Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit (Chapter 1)
Title: Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit
Chapter: 1 - Concerning Centaurs, Sad History, and Dungeon-Dwelling Morons
Character/Pairing: Auriga Sinistra; Snape/Sinistra
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,845
Summary: Endless rambling, the occasional lesson plan, and a certain potions professor who isn't the slightest bit interesting. The not-so-scintillating diary of Auriga J. Sinistra, Astronomy Professor and Spaz.
Author's Note: Er, I don't know. I've wanted to revise Lamentations for well over a year now, just because the first several chapters were written when I was like fourteen and are therefore, well, like something a fourteen year old would write. The Auriga characterization didn't really sink in properly 'til around chapter eight, and I've always wanted to go back and make things more consistent. Unfortunately, I have done so now while under the influence of a great deal of caffeine and having spent the day angsting over a ten page paper for Canadian Lit, so . . . possibly this isn't a whole lot better than something written when I was fourteen.
I think this chapter was originally like one thousand words, maybe.
Auriga, she likes to ramble.
Chapter One
THIS NOTEBOOK BELONGS TO
Auriga J. Sinistra
. . . Although to be honest, I’m really not precisely certain why. I was on my way to check out at Flourish & Blotts. (I’d just got the new Moira K. Mockridge, who I swore to stop reading this school year. I figure I might be a bit better off with more intellectual reading material, especially as a former Ravenclaw and a representative of the most esteemed school of magic in Europe and all, but honestly, her Tall, Dark, and Beastly series inconveniently enticing. I’d never quite contemplated the sex appeal of the centaur before, but wouldn’t you know, they are not entirely without romantic merit. Although I reckon I would be a bit nervous about the hooves myself. And the neighing at certain, er, climatic parts of certain, er, activities. Although I suspect that may be just artistic license on Moira K. Mockridge’s part. How could she know that? Exactly how in-depth was her research? Personally, I think centaurs seem entirely too dignified to neigh under any circumstances. Even ones where - well - anyway. It’s a morbid fascination I have with these books. I’m not proud of it! And this shall certainly be the last one I read. I’m not remotely intrigued by the fact that the next one’s about a tragically misunderstood male Veela. Nope.)
Anyhow, I was checking out, when all of a sudden I just caught sight of this notebook. It was quite basic, as far as notebooks go - black and rather unobtrusive, just sitting there all by itself, being a notebook, and . . . well, I suppose I sort of took pity on it. It’s just that it wasn’t the sort of thing that anyone would necessarily want to buy - it didn’t have any especially impressive qualities, especially in a magical bookshop - and I couldn’t help thinking of how many people must have simply walked past that notebook without so much as a glance on a daily basis. And it’s a bit of a sad thought, isn’t it? To never get bought by anyone, just because you aren’t exceptional-looking. I’d just read an exposé on hag hookers in Witch Weekly a few days before, and I suppose the injustice of it was still fresh in my mind.
Besides, honestly, I could relate a bit. Not to the hag hookers, because I am not a hag (although honestly, I’m not too far off), and because I’m not in that particular line of work. In fact, I’m a professor, which is about as far from that line of work as it’s possible to get. Except a nun, or something, but it’s not as though you get paid for that, is it?
And so I bought the poor, neglected, ugly-ish notebook, without really thinking about it, and . . . here I am. With a random poor, neglected, ugly-ish notebook.
I suppose I should think about putting it to use in some way. After all, if I don’t, it would have been just as well off at Flourish & Blotts. And now that I think of it, I do recall skimming an article in that same Witch Weekly about the benefits of keeping a journal. Something about being given the opportunity to examine your life more thoroughly, thus helping you to ultimately attain a higher understanding of it and begin the pursuit of a more fulfilling existence. And keep track of your periods.
I was so shaken up by the plight of Griselda Wimple (I cannot imagine doing that with a grindylow and only getting six sickles for it) that I didn’t really pay attention to the journal article at the time, but now it seems like a rather good idea!
I suppose I might as well try it. To improve my life, and all. And even if it doesn’t result in some brilliant display of self-actualization or what have you, I still doubt it will do much harm. When you are thirty-one, devastatingly single with a devastatingly engaged best friend, so petite that it is essentially impossible to find flattering robes, and possess hair so hopelessly unruly that once someone actually had the mistaken impression that a rather light-coloured Niffler was attacking your head, and then tried to fight aforementioned Niffler off . . . (It was a very sweet gesture, really, but I still get a bit twitchy when Percy Weasley is around. I cannot help suspecting that he just hoped the act of heroism would earn him a couple of extra credit points, anyhow. As if I could be bought so easily. I am not a hag hooker.)
(Oh, fine. I gave him ten extra credit points. And twenty-five points to Gryffindor.)
(For thinking my hair was a magical beast.)
(Did I mention the bit about it being a very sweet gesture?)
Anyhow.
Did I have a point? I’m sure I had a point.
Ah. Right.
It’s not as though things can get any worse.
Saturday, August 31, 1991
9:30 P.M.
Bedroom Quarters
Well. I’ve just got back from the dreaded start-of-the-year staff meeting. Nothing particularly new and exciting, aside from the fact that the Philosopher’s Stone is being kept here this year. A few select teachers - McGonagall, Flitwick, and the like - are providing charms and assorted obstacles to guard it. Oh so shockingly, my services weren’t required. I suppose I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t a bit upset about it. I mean, yes, granted, off the top of my head I’m not precisely sure how Astronomy could aid in protecting one of the most powerful and desired magical objects of all time. But that’s hardly the point. You’d think that the least Dumbledore could do is make some attempt to make the lesser members of the staff feel needed.
Not that I need to feel needed, or anything ridiculous like that.
It would just be nice. That’s all.
And besides - when you wish upon a star! Hah. There you are. Quite clever, isn’t it? I’m not precisely sure what that would entail yet, but even making the connection with the song lyric is an excellent start, I think. Perhaps someone could . . . wish. Upon a star. And then they’d figure out some sort of . . . thing, that they had to do. In order to get to the stone. But the type of thing that only a good person would be able to figure out, because obviously we don’t want anyone dodgy wishing upon stars and then living forever and making a whole house out of gold or anything. That would be bad. And would somehow probably get blamed on me, since everyone around here seems to think I am an entirely hopeless creature.
I am not precisely sure where we would get the star, since I assume the Stone is going to be kept inside.
But really, it’s the principle of the thing that counts, don’t you think?
This school is damned lucky to have me, with my imaginative (if not entirely developed) ideas and quippy tie-ins to Muggle pop culture!
I think my mum would be pleased to know that that one week I spent watching Pinocchio over and over when I was three had finally paid off, as well. As of right now, she says about every seven months that she is sure that that’s where she, and I quote, ‘went wrong with me.’
Of course, I’m not sure whether the Muggle tie-ins would go over particularly well, honestly. I earned a lot of weird stares when I got a bit tipsy last Christmas and tried to lead the whole staff in a rousing chorus of We Are Siamese from Lady and the Tramp. I thought McGonagall’s quizzical eyebrows might just shoot off her face and up into her hair altogether.
