Wednesday September 9th, 8.23 PM

Yes, well. I am out of the closet (and I mean that in a very literal, non-homosexual way). I would prefer not to describe what led up to my exit. It is very painful for me to recall. Let me just say that it involved the three most loony people in the universe, a cat, a lobster, and the ghost of Oscar Wilde camping outside the cupboard door and alternating between karaoke and sharing ludicrously detailed past-relationship stories. Nothing could have induced me to run away so fast as Filch's singing voice or Dumbledore and Trelawney bonding over their last love affairs (not with each other, of course. . .I shouldn't have even brought that up. I have developed a twitch.), both of which occurred over thirty years ago. And now I am shuddering. Nothing is so bad for the nerves as this school, I can tell you. I need a 20-hour sleep and a new life. Perhaps one with a garden and pet peacocks.

Friday September 11th, 4.56 PM

Shoe shopping day has come again. I was hoping to avoid it for a few more decades, but Dumbledore has made a comment about my old ones that I cannot bear.

He said that they are just his style. And he is right, which, as you can imagine, makes me want to die.

You see, it's a very hard job finding shoes to fit my image. I can still remember the look on McGonagall's face when she saw me sweeping down the hall in bright white trainers. I thought that the person she had been talking to (Dumbledore) had just made a very good joke, and you can imagine what pleasure she took in correcting me.

"What is so funny?" I snapped, never one to miss a good joke.

"Your—feet," she wheezed, before falling over and knocking over a suit of armor, which then began to chase her in circles. Still, much as that amused me, the insult to my footwear would not be erased.

You know, now I realize, in retrospect that it was impossible for Dumbledore to have made a good joke. The funniest thing he has ever done was unintentional. It was about five years ago, when he tripped and slid down to my dungeon door, shouting all kinds of amusing profanities (the floor slants downwards). He also did the classic: he tried to get up again, but his feet came right out from under him and he fell back on his rear. I have never laughed so hard. And never will again.

But anyhow, my next pair of shoes I believe were those sort of sensible sandals with the Velcro strap round the back that let me feel the wind through my toes. Those, however, got a similar reaction from the sanity-challenged members of our staff (Sprout and McGonagall, who are never particularly friends until it comes to laughing at me. It is truly demoralizing to be laughed at by two old hags, one of which whose name matched her profession, which is so naff that it borders on criminal.) So the sandals as well were retired to the Closet of No Return, which also holds old eighties outfits and the purple wig that I used to be so fond of.

Then, for nearly six months last year I was able to get along barefoot, making sure only to wear my extra-long robes. It was very painful (walking to Hogsmeade—in the snow. That would not agree with anyone.).

But then there was the Noodle Incident, which is another fiasco that I will never disclose to even this most secretive book. I will take it with me to the grave. In any case, me and Dumbledore/McGonagall (because sometimes they sound so similarly irritating that they may as well just be the same person) had a row, so I stormed out of Dumbie's office in a very billowy-imposing way, sporting the pissed-off look to end all pissed-off looks. Unfortunately, the billowing got a little out of hand, exposing my bare (but perfectly pedicured) feet. Dumbledore yelled something completely ridiculous and off-topic about a dress code, and McGonagall just gasped. Many times. I thought she might have been dying, so I whipped around expectantly, but I was mistaken. She was merely expressing shock. How dare she express shock in so ambiguous a manner?

Well, as you can imagine, this only made me angrier, so I kicked the wall (breaking two toes, as I later found out), and limped off to the Hospital Wing, which sort of ruined the dramatic affect.

Still, I was not inclined to put on shoes until two week later when I overheard Minerva and Sabra (Sinistra) speaking:

"They were just so sexy," said Minerva, which in itself made me trip over myself and fall to the ground with a severe stomachache.

"His feet?" asked Sabra. I gagged. Quietly.

"Yes—oh, I can't explain it. It's very silly of me, but I've never seen better feet."

Sinistra paused, probably to throw up, as I was ready to do.

"Sorry, but Severus Snape? Sexy feet?" She paused again, while I went into spasms, "I guess I'll just have to see them for myself."

I ran.

And ran.

And ran, but of course in a non-feet-exposing way, which I imagine made me look like a skittish duck, which is why I never imagine for long.

Ever since then I have covered every inch of foot with a high-heeled, balck, silver-buckled boot. And unfortunately so does Dumbledore. So now I am off to that God forsaken, eyesore of a store. Hopefully it will not take my life.

A/N—Review if you like, review if you don't like!

Sorry it took me so long to come out with this. I have less and less free time, but I am determined to stick with this piece, as I am very fond of it. British People: If ever you have a helpful hint on how to britishize my dearest Snape, I would be so obliged. I know a ton of Brits, but I'm not one myself, so I can always tell how Americanized I sound. Ludicrous as it is, I'd like this to be as realistic as possible.

Thanks to all my past and future reviewers! You are the only people worth writing for!