Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron
Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape
Author's Note: Yes, it's been bloody long enough. Nita convinced me to write again. Otherwise, she would probably attack me. Or something. So, without further ado... here is part seven. Enjoy, won't you?
-Part Seven-
12 September 1991
Chambers
4:10 p.m.
Ah. Am back from another thoroughly stimulating day of classes. I sometimes wonder how a full-blooded wizard can be so completely inept. It boggles the mind. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, is a fine, brilliant example in wizardry. He... oh, what am I doing? I needn't lie about it here. It isn't as if Lucius is going to come waltzing along and read my dia... account of my life. It's hidden quite well, thank you... unlike the diaries of certain starry-eyed twits. So I may say quite candidly that I despise the pompous, self-righteous child, and his whole family.
There. That felt good.
Must be part of the 'expressing your anger' bullshit they talked about.
Hmm. I might need to try that more often.
Speaking of diaries, however... I do believe that I am still in possession of Auriga's ridiculous writings. Those should be good for another laugh.
...
Even if I have read them four times.
But nevermind.
Excuse me while I fetch them.
4:18 p.m.
They must be around here somewhere...
I put them on my desk this morning after... er... flipping through them again.
What? They're good nighttime reading. Bloody boring, really. Put me right to sleep. That's why I read them so often. Because I've had trouble sleeping lately, you know. I mean, I suppose I could be conventional and just use a potion. But what am I, a machine? I can't just create potions at the drop of a hat. I have a life you know.
Okay, maybe not. But that's beside the point.
The point is...
...
...
The point is that I cannot find her damn diary.
4:30 p.m.
WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS IT?
4:33 p.m.
Breathe, Snape. Just breathe. You're just suffering from withdrawal... or something less pathetic.
...
And you're talking to yourself. But that's okay.
4:35 p.m.
But where the fuck is it?
4:40 p.m.
I mean, honestly. Who in their right mind would find a way to waltz into my personal rooms, go through my private possessions, and not steal any of my things beside a miserable, ratty notebook?
...
Sinistra.
...
That bloody wench was In. My. Rooms.
How DARE she? The nerve! That is breaking and entering. Well, at least entering. She probably got that star-struck, half-blind excuse of a House Elf to let her in. You know, the one that wants to jump her.
...
Shudder.
Twitch.
Sneer.
I did not need that mental picture. Really, I didn't. It's quite disgusting, the way he looks at her. Doesn't he know that interspecies relationships are just... wrong? I mean, look at Quirrell and his bloody iguana. I don't know what he does with that thing, but quite frankly, I don't want to know. I'd prefer that some things just remain secret. But really, Albus should make some rules about abnormal sexual practices with animals and House Elves. Normal wizards, like myself, would sleep a lot better knowing that Aurig... that others were sleeping alone and not with... House Elves.
Er, anyway.
Not that I'm focusing on this or anything.
I'm just... upset.
Yes. Upset.
About her parading around in my quarters like she was the bloody queen of Hogwarts. Which she is far from. And she had no right to be in here. I should go straight to Albus and inform him of this infraction of rules. There are locks on doors for a reason, you know. She was the one who threw away the bloody diary in the first place. It isn't my fault that I just... happened upon it. Finders keepers, isn't that what they say?
I miss it.
...
I mean, I miss be able to read it and prove to myself what an absolute twit she is and how I'm glad that I cannot stand to be around her... and her glasses... and her frizzy hair... and her multiple references to me as a bastard. The repetition actually was quite charming... erm... in a completely twit-ish way.
I don't miss her, in case you were wondering. I rather don't have to, as I am unfortunate enough to see her all the bloody time. And her glasses and hair and mismatched socks and... and... and besides, I just saw her this morning. And that one time when we passed each other in the hallway and she stuck out her tongue at me. Which was completely childish and not endearing at all. And...
Oh, God. I do miss her.
What is wrong with me?
5:11 p.m.
I mean, really. There is something seriously wrong.
I can't go to dinner in this condition. Merlin knows what I might do.
5:14 p.m.
I am rather hungry though.
5:15 p.m.
What could hurt? I'll simply... sneer a lot. Yes, that should throw her off the track.
Sneer.
Ha. Take that.
She'll never know.
And then this temporary insanity will go away, like the last time (and the times before that) and no one will be the wiser. Perfect.
Teacher's Lounge
8:50 p.m.
Idiots, all of them. Stupid, blind, ignorant, damnable idiots.
Why in hell would anyone make Harry-bloody-Potter SEEKER for Quidditch?!!! The boy is an accident waiting to happen! Do they want to kill the other students by putting the scarred menace on a broomstick? Oh, naturally, since he's James Potter's son, we should bestow every possible honour on him the moment he glances our way. Let's reward him for breaking the rules about flying when a professor wasn't around. But let's make fun of the poor Slytherin boy who no one likes or would bother to understand. He's different, let's turn his hair pink and make fun of his nose. Sounds like fun.
...
Hmm... I digressed a bit into the past for a moment there. But I'm good now. I'm fine. Perfectly fine.
Bloody Potter.
I hope he falls off his broomstick.
9:37 p.m.
I hate him.
...
Obviously.
But still, I wouldn't want anyone to forget.
Oh, for Merlin's sake... good night.
13 September 1991
Classroom
10:05 a.m.
Who would send her flowers? Let me correct that. Who in their right mind would send Auriga Sinistra flowers? Hell, I wouldn't do it and I am obviously not in my right mind at the moment.