Dumbledore, however, confessed himself to be an ardent fan of The Jungle Book. Sometimes I really do dote upon that man. Regardless of how little he appreciates his Astronomy professors.
In any case, seeing everybody again was all right, I guess. The whole group was acting just the way they always do. Pomona was all cheery smiles and inquiries as to how everyone’s summer had been (dreadful, by the way - if I never see my mother again, it will be far too soon), Filch kept to the corner and clutched Mrs. Norris especially tight every time someone deigned to look in his direction (I would pity that cat if I could, but I just can’t shake the suspicion that she enjoys it. Ugh), Hagrid brought rock cakes which everyone with the least bit of sense politely refused (you’d think that I would have learned from the whole tooth-chipping-in-half incident last year, but no. I can’t help it; he always seems so pleased with himself when he manages to bake something) and Irma showed up just long enough to glare suspiciously at all of us before sweeping back out again. I tend to have quite a bit of sympathy for spinster librarians on principle, as I came about this close to being one, but there is something not quite right about that woman.
McGonagall was brisk and efficient, as per usual, and Dumbledore spent the majority of the time smiling amusedly to himself and offering people sherbet lemons. Sybill Trelawney stared rather sympathetically at me for fifteen or so silent minutes before spewing out her usual nonsense about her suspecting I may be doomed to spend the rest of my life in aching solitude. Hmph. Look who’s talking. You’d think that one big-haired glasses-wearing single woman who spends the majority of her time alone in a tower would have at least a bit of compassion for another of her number. Clearly the notion of solidarity of any sort is lost on her. For the record, I have decided that I won’t begin to worry too seriously about myself until I start developing a penchant for bangle bracelets.
Meanwhile, my dearest friend in the world Victoria Vector recounted to anyone who would listen the touching tale of how her devastatingly handsome boyfriend proposed to her atop the Eiffel Tower. Having already heard it nine times, I drowned her out as best I could and focused on not glaring at the ring on her finger. After all, it isn’t Victoria’s fault that she is blonde, ideally shaped, drop-dead gorgeous, charismatic, and a respected voice in the world of modern Arithmancy.
Poor thing.
It looks as though that’s about it, really. Once more, the year looks to be bleak, unsatisfying, and only very rarely made worthwhile by the notion that I am changing the lives of scores of impressionable young people by making them look at the sky at nighttime.
Yay.
9:33 P.M.
Oh! Also, I figure I might as well mention it-
Severus Snape, throughout the course of the entire gathering, managed to remain a truly astounding bastard.
Surprise, surprise.
Not that I care.
Y’know, damned if I even bother to waste journal space on that greasy old bat. Grr. Hate.
9:34 P.M.
He called me a starry-eyed twit.
What, you may ask, did I do to merit this affectionate little nickname?
Absolutely nothing, as it so happens! He was just engaging in his near-favourite pastime in the world, third only to not washing his hair and making small children cry - tormenting me. For no reason.
Bastard.
Fortunately, I got him back quite well with ‘dungeon-dwelling hygienically ignorant moron.’
So ha.
9:35 P.M.
And then McGonagall told us to "please shut up, for God’s sake; you act like children."
Well, excuse me, Miss High And Mighty Deputy Headmistress.
He started it.
Not that I have any interest in dwelling on this.
9:37 P.M.
He’s still a bastard.
9:38 P.M.
Hmph.
Sunday, September 1, 1991
11:15 A.M.
Astronomy Tower
No matter how long I work here, I suspect that I will never develop any sort of affinity for lesson plans. Somehow the knowledge that I’m enriching young minds with the beauty of wisdom just isn’t all that invigorating, especially since I cannot shake the suspicion that they are seldom actually listening anyway. It’s at times like these when I find myself calling into question why I even decided that Auriga J. Sinistra, Astronomy Professor sounded like a desirable title anyway. It certainly doesn’t have the ring to it that my first choice (Mrs. Auriga J. Lockhart, Beloved And Quite Sexy Wife) did, that’s for sure.
It seemed like a lovely idea at first, the whole teaching gig. I always did quite well in school, and none of my jobs after Hogwarts were really all that fulfilling. There is nothing wrong with working at Madame Puddifoot’s, of course, but the quaintness began to wear on me after awhile. You wouldn’t think it, but quaintness in big doses can get quite scary. Besides, Valentine’s Day always wreaked hell on my cherub allergy. And you know, there is not a lot that’s enjoyable about watching people hold hands and snog eight hours of the day when you haven’t got anybody to hold hands and snog with yourself.
That was only supposed to be a summer-after-graduation sort of job, anyway; just something to get me on my feet, get me started in the world of business. Mum got me an interview at the Ministry that I somehow never wound up attending. She was quite peeved at me for a long time after that, but it did not take much to figure out that I’m not really meant for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
I did have a decent few years at the Daily Prophet after that, doing an anonymous advice column. If you want to know the truth, I always felt a bit guilty, considering I never quite felt I had my life all the way in order, but I think I was quite good at making it sound as though I had an idea what to do. Unfortunately, I got in a spot of trouble when I jokingly - jokingly! - suggested to some bloke who wrote in complaining his wife made fun of his spellwork that he ought to try Kwikspell and then turn his wife into a yak.
I’m still a bit put out about that. How was I supposed to know he’d actually do it??
In any case, that was the end of my career at the Daily Prophet. I wasn’t incredibly sorry to leave, honestly. If anything, it was nice to think I’d be somewhere where I wouldn’t be made to cry by Rita Skeeter at least once a week. Besides, Paul from the photography department thought the whole yak thing was absolutely brilliant, and asked me out for a drink because of it. So I got my one and only serious boyfriend out of the whole ordeal, at least.
Well. That bit seemed like a good thing at the time. Looking back at it from the perspective of one much older and wiser, it was absolutely bloody stupid.
But anyway. It’s been nearly five years, and I have moved on. Completely and entirely moved on. Whatever bitter or, I dunno, unhinged feelings I had ever once possessed about the situation have since completely vanished. I hope he and Felicia the skanky Leaky Cauldron barmaid had a splendid old time shagging like demented leprechauns on our bed.
Ahem.
Work.
So, I bounced around working at a couple of places after that (the best of which was Honeydukes and the worst of which was Madame Malkin’s. Putting me in a room with a box of pins can only result in disaster, even when I don’t even technically have to touch them), and finally the previous Astronomy professor retired and Professor Dumbledore approached me about the job. He said Professor Galbraith had recommended me specifically, which I found quite flattering until I remembered that she’d been in the robe shop recently and was probably just trying to prevent a score of innocent individuals from being poked to death, courtesy of me.
I do like it here most of the time, more or less. I’ve never been much for public speaking - at least, not in the way where the people I’m speaking to wind up understanding me - but I think I’ve improved quite a bit since I started teaching. The students seem to like me all right, which I suppose I have to thank Binns and Snape for. I’m not too bad in comparison. Plus, I have the unfortunate tendency to give out house points a bit too liberally. (I’m not claiming to be psychologically scarred, or anything of the sort, but if I were the sensitive sort, I might have been attempting to compensate for being awarded eleven house points throughout the entirety of my Hogwarts education. Eleven.)
