Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Erm. Hi. I'm not dead. And... surprise, surprise, neither is Diaries. It lives! If only because of phoenixorder and the wonderful S/S going on over there, where I play Snape and get inspiration for Diaries. And, it helps having Nita (She's A Star, mad goddess author of Lamentations) bug me constantly about writing. And... all the reviews and e- mails asking and begging for updates and yeah. I was slightly afraid you were all going to attack in true house elf manner.

But look! A new chapter! And perhaps, I shall write another one before another 11 months passes. And maybe one day I'll catch up with Nita. But I doubt it. I've been very into the original fic writing thing, and occasionally have a life (gasp!) I know, I know. Lives are overrated. And then school will start and I will have no time again and... meep. I apologize. I'll try to write more! I really will!

... please don't hurt me.

-Part Nine-

14 September 1991

Chambers

11:54 p.m.

Okay. So I accidentally took her sweater back to my room. That's not a crime. Well... I suppose one could classify it as stealing, but it wasn't. I swear, it wasn't stealing. It's not like I... want her sweater, like I took it for any subconscious sexual reason.

Because I didn't.

I was merely distracted.

11:57 p.m.

Who wouldn't have been distracted?

I mean, I realize we are talking about Auriga Sinistra, the battiest excuse for a professor since Destiny du Maurier (TwitchShudderSneer), but she is still a woman (at least, I'm fairly certain of this), and her shirt was off.

What was I supposed to do?

11:59 p.m.

Of course, I suppose 'take her sweater' isn't the first answer that would pop into most sane persons' heads.

But after a night of discovering Sinistra's list of paramours includes the turbaned wonder, his creepy green sex toy of an iguana, and a deranged House-elf, who could really be blamed for losing their head a bit?

Personally, any of those alone would be enough to do me in.

12:01 a.m.

All those years with the Dark Lord have made me strong.

12:02 a.m.

Unfortunately, I seemed to have cracked.

Damn House-elf. He did me in. Quirrell and the iguana I could have handled. But a House-elf?

The Dark Lord himself would have cracked.

12:04 a.m.

Not to say that He was quite right in the head to begin with.

12:05 a.m.

I'm going to bed.

12:27 a.m.

Dammit. Her sweater is still sitting on my desk.

12:30 a.m.

Well, it's too late to take it back now. Besides, I do not think it would be the best idea in the world to show up at Auriga's door at this time of night. Especially considering the most unfortunate events of the night.

12:32 a.m.

Besides, who knows who's in there with her now.

12:33 a.m.

Probably Hagrid.

12:35 a.m.

Heh. Hagrid.

12:36 a.m.

... ugh.

15 September 1991

Chambers

7:27 a.m.

Damn. Have now been plagued all night by dreams... no, by nightmares of Hagrid wearing Sinistra's pink sweater.

7:31 a.m.

I suppose I should take her sweater back today.

But... what, precisely, am I supposed to say? "I'm sorry, but this seems to have Apparated into my quarters. Please control your clothing from now on."

... maybe not.

"I mistook this for my sweater. Unfortunately, yours seems to be too big."

Smart idea. Claim you own pink sweaters and call an already dangerously unbalanced woman overweight. No, thank you.

Maybe I can just throw open her door, hurl the blasted shirt at her, and then stalk away.

Perfect.

... of course, we saw what happened the last time I simply entered her rooms. I'd probably end up with more than her shirt thrown in my face.

Shudder.

Maybe... maybe she won't notice that it's missing. You know how women are... they have so many clothes that they never notice if you happen to walk off with a particularly soft pink sweater and leave it lying on your desk for a few days.

Though somehow I doubt Auriga is quite the clothes-horse her friend Vector is.

I'll simply... throw it out and claim ignorance of the whole situation. What is she going to do, burst into my classroom and demand, in a spectacularly embarrassing display, the return of her sweater?

... I think not.

Perhaps this could use a bit more thought. She probably hasn't even thought about it. She'll most likely be too busy dealing with her new little nickname.

Luckily, I, being the man in the situation (well, one of them, at least), will be above such reproof. Lovely little double-standard, isn't it? Besides, I'm Severus S. Snape, Potions Master and Dreaded Evil Bastard of Hogwarts. No one even dares look at me cross-eyed. Well, except Albus. But I'm planning on avoiding him for the next few days to prevent any unwanted commentary.

Ah, an owl has just arrived.

8:03 a.m.

Damn him.

8:04 a.m.

Of all the unbelievable nerve.

8:05 a.m.