She can't have a secret lover. Look what she did to Sandersought. She frightens all sane men away. Dammit, Quirrell's probably even scared to go near her, and he doesn't even know that she tried to seduce him/me... you know what I mean.
I miss being sane. I really, really do. Now, I have lost all pleasure in taking points from Harry Potter and Company. Well... almost all. And that's still pretty bad. But all I can think about is her ridiculous hair and those bloody glasses. I swear, I'm going to perform an Invisi-Eye Spell on her (a far better thing than those ridiculous Muggle contacters... retractors... cotants? Whatever.) and buy her a lifetime's supply of Sleekeazy's. Then she wouldn't be so distracting.
She also wouldn't be... her.
Oh my God, what is wrong with me?
Back to the flowers. Not that I'm focusing on them or anything, or that I'm jealous. Besides, they were horrid. If I would happen to send anyone flowers (not that I'm going to send any, and especially not to her. I have plenty of other persons I could send them to. Like... like... um... well... like my mother. I could send flowers to my mother. People do that all the time. It's a special thing to do. Of course, my mother and I haven't spoken in two years. But I could still send them, even if she would throw them in the dust bin the moment she got them.), I would not send anything quite so horrid. The stench was disgusting.
Whoever sent them must have lost his nose in some freak accident or spell gone awry.
Please, refrain from any 'nose' jokes.
Hell, you're a journal. You can't make jokes.
That must be why I like you so much.
That's it. I like you and not Sinistra. Because really, who would like her? Not me. Some poor soul with no nose likes her. He's probably blind too. Or maybe he has glasses. Yes. Wouldn't that be sweet? They probably sit around, with both their glasses sliding down their noses, talking about the stars. How touching. He probably doesn't read her Shakespeare or play her sonatas.
...
Not that anyone would do that, mind you. Certainly not me.
Sneer.
Chambers
12:18 p.m.
I'll bet that he sent her flowers today to arrange for some secret rendezvous today. Naturally, it would be during the day, since she teaches in the middle of the bloody night. How unromantic. He's probably on Hogwarts grounds this very minute, pretending to be interested in a place of education for his nonexistent child. Then, casually, Sinistra will happen by on one of her pointless walks around the castle, bump into him and whoever is giving the tour, and offer to take over. And then, just when no one's expecting... it's up to the Astronomy Tower.
Why am I visualizing this? Why why why why why?
Because I'm sick. I'm incurably and hopelessly sick and I need serious help before I do something I'll regret.
8:58 p.m.
Too late.
Damn.
9:03 p.m.
Oh, I suppose you want to know, do you? You sick, sick... journal?
Well, I won't give you the satisfaction.
But really, I didn't mean to go to her quarters. I didn't. I mean, why would I possibly want to see where she spends her nights? Er... her... nights and days. Just because she felt it necessary to violate my personal living area does not mean that I wish to return the favour. Far from it.
Yes.
Right.
9:14 p.m.
Fine.
I will tell you.
If only to prove to myself that this was nothing of my own doing. You see, I had it all planned perfectly. I was going to go visit Victoria Vector (Forget the fact that we both hate each other. It could be a secret guise for our unknown love. Snort. Right. What a ridiculous idea. Who would pretend to hate someone just because they secretly wanted to spend the rest of their lives together? Bah.), you know, to take my mind off of Sinistra. Why shouldn't I pay her a call? She is attractive, well-educated, eloquent, tasteful, and... yes, I know I haven't a chance in hell. But still.
Well, on my way to her quarters, I happened to pass by Sinistra's.
...
Okay, so her rooms are completely opposite each other's. I took a wrong turn, alright?
Anyway, as I was walking by, I heard her talking.
I knew at that moment that my suspicions were correct. She was, at that very moment, snogging a handsome, rich wizard... or, you know, the former example of the blundering blind, noseless man. I personally prefer that one. Better to have a slightly oversized (shut up, just... oh, right. Journal.) nose than none at all.
I don't quite know what came over me. But before I knew what was happening, I had raised my hand and knocked on the door. I rather don't know what I expected to find. Her, half-dressed, wrapped in a scandalous embrace with the noseless son-of-a-bitch (who was beginning to look, in my mind, more and more like Gilderoy Lockhart), her cheeks flushed, her hair down...
Oh, God, I need a cold shower.
Or a drink.
Or... something.
Needless to say, I did not find her in a compromising position. She arrived at the door, fully dressed, at which moment I swooped inside in a very commanding manner (sneer and all, which was back up to its usual surliness after a brief moment of weakness during the flowers incident) in order to catch the bastard before he made his getaway.
... He hides well, that one.
And she tried to frighten me away before I found him, by threatening me with... coffee mugs.
I wasn't scared, of course. Oh, no. I mean, why would I be scared of a... coffee mug? The entire concept is absurd. But I decided to indulge her. But oh, I showed her. I left her with quite the biting remark.
I said, and I quote, "But let me warn you, Auriga, this man is bound to come to his senses sooner or later. Not everyone puts up with you as well as I do."
So ha.
9:46 p.m.
Okay, so maybe the statement didn't come out quite the way I intended. That last little part slipped out at the end. I didn't mean to say it.
Really.
It's not like I want to put up with her.
I just... do.
Oh, who am I kidding? I don't know how I manage to fool bloody Voldemort if I can't even convince a journal that I do not have this rather... unhealthy... condition.
Yes, a condition.
What did you think I was going to call it, hmm? Are you insinuating something?
Ten points from...
Oh, bloody hell.