One of the most entertaining things about being around here thus far has been watching the endless stream of new Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, all of whom have been infinitely less competent than Snape and all of whom still beat him out for the position anyway. (Hee. I suspect I will never get sick of the look on his face at the start of the year feast every time the new professor is announced. Victoria pointed out last year that it looked as though I was gazing lovingly at him. I pointed out, after I finished gagging, that I was not gazing lovingly at him, I was gazing lovingly at his look of fury and loathing. Victoria has all of these horrible weird theories about Snape and me.)
My first year teaching, there was Professor Destiny du Maurier, whose Muggle cousin wrote Rebecca and “The Birds” and everything. I suppose it must have run in the family, because Destiny du Maurier liked to write romance novels in her spare time. Now, don’t get me wrong - I have nothing against the romance novel. As a matter of fact, I think it’s an especially underappreciated art form, particularly when you tend to spend your nights and weekends by yourself curled up under a blanket drinking tea. The notion that Melisande can unexpectedly find love with a tormented dragon trainer after having given up all faith in men is oddly comforting, even if she doesn’t exist. And has a sleek waterfall of ebony hair, intoxicating violet eyes, and a league of desperate suitors. Completely unrealistic, by the way. How many men can conceivably be so devoted to one woman that they’ll give up all other aspects in their lives in order to vainly pursue her? None, that’s how many. Certainly not in this day and age.
Well, maybe three. But Victoria got rid of them eventually.
But anyhow. Professor du Maurier. Yes.
I believe the first thing she said to me was ‘May you travel gaily on the broken rainbow panels of your life; may you never experience the sour taste of anguish.’ Which, while quite nice in sentiment, was just a little much. And really, she never stopped talking like that, even when describing the effects of the Curse of the Bogies, which is not precisely something you can apply graceful language to. She also had an odd fixation on Snape, which really just cements her insanity right there. Anyone pathetic enough to find Snape remotely interesting . . . well, it’s just very unlikely that there is any hope for them.
Then there was Professor Ford, who I always thought was too old to be teaching. The poor man was all shriveled up and practically translucent. But did anyone listen to me when I voiced any concern about it? No, of course not! I’m just starry-eyed Auriga Sinistra, the lone Astronomy professor; what do I know?
Well, morbid as this sounds, I did allow myself a triumphant laugh or two when he fell over dead during the middle of a lesson. (May he rest in peace.)
People really should listen to me more often.
I must say, though, that I didn’t object at all to Professor Sandersought, who was a very, very nice change around here. Because he was a very gifted and devoted educator, and such. (Also, he looked amazing without a shirt - and no, I was not spying. I was simply passing by at a very convenient time. I don’t think I should be held accountable if the universe occasionally decides to have mercy on me.)
And contrary to popular belief, I still refuse to accept that I am the reason he quit.
Honestly! If a man said to you, ‘Why don’t you come to my office later so we can . . . discuss this further?’, what would you think he wanted? To talk about constellations, as he so claimed? (‘I was very interested in them as a child.’ Ha. Yeah right.)
He clearly just got cold feet, as when I decided to be a strong woman and make the first move, he yelled for me to get off of him. ‘You know, Auriga, I have been wondering for quite sometime why you knock on my door at the same time every Thursday night when I always happen to be getting undressed for bed, claiming you forgot the password to Albus’ office. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but now things have grown quite clear, and it’s scaring me.’ Bah! If this had really been the way he felt about things, then he certainly had no business parading around with his exceedingly finely chiseled facial features and truly exceptional chest.
The fact that he quit the next day was pure coincidence, thank you.
And I do not know how Snape found out about that little episode, but whoever told him will pay dearly, oh, believe you me. The slimy git taunted me with that for months.
But little does he know, I am all too aware of the episode where he was humming Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Spell on my Heart’, in the shower. (House elves can be such delightful creatures. And they tend to naturally like me. Sometimes a bit too much. But most of the time, it’s helpful.)
When the times comes, I will attack him with that knowledge full-force.
Don’t think I won’t.
11:21 A.M.
Not that I care enough to seriously plot revenge against the man. I’m not Professor du Maurier, or anything alarming like that.
It’s just that occasionally, when my mind isn’t otherwise occupied, I quite enjoy taking a moment or two to reflect upon the idea of inflicting severe pain and humiliation upon him.
That’s all.
2:46 P.M.
Oh, dear. Perhaps this year will prove to be a bit new and exciting after all. I was just speaking with Flitwick, and he reminded me that Harry Potter’s coming to Hogwarts this year. It’s such a strange notion that he’ll be coming to school just like any other eleven year old boy. Everyone will be fascinated with him, no doubt, and from what I’ve heard, the poor thing knows virtually nothing about our world.
I wonder if it would be unprofessional of me to give him a few extra credit points in Astronomy. He’ll be under enough pressure as is, no doubt - imagine having to worry about classes on top of all of that! And, all right, it’s probably not the strictest way to go about things, but not all of us can be McGonagall. And I think it would be very wrong indeed for Harry Potter to only receive eleven house points throughout his Hogwarts career! That sort of thing can stick with a child when they’re not incredibly well-adjusted like I was. And, well, poor Harry’s had such a tough time of it already.
I do hope I won’t spend too much time staring at him. And I’m vowing, right here and now, that I won’t ask for an autograph. That would just be tacky.
And besides, he’s bound to write his name on his homework papers.
Snape keeps twitching every time somebody mentions Harry. I suppose the fact that he and James (and Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew) used to be bitter rivals at school probably explains that. But still. The boy’s a child, for God’s sake; it’s not as though he’s the second coming of James Potter determined to jinx his hair pink and levitate him upside down all over again. Besides, Snape used to get on quite well with Lily in our first few years of school, and you’d think that he’d be able to look past the whole James bit and treat Harry decently because of it.
Not to mention that poor James and Pettigrew and Lupin all got theirs quite dreadfully, the poor things, and Snape’s done perfectly well in life. Though he could use a load more practice showering.
It’ll be a bit weird just having Harry around, honestly. It’s reached the point, finally, where it seems like the war’s done, you know; just a bad memory, and that’s it. And all of a sudden, the Boy Who Lived will be walking down the halls and eating in the Great Hall and it’ll just be one big reminder that it happened after all.
Perhaps I’ll give him eleven points for showing up to the lesson. That seems fair, doesn’t it?
2:56 A.M.
Bedroom Quarters
Oh, sweet stars. I should be in bed right now. I really should. In my defense, technically I am. It’s just that I also spent the last hour reading Year with the Yeti. Yes, yes, the Gilderoy Lockhart book. I know that some people think he’s a bit of a ponce. (Some people here being Snape, who is clearly just jealous. I am pretty sure there is no one with more haircare maintenance skill than Gilderoy Lockhart. His tress prowess is unsuppressed. Hee! Rhyming. Which I suppose is one of those things that is much, much funnier when one is tired.)
I didn’t even mean to get started on Year with the Yeti - again - but, well, I finished up the Moira K. Mockridge centaur romance novel, and it just went to places that I’m quite sure peoples’ brains really oughtn’t to go, ever. I can respect her for wanting to up the ante a bit creatively, of course, but there were certain things that I could not begin to be comfortable with, and not just because I am a sexless old spinster (though not by choice, mind you). And did she really have to get the unicorn involved at the end there? That just seemed unnecessary.
