Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron
Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape
Author's Note: Wanted to thank everyone once again for their overwhelming support of this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. Now on with the Snape-torture.
-Part Four-
5 September 1991
Chambers
6:45 p.m.
Bloody boring day. No more assaults by breakfast dinery. Nor lunch nor dinner.
Pity.
She must be losing her touch.
Or perhaps she has a new conquest.
I believe Quirrell is single. (If you discount his rather disturbing obsession with Herman, his iguana, as being single.)
Sneer.
That's a laugh. Quirrell and Sinistra. Nearly as amusing as the idea of myself with the dingy old bat. No wait, that would not be amusing. That would be disgusting. VERY disgusting. I'm not going to dwell on that twisted concept any longer than absolutely necessary.
Goodnight.
7:31 p.m.
She's probably desperate enough to attempt a relationship with Quirrell, Herman and all.
7:34 p.m.
Why am I still dwelling on it?
7:36 p.m.
But really, she is absolutely unbear... no. Nevermind. I'm going to bed.
7:40 p.m.
She... nothing. Nothing about Sinistra. I don't care about her. I do not dwell on her unbelievably frizzy hair or the pair of mismatched socks she wore this morning or the way her glasses sit on her nose. They are always crooked. Always. It makes me want to reach over and straighten them for her. Doesn't she know they have spells for that sort of thing? It's very... distracting.
I don't know how anyone can concentrate during conversations with her.
I cannot.
7:52 p.m.
Because of the glasses, mind you.
Don't get any funny ideas.
7:59 p.m.
Sneer.
Does it really look that unintimidating in real life?
...
I'm going to bed. Really.
6 September 1991
Teacher's Lounge
9:46 a.m.
I have just been asked by Albus to formulate one of the means to guard the Philosopher's Stone. Perhaps I should involve Potions. Or would that be too... cliché? But I suppose one must do what they are best at, and it is painfully obvious that among all these half-wits I am most skilled at Potions (among many and sordid other talents I have).
But even with all my reputable skill and abilities, I have always been passed over for honours such as this before. Perhaps I am finally getting my due. But what to do?
...
That rhymed.
As the silly Muggle children say, I'm a poet and... by the Mark, I can't even write it without feeling idiotic.
Bah.
10:53 a.m.
Wait a moment...
A rhyme!
Potions and a rhyme to go with them.
Sometimes I surprise even myself.
Okay, I lie. I'm not surprised. I always knew I possessed an affinity for the written arts. Poe's works are my favorites. He had a rather delightful morbidity, I must say. I admire him for it. I have even crafted a few of my own rhymes. Observe.
When you're head of Slytherin
The points you can deduct
From Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff
In any year you please.
But best of all is Gryffindor
Those sniveling little worms
They think they're all so valiant
But very soon they'll learn.
When they come to Potions class
I'll take away their smiles
And make them cry like children
They'll wish they'd never been born, ha!
That is one of my favorites. There is also the one that I wrote yesterday called "Die, Potter, Die," but... perhaps that can wait for another time. I must set to work now.
Now let me see... the challenge shall be this: The victim... er... individual, will step into a room. Flames will immediately engulf both doorways... different colours for going forwards and back. And then there will be different vials. They will contain different liquids. Hmm. Two would obviously be for going forwards or backwards. The others... nettle wine, which would be useless so that the trespasser would be burned horribly should they try to cross the flames.
I like that idea.
And the others...
...
Poison.
Perfect.
5:11 p.m.
Chambers
Plan has been approved by Albus. There will be seven vials, with the aforesaid four liquids contained within. Now to work on the rhyme. There should be something about... danger. Yes, for a fear factor.
Your inevitable doom lies waiting, so don't try to escape Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would... (damn, what rhymes? bind? grind? FIND.) find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker... to his death! er... back instead,
Two among our number hold only cheap wine... nettle wine,
Three of us are killers...
...What the hell rhymes with wine?
5:56 p.m.
Fine. ... no.
Rhine?
Isn't that a river?
6:30 p.m.
Tine. That's a part of a fork, I know.
Three of us are killers that will leave you impaled upon a tine.
Gah.
8:30 p.m
We held the yearly "Which First Year Students Will End Up Together" bet today at the staff meeting. Normally I do not participate in such tomfoolery, but the year I felt inclined to win millions by wagering a hundred Galleons on Harry Potter meeting his doom before he left Hogwarts.
For some reason, the rest of the staff thought I was morbid and wouldn't allow it.
They're just jealous that they didn't think of the idea first.
But before I could point this blatant fact out, Albus decided to open his mouth and bet on myself and Sinistra.
If it wasn't for the fact that I owed my life to that candy-addled fool, I would have made him regret ever putting my name with that wench's in such a manner. I do believe I would rather kiss Destiny du Maurier than that starry-eyed twit.
9:03 p.m.
I take that back.
I really, really do.
Shudder.
At least Sinistra does not spout foolish phrases about our love being a rug or some ridiculous nonsense like that.
But honestly. Sinistra and I?
Ha.
As if that will ever happen.
It won't.
And I'm glad of it.
I still cannot believe Albus would pull that ridiculous joke. He was just throwing his money away for a laugh. That's all. He's never serious, that man. I cannot see how he manages to run an entire school.
Sinistra and I.
Ugh.
7 September 1991
12:35 p.m.
Great Hall
Wine.
Wine.
It must rhyme with something sensible. Besides tine, which I have definitely ruled out.
Wine.
Sign.
Three of us are killers, but we're not labeled with a sign.
I have the urge to throw this book in the mashed potatoes.