He sent me... a clipping from The Daily Prophet. An advertisement for "Couples Counseling. What to do when you catch your loved one casting her spell over another man."

I hate him.

8:10 a.m.

And, to specify, Auriga Sinistra is most certainly not my loved one. Or... any kind of one. She's not even a one to me. She's more like a .25, really.

8:11. a.m.

Maybe a .5, on her better days.

8:12 a.m.

Perhaps a .75, just to be fair.

8:13 a.m.

Why am I even discussing this?

8:14 a.m.

Shut up.

8:15 a.m.

Isn't there a disorder where one writes compulsively, with no real reason or purpose? They just keep writing every single little ridiculous thing that comes into their mind, just because they have to. It's a compulsive thing, like washing one's hands too many times or wanting to push up Auriga's glasses every time they slip down her nose. No. Not like that. Not like that at all. Because that is simply an annoyance that must be corrected. Not a compulsion. And doesn't she know that they have spells for that sort of thing? It's so bloody distracting at the breakfast table, when one is trying to glower menacingly at her and forget the fact that he has her pink sweater sitting on his desk, and then her glasses slide down her nose while she's eating... and... not that I would know, of course. Because I don't. Except for the fact that her sweater is still sitting on my desk. And her glasses were sliding down her nose at breakfast this morning. But that's really none of my concern. Because I am above such petty things. I... cannot stop writing.

... dear God.

I need help.

Teacher's Lounge

12:05 p.m.

Hmm. Did not realize that I had brought this with me. Surely it must have just been with my books and I didn't bring it along, by any means, in case I felt the need to write.

Because that's not what I'm doing now.

12:09 p.m.

I don't need to write in here.

12:10 p.m.

In fact, I could simply not write in here for the rest of the day.

Easy.

12:11 p.m.

I have quite the busy schedule, you know. No time for such petty trivial things like journal-writing.

12:13 p.m.

Right. Not writing.

12:14 p.m.

Starting now.

5:36 p.m.

So far, so good. Have not written in my dia... in here all day, despite what happened in class with Potter toda...

5:37 p.m.

Dammit.

16 September 1991

Classroom

3:21 p.m.

It has been... ten hours and sixteen minutes since my last entry. And of course, I didn't keep coming back to the ridiculous notebook, open it, and stare at it, envisioning what I could be writing, picking up my pen every other minute before putting it down again...

Because that would be unhealthy.

No, indeed. I had a very productive day of... well... teaching classes. And then there was lunch. And some time well-spent stalking the halls of Hogwarts looking for unsuspecting Gryffindors... er... students. And then dinner. And some well-timed sneering. And smirking over the fact that Auriga Sinistra is a ridiculous twit of a woman with a reputation as big as her hair. And honestly, if she would choose Quirrell and his freak iguana over someone like me, then she deserves every ounce of humiliation she may receive.

3:39 p.m.

Not that I wanted her to choose me.

Ever.

Because I don't. At all. The very idea is horror-inducing. Myself and Sinistra. Ha.

... haven't we been over this topic before?

The idea is absurd.

I would never in a million years. Not if she were the last living woman on earth. Not even if I had to choose between her and Destiny du Maurier. Because I would kill myself first.

Auriga Sinistra is... is... well...

Hmm.

Auriga Sinistra is beneath me. Yes. Beneath me.

3:53 p.m.

That was not meant in any sexual positioning terms. Because... shudder.

I intended it as in regards to worth. She is not at my standard. Not one bit. She is starry-eyed and flighty and unkempt and foolish and... many other things, I am certain.

And she drives one mad. She is the reason, I have decided, that I have to write in this thing anyway. It's pathetic how many times her name appears in these pages. One would almost think I were in love with her, were they not me and therefore they would not know better. Because I'm not. Ha. I would sooner kiss Quirrell's iguana.

... though the disgusting thing would probably bite me.

She has somehow gotten inside my head, is the plain facts. She has gotten inside my head and done things to me that are not at all pleasant.

Never before have I been apt to steal pink sweaters or to be seduced by women trying to seduce someone else. It's all her fault.

And I will no longer subject myself to it.

As of now, Auriga Sinistra will no longer cause me to commit the ridiculous. She will no longer consume the pages of my journal. Hell, I may no longer need a journal. My life will return to its normal, mundane existence of teaching morons and hating Harry Potter and being a general bastard to all. There will be nothing to write about, and I will be perfectly content with that.

Auriga Sinistra will be beneath me, from now on.

4:15 p.m.

Still not sexually.