Moral of the story: no more Moira K. Mockridge. Not even when the title is Behoove Her to Surrender.
And the tagline is ‘His brightest star wouldn’t be found in the sky.’
Right.
Anyway, a bit of Gilderoy Lockhart seemed just the thing to cancel out the frightening, inappropriate-use-of-unicorn-type memories. Never mind what everyone else says - I’d like to see anybody else best a yeti with that much style! We could all learn a thing or two from Gilderoy Lockhart.
I suppose I could just finish it off - I do so love the part when he rescues the young lady the yeti’s dragged back to his lair - but I’d rather like to show up at breakfast tomorrow. I don’t want everyone to think I’m Trelawneyish, or nocturnal, or anything like that. They all think I’m a bit dotty already, and if I stopped showing up for regular mealtimes, who knows what they’d come up with?
Not that I care, or anything.
3:14 A.M.
Siiiiigh!
Oh, Tibetan maiden. You don’t know how lucky you are.
I wonder how hard it would be to get Gilderoy Lockhart to rescue me. Perhaps I could send him an owl about the giant squid, and just make it out to sound as dangerous as possible. Summer with the Squid. See? There’s a nice, solid, alliterative title for him already!
We are meant to be together.
3:16 A.M.
For the record, that was just a joke, that last bit. I obviously know that it is unrealistic to believe that I’m meant to be with Gilderoy Lockhart.
3:17 A.M.
But you have to admit that he’d be quite a good soulmate to have. Very handy in a crisis.
Not to mention utterly divine to look at.
3:18 A.M.
Summer with the Squid. Hmmm.
3:19 A.M.
Come to think of it, would it really be such a rash thing to do? I can swim, after all. Mostly. A bit.
3:20 A.M.
I can’t really swim.
3:21 A.M.
Not that that is a concern in the first place, because there’s no way Gilderoy Lockhart would let me drown. It’s just not in his nature.
3:22 A.M.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Siiiigh.
3:28 A.M.
I am going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to judge me. And I know you won’t, because you are a notebook, but let’s not get into that again.
I haven’t had a boyfriend since Paul.
Nearly five years ago.
And by ‘nearly five years,’ I actually mean ‘very, very, very nearly five years,’ because we broke up at the start of September. Soon, I’m going to have to stop saying ‘nearly five years’ and just start saying ‘five years.’ That’s how nearly five years ago it was.
So there. There it is.
I, at the depressing age of thirty-one, am so single that the fourth years who can’t look at each other while they hold hands think I’m pathetic.
Not to say that I haven’t been dating, precisely. In fact, I have!
Six times.
In nearly (nearly) five years.
And in only one of those circumstances did the bloke actually attempt to come home with me afterwards, and that turned out to be because dinner really hadn’t agreed with him and he was in quite desperate need of the bathroom.
But the thing is, it gets worse.
(Well, not the bathroom incident. That was about as bad as it could have possibly been.)
In terms of the actual boyfriend count, I’ve had two. I know that I said the thing earlier about Paul being my only serious boyfriend, but, well, the truth is, my relationship with my ‘unserious boyfriend’ was this-
He was my partner on a project in Charms in sixth year, and he walked me to class for two weeks before becoming completely smitten with Andromeda Black. (The poor thing, there was no hope for him. Mrs. Black must’ve had an affair that led to Andromeda, because she wasn’t the spawn of Satan like her sisters, but she still had certain standards. This was the sort of boy girls with standards stayed away from. Not that I didn’t have any standards. I was just generous, you see. And kind. Very . . . very, very kind.)
The other was, of course, good old Paul, who turned out to be as reprehensible as one human being can conceivably be without just fully morphing into Severus Snape. He never bought me things or remembered my birthday, refused to allow his hands anywhere near my face for fear that his fingers might get stuck in my hair (honestly, that happened once - what a baby), and was very easily distracted by Leaky Cauldron barmaids. Ones named Felicia, in particular, but he wasn’t picky, truth be told.
Luckily, I came to my senses and chose not to waste anymore time on him.
After two and a half years.
And, coincidentally, I just so happened to make this decision the day he left me for aforementioned skanky Felicia.
Still, I like to think that I ended things.
He, after all, did not throw a lamp at my head. I was certainly in the power position in that particular situation.
It loses a bit of edge when one considers I took him to the hospital as soon as I saw that he was bleeding and felt rather terrible about it until the next morning when Felicia came to pick him up and the last thing he said to me was, and I quote, “Hey, Sinistra -- stop being such a basketcase and maybe you’ll find some other bloke eventually. Cheers.”
Oh, Paul.
Honestly, at this point, he sounds almost charming.
It’s not that I’m desperate, precisely. I wouldn’t just fall madly head over heels for the first man who displayed the slightest bit of interest in me. Please! I have plenty of morals and standards (carefully developed over the years) and all of that ridiculous business. It’s just that it gets a bit lonely, that’s all.
I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since that little unfortunate episode with Professor Sandersought two years ago, and that wasn’t a kiss so much as my mouth barely brushing against his for a split second before colliding with his knee because he jumped up so fast in an effort to pull away.
Which wasn’t exactly romantic. Especially because it set him off railing about me biting him on the knee. Please. I’m not Esmé from Behoove Her to Surrender. (Do centaurs even have proper knees? I suppose they need them to run, and all, but still. I never thought I’d devote actual thought to centaur knees, yet alone find myself all shuddery and repulsed about them.)
And, well, yes. That is about the extent of my recent amorous pursuits.
3:35 A.M.
Well, perhaps not quite the extent. You see, there was also that time with . . .
3:36 A.M.
Never mind about that.
3:37 A.M.
It doesn’t count when there’s love potion involved, anyhow. Those are just the rules. The rules of snogging.
3:38 A.M.
We were completely powerless, mind. The both of us. It’s not the sort of thing either of us would have ever done, were we not compelled by powerful magical forces.
3:39 A.M.
Besides, it’s not as though I can really even remember any of it! Love potions make one’s brain go a bit wonky. Not to mention being in that close a proximity to certain bastard-type people. It’s enough to make anyone repress things.
3:40 A.M.
It’s not as though it was even good snogging, anyhow.
3:41 A.M.
I would think.
3:42 A.M.
If I remembered it.
3:43 A.M.
This, of course, is all just conjecture.
3:44 A.M.
And if I could remember it and I did remember it being anything other than bad, it would clearly be due to that thing I mentioned before. With love potions turning one’s brain wonky, and all. The incident was entirely the fault of wonky brains, and should not be thought of ever again.
3:49 A.M.
Stupid Valentine’s Day. Stupid prankster seventh years. Stupid easily accessible jug of pumpkin juice at the teacher’s table, just begging to be spiked with kissing concoction.
3:50 A.M.
Victoria snogged Flitwick! How come no one ever remembers that, hmm?
3:51 A.M.
Great. Now I’m all plagued with thoughts of . . . never mind. Nothing. I miss the centaur knees.
3:52 A.M.
Perhaps I will finish up Year with the Yeti and move right on to Gadding with Ghouls.
