September 1st, 11.30 PM
The beginning of the year is. . .er. . .beginning. Miserable feast, miserable castle, miserable day, as always.
Miserable dungeon as well. I have three leaks already, and they never fail to drip right on my head. Right on my part, too. They have aim, if I'm not much mistaken.
Oh yes, and Potter is here. He's here. I knew it was coming, I just didn't realize it was coming. When I first got a look at him I had twelve minor heart attacks, one stroke, and a total loss of control of my face (eyes popping out (probably on springs), nostrils flaring, and mouth hanging open). I hope no one noticed. I have an image to keep up, after all.
The entire student body and most of the staff had a dithering fest as Potter walked up to the Hat. I gave him my Tears-Inducing Glare with a touch of menacingly raised eyebrow. One of my better ones, I if I do say so myself. The Piss-In-Trousers-Inducing Glare would have left a nasty smell to eat my dinner by. It didn't matter, though, because he didn't notice, blockheaded as he undoubtedly is. I hate it when people don't notice my glares. It makes me wonder if life is worth living, which is not a good thought when you are about to start the school year and life is inevitably not worth living by any standards.
Anyhow, Potter became a Gryffindor. Typical. Just like his father. And mother. And whole damned extended family. He probably has the wit, charm, and amiability of his father as well (i.e.-none at all). Oh this is infuriating!
I must make a list.
Reasons Why Potter Will Be Diagnosed With One Or Two Mental Diseases By The Age Of Twenty:
1) He was sorted into Gryffindor (maybe Slytherin has all the evil power-sucking murderers, but Gryffindor yields 78% of the Hogwarts loonies, studies state).
2) I was talking with someone. It must have been Quirrel because I remember feeling particularly sour. Anyway, my mind was gallivanting through the Doors of Boredom, so I looked down at the students and I caught eyes with Harry, after which he promptly smacked himself on his stupidly scarred forehead. That can't be normal behavior, even for a Potter.
Gah! I can't think of any more! No matter, they will come. I must breathe.
Oh yes, I asked Dumbledore again yesterday why he felt I was not appropriate for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job in his eyes, when he clearly feels that a quivering mass of turbaned nothingness is. Actually, I didn't really ask him. I took all of his fuzzy socks hostage (harder than you would think; he had them in a sealed chamber guarded by a troll) and threatened to feed them all to the Giant Squid if he didn't fire Quirrel immediately.
He smiled, probably because he knew nothing alive would ever consent to eat his socks, and called me gay. Actually he said something like, "Severus you should find yourself a nice boy to settle down with and give up these fruitless obsessions. You may do whatever you like with my socks." Then he gave me an eye-twinkling smile, put me in a full body bind and threw me (quite literally) out of his office. He's got hefty arms for an old worm in a pointy hat.
Cocky old man. I hope his eyes twinkle out of his sockets. I spent the rest of the evening burning most of his socks in my fire. It left an awful smell that is still lingering like two lingering lingerers in lingerie. Horrid. Eventually I realized that I should stop, so I took the remaining socks and hid them on the forbidden third floor. Dumbledore will never look there, since he knows that "Fluffy" is after his blood since he stole its tambourine. Ha. I am almost smiling. . .but not quite, mind you.
A/N—I wrote this a while ago and never posted it. I hope you like it! There's more coming soon. Please review!