And so the year began. On a miserable day in my miserable life in a miserable castle. I’m talking about the school year, of course. Who would talk so drearily about the New Year? It happens to be my favorite holiday besides Purim.
But anyway, I remember this day very clearly because my dungeon was leaking (and in my life, these are the only things one remembers), and the dripping on my head, reminiscent of Chinese water torture, gave me a slight twitch that plagued me all through dinner.
And unfortunately the beginning was the best part of the day.
The students arrived that night. Just like any other year, they came crashing through the doors, yelling and giggling and stinking up the place. Only worse. For Potter was there. Oh yes. He was. I know. It’s mad. Harry. Potter. There.
I girded my loins and readied myself for battle.
Of course I knew all along he was coming I just didn’t realize he was actually coming. When I first got a look at him I had twelve minor heart attacks, one stroke, and 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 Golden Gates of Boredom, so I looked down at the students and I caught eyes with Potter, after which he promptly smacked himself on the stupidly scarred forehead. That can’t be normal behavior.
Gah! I can’t think of any more! No matter, they will come. I must breathe.
After that, nothing very momentous happened. Except Dumbledore commented on my twitch, which excited a sort of murderous instinct that took all my mind power and Buddhist meditation training to put down. Of course he only commented because one particularly violent twitch dumped all my pumpkin juice down the front of him (rather more impressive than it seems, as he was sitting three chairs away from me), but really it was probably Quirrel’s fault deep down anyway, given his mental stability.
But I was already angry with Dumbledore. Only the day before I had asked (again) why he felt I was not appropriate for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job when he clearly felt that a mass of turbaned nothingness was. Well, I didn’t really ask him, per se. I took all of his fuzzy socks hostage (harder than you might think—they were locked in an underground 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 lingered 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. I cleverly figured that Dumbledore would never look there, since he knew that “Fluffy” was after his blood since he had stolen its tambourine.
Ha. I am almost smiling. . .but not quite, mind you.
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