I do love Gadding with Ghouls.
Chapter: 1 - Concerning Centaurs, Sad History, and Dungeon-Dwelling Morons
Character/Pairing: Auriga Sinistra; Snape/Sinistra
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,845
Summary: Endless rambling, the occasional lesson plan, and a certain potions professor who isn't the slightest bit interesting. The not-so-scintillating diary of Auriga J. Sinistra, Astronomy Professor and Spaz.
Author's Note: Er, I don't know. I've wanted to revise Lamentations for well over a year now, just because the first several chapters were written when I was like fourteen and are therefore, well, like something a fourteen year old would write. The Auriga characterization didn't really sink in properly 'til around chapter eight, and I've always wanted to go back and make things more consistent. Unfortunately, I have done so now while under the influence of a great deal of caffeine and having spent the day angsting over a ten page paper for Canadian Lit, so . . . possibly this isn't a whole lot better than something written when I was fourteen.
I think this chapter was originally like one thousand words, maybe.
Auriga, she likes to ramble.
Chapter One
THIS NOTEBOOK BELONGS TO
Auriga J. Sinistra
. . . Although to be honest, I’m really not precisely certain why. I was on my way to check out at Flourish & Blotts. (I’d just got the new Moira K. Mockridge, who I swore to stop reading this school year. I figure I might be a bit better off with more intellectual reading material, especially as a former Ravenclaw and a representative of the most esteemed school of magic in Europe and all, but honestly, her Tall, Dark, and Beastly series inconveniently enticing. I’d never quite contemplated the sex appeal of the centaur before, but wouldn’t you know, they are not entirely without romantic merit. Although I reckon I would be a bit nervous about the hooves myself. And the neighing at certain, er, climatic parts of certain, er, activities. Although I suspect that may be just artistic license on Moira K. Mockridge’s part. How could she know that? Exactly how in-depth was her research? Personally, I think centaurs seem entirely too dignified to neigh under any circumstances. Even ones where - well - anyway. It’s a morbid fascination I have with these books. I’m not proud of it! And this shall certainly be the last one I read. I’m not remotely intrigued by the fact that the next one’s about a tragically misunderstood male Veela. Nope.)
Anyhow, I was checking out, when all of a sudden I just caught sight of this notebook. It was quite basic, as far as notebooks go - black and rather unobtrusive, just sitting there all by itself, being a notebook, and . . . well, I suppose I sort of took pity on it. It’s just that it wasn’t the sort of thing that anyone would necessarily want to buy - it didn’t have any especially impressive qualities, especially in a magical bookshop - and I couldn’t help thinking of how many people must have simply walked past that notebook without so much as a glance on a daily basis. And it’s a bit of a sad thought, isn’t it? To never get bought by anyone, just because you aren’t exceptional-looking. I’d just read an exposé on hag hookers in Witch Weekly a few days before, and I suppose the injustice of it was still fresh in my mind.
Besides, honestly, I could relate a bit. Not to the hag hookers, because I am not a hag (although honestly, I’m not too far off), and because I’m not in that particular line of work. In fact, I’m a professor, which is about as far from that line of work as it’s possible to get. Except a nun, or something, but it’s not as though you get paid for that, is it?
And so I bought the poor, neglected, ugly-ish notebook, without really thinking about it, and . . . here I am. With a random poor, neglected, ugly-ish notebook.
I suppose I should think about putting it to use in some way. After all, if I don’t, it would have been just as well off at Flourish & Blotts. And now that I think of it, I do recall skimming an article in that same Witch Weekly about the benefits of keeping a journal. Something about being given the opportunity to examine your life more thoroughly, thus helping you to ultimately attain a higher understanding of it and begin the pursuit of a more fulfilling existence. And keep track of your periods.
I was so shaken up by the plight of Griselda Wimple (I cannot imagine doing that with a grindylow and only getting six sickles for it) that I didn’t really pay attention to the journal article at the time, but now it seems like a rather good idea!
I suppose I might as well try it. To improve my life, and all. And even if it doesn’t result in some brilliant display of self-actualization or what have you, I still doubt it will do much harm. When you are thirty-one, devastatingly single with a devastatingly engaged best friend, so petite that it is essentially impossible to find flattering robes, and possess hair so hopelessly unruly that once someone actually had the mistaken impression that a rather light-coloured Niffler was attacking your head, and then tried to fight aforementioned Niffler off . . . (It was a very sweet gesture, really, but I still get a bit twitchy when Percy Weasley is around. I cannot help suspecting that he just hoped the act of heroism would earn him a couple of extra credit points, anyhow. As if I could be bought so easily. I am not a hag hooker.)
(Oh, fine. I gave him ten extra credit points. And twenty-five points to Gryffindor.)
(For thinking my hair was a magical beast.)
(Did I mention the bit about it being a very sweet gesture?)
Anyhow.
Did I have a point? I’m sure I had a point.
Ah. Right.
It’s not as though things can get any worse.
Saturday, August 31, 1991
9:30 P.M.
Bedroom Quarters
Well. I’ve just got back from the dreaded start-of-the-year staff meeting. Nothing particularly new and exciting, aside from the fact that the Philosopher’s Stone is being kept here this year. A few select teachers - McGonagall, Flitwick, and the like - are providing charms and assorted obstacles to guard it. Oh so shockingly, my services weren’t required. I suppose I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t a bit upset about it. I mean, yes, granted, off the top of my head I’m not precisely sure how Astronomy could aid in protecting one of the most powerful and desired magical objects of all time. But that’s hardly the point. You’d think that the least Dumbledore could do is make some attempt to make the lesser members of the staff feel needed.
Not that I need to feel needed, or anything ridiculous like that.
It would just be nice. That’s all.
And besides - when you wish upon a star! Hah. There you are. Quite clever, isn’t it? I’m not precisely sure what that would entail yet, but even making the connection with the song lyric is an excellent start, I think. Perhaps someone could . . . wish. Upon a star. And then they’d figure out some sort of . . . thing, that they had to do. In order to get to the stone. But the type of thing that only a good person would be able to figure out, because obviously we don’t want anyone dodgy wishing upon stars and then living forever and making a whole house out of gold or anything. That would be bad. And would somehow probably get blamed on me, since everyone around here seems to think I am an entirely hopeless creature.
I am not precisely sure where we would get the star, since I assume the Stone is going to be kept inside.
But really, it’s the principle of the thing that counts, don’t you think?
This school is damned lucky to have me, with my imaginative (if not entirely developed) ideas and quippy tie-ins to Muggle pop culture!
I think my mum would be pleased to know that that one week I spent watching Pinocchio over and over when I was three had finally paid off, as well. As of right now, she says about every seven months that she is sure that that’s where she, and I quote, ‘went wrong with me.’
Of course, I’m not sure whether the Muggle tie-ins would go over particularly well, honestly. I earned a lot of weird stares when I got a bit tipsy last Christmas and tried to lead the whole staff in a rousing chorus of We Are Siamese from Lady and the Tramp. I thought McGonagall’s quizzical eyebrows might just shoot off her face and up into her hair altogether.
Dumbledore, however, confessed himself to be an ardent fan of The Jungle Book. Sometimes I really do dote upon that man. Regardless of how little he appreciates his Astronomy professors.
