha.

6:36 p.m.

Sinistra was humming to herself over dinner. I should know, I sit right next to the creature. And she was humming right in my ear. It was rather hard to miss.

The tune sounded strangely like "Spell on my Heart."

I wonder if she likes Celistina Warbeck too.