In any case, seeing everybody again was all right, I guess. The whole group was acting just the way they always do. Pomona was all cheery smiles and inquiries as to how everyone’s summer had been (dreadful, by the way - if I never see my mother again, it will be far too soon), Filch kept to the corner and clutched Mrs. Norris especially tight every time someone deigned to look in his direction (I would pity that cat if I could, but I just can’t shake the suspicion that she enjoys it. Ugh), Hagrid brought rock cakes which everyone with the least bit of sense politely refused (you’d think that I would have learned from the whole tooth-chipping-in-half incident last year, but no. I can’t help it; he always seems so pleased with himself when he manages to bake something) and Irma showed up just long enough to glare suspiciously at all of us before sweeping back out again. I tend to have quite a bit of sympathy for spinster librarians on principle, as I came about this close to being one, but there is something not quite right about that woman.
McGonagall was brisk and efficient, as per usual, and Dumbledore spent the majority of the time smiling amusedly to himself and offering people sherbet lemons. Sybill Trelawney stared rather sympathetically at me for fifteen or so silent minutes before spewing out her usual nonsense about her suspecting I may be doomed to spend the rest of my life in aching solitude. Hmph. Look who’s talking. You’d think that one big-haired glasses-wearing single woman who spends the majority of her time alone in a tower would have at least a bit of compassion for another of her number. Clearly the notion of solidarity of any sort is lost on her. For the record, I have decided that I won’t begin to worry too seriously about myself until I start developing a penchant for bangle bracelets.
Meanwhile, my dearest friend in the world Victoria Vector recounted to anyone who would listen the touching tale of how her devastatingly handsome boyfriend proposed to her atop the Eiffel Tower. Having already heard it nine times, I drowned her out as best I could and focused on not glaring at the ring on her finger. After all, it isn’t Victoria’s fault that she is blonde, ideally shaped, drop-dead gorgeous, charismatic, and a respected voice in the world of modern Arithmancy.
Poor thing.
It looks as though that’s about it, really. Once more, the year looks to be bleak, unsatisfying, and only very rarely made worthwhile by the notion that I am changing the lives of scores of impressionable young people by making them look at the sky at nighttime.
Yay.
9:33 P.M.
Oh! Also, I figure I might as well mention it-
Severus Snape, throughout the course of the entire gathering, managed to remain a truly astounding bastard.
Surprise, surprise.
Not that I care.
Y’know, damned if I even bother to waste journal space on that greasy old bat. Grr. Hate.
9:34 P.M.
He called me a starry-eyed twit.
What, you may ask, did I do to merit this affectionate little nickname?
Absolutely nothing, as it so happens! He was just engaging in his near-favourite pastime in the world, third only to not washing his hair and making small children cry - tormenting me. For no reason.
Bastard.
Fortunately, I got him back quite well with ‘dungeon-dwelling hygienically ignorant moron.’
So ha.
9:35 P.M.
And then McGonagall told us to "please shut up, for God’s sake; you act like children."
Well, excuse me, Miss High And Mighty Deputy Headmistress.
He started it.
Not that I have any interest in dwelling on this.
9:37 P.M.
He’s still a bastard.
9:38 P.M.
Hmph.
Sunday, September 1, 1991
11:15 A.M.
Astronomy Tower
No matter how long I work here, I suspect that I will never develop any sort of affinity for lesson plans. Somehow the knowledge that I’m enriching young minds with the beauty of wisdom just isn’t all that invigorating, especially since I cannot shake the suspicion that they are seldom actually listening anyway. It’s at times like these when I find myself calling into question why I even decided that Auriga J. Sinistra, Astronomy Professor sounded like a desirable title anyway. It certainly doesn’t have the ring to it that my first choice (Mrs. Auriga J. Lockhart, Beloved And Quite Sexy Wife) did, that’s for sure.
It seemed like a lovely idea at first, the whole teaching gig. I always did quite well in school, and none of my jobs after Hogwarts were really all that fulfilling. There is nothing wrong with working at Madame Puddifoot’s, of course, but the quaintness began to wear on me after awhile. You wouldn’t think it, but quaintness in big doses can get quite scary. Besides, Valentine’s Day always wreaked hell on my cherub allergy. And you know, there is not a lot that’s enjoyable about watching people hold hands and snog eight hours of the day when you haven’t got anybody to hold hands and snog with yourself.
That was only supposed to be a summer-after-graduation sort of job, anyway; just something to get me on my feet, get me started in the world of business. Mum got me an interview at the Ministry that I somehow never wound up attending. She was quite peeved at me for a long time after that, but it did not take much to figure out that I’m not really meant for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
I did have a decent few years at the Daily Prophet after that, doing an anonymous advice column. If you want to know the truth, I always felt a bit guilty, considering I never quite felt I had my life all the way in order, but I think I was quite good at making it sound as though I had an idea what to do. Unfortunately, I got in a spot of trouble when I jokingly - jokingly! - suggested to some bloke who wrote in complaining his wife made fun of his spellwork that he ought to try Kwikspell and then turn his wife into a yak.
I’m still a bit put out about that. How was I supposed to know he’d actually do it??
In any case, that was the end of my career at the Daily Prophet. I wasn’t incredibly sorry to leave, honestly. If anything, it was nice to think I’d be somewhere where I wouldn’t be made to cry by Rita Skeeter at least once a week. Besides, Paul from the photography department thought the whole yak thing was absolutely brilliant, and asked me out for a drink because of it. So I got my one and only serious boyfriend out of the whole ordeal, at least.
Well. That bit seemed like a good thing at the time. Looking back at it from the perspective of one much older and wiser, it was absolutely bloody stupid.
But anyway. It’s been nearly five years, and I have moved on. Completely and entirely moved on. Whatever bitter or, I dunno, unhinged feelings I had ever once possessed about the situation have since completely vanished. I hope he and Felicia the skanky Leaky Cauldron barmaid had a splendid old time shagging like demented leprechauns on our bed.
Ahem.
Work.
So, I bounced around working at a couple of places after that (the best of which was Honeydukes and the worst of which was Madame Malkin’s. Putting me in a room with a box of pins can only result in disaster, even when I don’t even technically have to touch them), and finally the previous Astronomy professor retired and Professor Dumbledore approached me about the job. He said Professor Galbraith had recommended me specifically, which I found quite flattering until I remembered that she’d been in the robe shop recently and was probably just trying to prevent a score of innocent individuals from being poked to death, courtesy of me.
I do like it here most of the time, more or less. I’ve never been much for public speaking - at least, not in the way where the people I’m speaking to wind up understanding me - but I think I’ve improved quite a bit since I started teaching. The students seem to like me all right, which I suppose I have to thank Binns and Snape for. I’m not too bad in comparison. Plus, I have the unfortunate tendency to give out house points a bit too liberally. (I’m not claiming to be psychologically scarred, or anything of the sort, but if I were the sensitive sort, I might have been attempting to compensate for being awarded eleven house points throughout the entirety of my Hogwarts education. Eleven.)
One of the most entertaining things about being around here thus far has been watching the endless stream of new Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, all of whom have been infinitely less competent than Snape and all of whom still beat him out for the position anyway. (Hee. I suspect I will never get sick of the look on his face at the start of the year feast every time the new professor is announced. Victoria pointed out last year that it looked as though I was gazing lovingly at him. I pointed out, after I finished gagging, that I was not gazing lovingly at him, I was gazing lovingly at his look of fury and loathing. Victoria has all of these horrible weird theories about Snape and me.)
My first year teaching, there was Professor Destiny du Maurier, whose Muggle cousin wrote Rebecca and “The Birds” and everything. I suppose it must have run in the family, because Destiny du Maurier liked to write romance novels in her spare time. Now, don’t get me wrong - I have nothing against the romance novel. As a matter of fact, I think it’s an especially underappreciated art form, particularly when you tend to spend your nights and weekends by yourself curled up under a blanket drinking tea. The notion that Melisande can unexpectedly find love with a tormented dragon trainer after having given up all faith in men is oddly comforting, even if she doesn’t exist. And has a sleek waterfall of ebony hair, intoxicating violet eyes, and a league of desperate suitors. Completely unrealistic, by the way. How many men can conceivably be so devoted to one woman that they’ll give up all other aspects in their lives in order to vainly pursue her? None, that’s how many. Certainly not in this day and age.
Well, maybe three. But Victoria got rid of them eventually.
But anyhow. Professor du Maurier. Yes.
I believe the first thing she said to me was ‘May you travel gaily on the broken rainbow panels of your life; may you never experience the sour taste of anguish.’ Which, while quite nice in sentiment, was just a little much. And really, she never stopped talking like that, even when describing the effects of the Curse of the Bogies, which is not precisely something you can apply graceful language to. She also had an odd fixation on Snape, which really just cements her insanity right there. Anyone pathetic enough to find Snape remotely interesting . . . well, it’s just very unlikely that there is any hope for them.
Then there was Professor Ford, who I always thought was too old to be teaching. The poor man was all shriveled up and practically translucent. But did anyone listen to me when I voiced any concern about it? No, of course not! I’m just starry-eyed Auriga Sinistra, the lone Astronomy professor; what do I know?
Well, morbid as this sounds, I did allow myself a triumphant laugh or two when he fell over dead during the middle of a lesson. (May he rest in peace.)
People really should listen to me more often.
I must say, though, that I didn’t object at all to Professor Sandersought, who was a very, very nice change around here. Because he was a very gifted and devoted educator, and such. (Also, he looked amazing without a shirt - and no, I was not spying. I was simply passing by at a very convenient time. I don’t think I should be held accountable if the universe occasionally decides to have mercy on me.)
And contrary to popular belief, I still refuse to accept that I am the reason he quit.
Honestly! If a man said to you, ‘Why don’t you come to my office later so we can . . . discuss this further?’, what would you think he wanted? To talk about constellations, as he so claimed? (‘I was very interested in them as a child.’ Ha. Yeah right.)
He clearly just got cold feet, as when I decided to be a strong woman and make the first move, he yelled for me to get off of him. ‘You know, Auriga, I have been wondering for quite sometime why you knock on my door at the same time every Thursday night when I always happen to be getting undressed for bed, claiming you forgot the password to Albus’ office. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but now things have grown quite clear, and it’s scaring me.’ Bah! If this had really been the way he felt about things, then he certainly had no business parading around with his exceedingly finely chiseled facial features and truly exceptional chest.
The fact that he quit the next day was pure coincidence, thank you.
And I do not know how Snape found out about that little episode, but whoever told him will pay dearly, oh, believe you me. The slimy git taunted me with that for months.
But little does he know, I am all too aware of the episode where he was humming Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Spell on my Heart’, in the shower. (House elves can be such delightful creatures. And they tend to naturally like me. Sometimes a bit too much. But most of the time, it’s helpful.)
When the times comes, I will attack him with that knowledge full-force.
Don’t think I won’t.
11:21 A.M.
Not that I care enough to seriously plot revenge against the man. I’m not Professor du Maurier, or anything alarming like that.
It’s just that occasionally, when my mind isn’t otherwise occupied, I quite enjoy taking a moment or two to reflect upon the idea of inflicting severe pain and humiliation upon him.
That’s all.
2:46 P.M.
Oh, dear. Perhaps this year will prove to be a bit new and exciting after all. I was just speaking with Flitwick, and he reminded me that Harry Potter’s coming to Hogwarts this year. It’s such a strange notion that he’ll be coming to school just like any other eleven year old boy. Everyone will be fascinated with him, no doubt, and from what I’ve heard, the poor thing knows virtually nothing about our world.
I wonder if it would be unprofessional of me to give him a few extra credit points in Astronomy. He’ll be under enough pressure as is, no doubt - imagine having to worry about classes on top of all of that! And, all right, it’s probably not the strictest way to go about things, but not all of us can be McGonagall. And I think it would be very wrong indeed for Harry Potter to only receive eleven house points throughout his Hogwarts career! That sort of thing can stick with a child when they’re not incredibly well-adjusted like I was. And, well, poor Harry’s had such a tough time of it already.
I do hope I won’t spend too much time staring at him. And I’m vowing, right here and now, that I won’t ask for an autograph. That would just be tacky.
And besides, he’s bound to write his name on his homework papers.
Snape keeps twitching every time somebody mentions Harry. I suppose the fact that he and James (and Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew) used to be bitter rivals at school probably explains that. But still. The boy’s a child, for God’s sake; it’s not as though he’s the second coming of James Potter determined to jinx his hair pink and levitate him upside down all over again. Besides, Snape used to get on quite well with Lily in our first few years of school, and you’d think that he’d be able to look past the whole James bit and treat Harry decently because of it.
Not to mention that poor James and Pettigrew and Lupin all got theirs quite dreadfully, the poor things, and Snape’s done perfectly well in life. Though he could use a load more practice showering.
It’ll be a bit weird just having Harry around, honestly. It’s reached the point, finally, where it seems like the war’s done, you know; just a bad memory, and that’s it. And all of a sudden, the Boy Who Lived will be walking down the halls and eating in the Great Hall and it’ll just be one big reminder that it happened after all.
Perhaps I’ll give him eleven points for showing up to the lesson. That seems fair, doesn’t it?
2:56 A.M.
Bedroom Quarters
Oh, sweet stars. I should be in bed right now. I really should. In my defense, technically I am. It’s just that I also spent the last hour reading Year with the Yeti. Yes, yes, the Gilderoy Lockhart book. I know that some people think he’s a bit of a ponce. (Some people here being Snape, who is clearly just jealous. I am pretty sure there is no one with more haircare maintenance skill than Gilderoy Lockhart. His tress prowess is unsuppressed. Hee! Rhyming. Which I suppose is one of those things that is much, much funnier when one is tired.)
I didn’t even mean to get started on Year with the Yeti - again - but, well, I finished up the Moira K. Mockridge centaur romance novel, and it just went to places that I’m quite sure peoples’ brains really oughtn’t to go, ever. I can respect her for wanting to up the ante a bit creatively, of course, but there were certain things that I could not begin to be comfortable with, and not just because I am a sexless old spinster (though not by choice, mind you). And did she really have to get the unicorn involved at the end there? That just seemed unnecessary.
Moral of the story: no more Moira K. Mockridge. Not even when the title is Behoove Her to Surrender.
And the tagline is ‘His brightest star wouldn’t be found in the sky.’
Right.
Anyway, a bit of Gilderoy Lockhart seemed just the thing to cancel out the frightening, inappropriate-use-of-unicorn-type memories. Never mind what everyone else says - I’d like to see anybody else best a yeti with that much style! We could all learn a thing or two from Gilderoy Lockhart.
I suppose I could just finish it off - I do so love the part when he rescues the young lady the yeti’s dragged back to his lair - but I’d rather like to show up at breakfast tomorrow. I don’t want everyone to think I’m Trelawneyish, or nocturnal, or anything like that. They all think I’m a bit dotty already, and if I stopped showing up for regular mealtimes, who knows what they’d come up with?
Not that I care, or anything.
3:14 A.M.
Siiiiigh!
Oh, Tibetan maiden. You don’t know how lucky you are.
I wonder how hard it would be to get Gilderoy Lockhart to rescue me. Perhaps I could send him an owl about the giant squid, and just make it out to sound as dangerous as possible. Summer with the Squid. See? There’s a nice, solid, alliterative title for him already!
We are meant to be together.
3:16 A.M.
For the record, that was just a joke, that last bit. I obviously know that it is unrealistic to believe that I’m meant to be with Gilderoy Lockhart.
3:17 A.M.
But you have to admit that he’d be quite a good soulmate to have. Very handy in a crisis.
Not to mention utterly divine to look at.
3:18 A.M.
Summer with the Squid. Hmmm.
3:19 A.M.
Come to think of it, would it really be such a rash thing to do? I can swim, after all. Mostly. A bit.
3:20 A.M.
I can’t really swim.
3:21 A.M.
Not that that is a concern in the first place, because there’s no way Gilderoy Lockhart would let me drown. It’s just not in his nature.
3:22 A.M.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Siiiigh.
3:28 A.M.
I am going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to judge me. And I know you won’t, because you are a notebook, but let’s not get into that again.
I haven’t had a boyfriend since Paul.
Nearly five years ago.
And by ‘nearly five years,’ I actually mean ‘very, very, very nearly five years,’ because we broke up at the start of September. Soon, I’m going to have to stop saying ‘nearly five years’ and just start saying ‘five years.’ That’s how nearly five years ago it was.
So there. There it is.
I, at the depressing age of thirty-one, am so single that the fourth years who can’t look at each other while they hold hands think I’m pathetic.
Not to say that I haven’t been dating, precisely. In fact, I have!
Six times.
In nearly (nearly) five years.
And in only one of those circumstances did the bloke actually attempt to come home with me afterwards, and that turned out to be because dinner really hadn’t agreed with him and he was in quite desperate need of the bathroom.
But the thing is, it gets worse.
(Well, not the bathroom incident. That was about as bad as it could have possibly been.)
In terms of the actual boyfriend count, I’ve had two. I know that I said the thing earlier about Paul being my only serious boyfriend, but, well, the truth is, my relationship with my ‘unserious boyfriend’ was this-
He was my partner on a project in Charms in sixth year, and he walked me to class for two weeks before becoming completely smitten with Andromeda Black. (The poor thing, there was no hope for him. Mrs. Black must’ve had an affair that led to Andromeda, because she wasn’t the spawn of Satan like her sisters, but she still had certain standards. This was the sort of boy girls with standards stayed away from. Not that I didn’t have any standards. I was just generous, you see. And kind. Very . . . very, very kind.)
The other was, of course, good old Paul, who turned out to be as reprehensible as one human being can conceivably be without just fully morphing into Severus Snape. He never bought me things or remembered my birthday, refused to allow his hands anywhere near my face for fear that his fingers might get stuck in my hair (honestly, that happened once - what a baby), and was very easily distracted by Leaky Cauldron barmaids. Ones named Felicia, in particular, but he wasn’t picky, truth be told.
Luckily, I came to my senses and chose not to waste anymore time on him.
After two and a half years.
And, coincidentally, I just so happened to make this decision the day he left me for aforementioned skanky Felicia.
Still, I like to think that I ended things.
He, after all, did not throw a lamp at my head. I was certainly in the power position in that particular situation.
It loses a bit of edge when one considers I took him to the hospital as soon as I saw that he was bleeding and felt rather terrible about it until the next morning when Felicia came to pick him up and the last thing he said to me was, and I quote, “Hey, Sinistra -- stop being such a basketcase and maybe you’ll find some other bloke eventually. Cheers.”
Oh, Paul.
Honestly, at this point, he sounds almost charming.
It’s not that I’m desperate, precisely. I wouldn’t just fall madly head over heels for the first man who displayed the slightest bit of interest in me. Please! I have plenty of morals and standards (carefully developed over the years) and all of that ridiculous business. It’s just that it gets a bit lonely, that’s all.
I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since that little unfortunate episode with Professor Sandersought two years ago, and that wasn’t a kiss so much as my mouth barely brushing against his for a split second before colliding with his knee because he jumped up so fast in an effort to pull away.
Which wasn’t exactly romantic. Especially because it set him off railing about me biting him on the knee. Please. I’m not Esmé from Behoove Her to Surrender. (Do centaurs even have proper knees? I suppose they need them to run, and all, but still. I never thought I’d devote actual thought to centaur knees, yet alone find myself all shuddery and repulsed about them.)
And, well, yes. That is about the extent of my recent amorous pursuits.
3:35 A.M.
Well, perhaps not quite the extent. You see, there was also that time with . . .
3:36 A.M.
Never mind about that.
3:37 A.M.
It doesn’t count when there’s love potion involved, anyhow. Those are just the rules. The rules of snogging.
3:38 A.M.
We were completely powerless, mind. The both of us. It’s not the sort of thing either of us would have ever done, were we not compelled by powerful magical forces.
3:39 A.M.
Besides, it’s not as though I can really even remember any of it! Love potions make one’s brain go a bit wonky. Not to mention being in that close a proximity to certain bastard-type people. It’s enough to make anyone repress things.
3:40 A.M.
It’s not as though it was even good snogging, anyhow.
3:41 A.M.
I would think.
3:42 A.M.
If I remembered it.
3:43 A.M.
This, of course, is all just conjecture.
3:44 A.M.
And if I could remember it and I did remember it being anything other than bad, it would clearly be due to that thing I mentioned before. With love potions turning one’s brain wonky, and all. The incident was entirely the fault of wonky brains, and should not be thought of ever again.
3:49 A.M.
Stupid Valentine’s Day. Stupid prankster seventh years. Stupid easily accessible jug of pumpkin juice at the teacher’s table, just begging to be spiked with kissing concoction.
3:50 A.M.
Victoria snogged Flitwick! How come no one ever remembers that, hmm?
3:51 A.M.
Great. Now I’m all plagued with thoughts of . . . never mind. Nothing. I miss the centaur knees.
3:52 A.M.
Perhaps I will finish up Year with the Yeti and move right on to Gadding with Ghouls.
I do love Gadding with Ghouls.