(no subject)
Locked to the Safehouses.
I don't care how dreadful the weather is. The next student I catch trying to fly a broom in the corridors will find themselves apprenticed to Mr Filch until I stop finding it amusing indefinitely.
Locked to Remus Lupin.
The potion is ready for the water to be added. Don't attempt to give it to me here at the school. I will meet you outside the wards at Godric's Hollow tomorrow evening at ten o'clock. Tell no-one that you are coming.
Private.
Things are moving faster than I ever could have anticipated. It's as though time is passing differently inside the wards at Godric's Hollow. A standard reduction that should have taken three hours was complete in less than two. If it were only heat processes that were accelerated, I'd put it down to some strange feature of the forge itself, but fermentation has taken place in barely two nights, and distillation in three, and there are
times when I don't remember anything after walking through the wards.
I probably ought to be more concerned about that.
I tried to make a batch of emotion suppressant yesterday morning - evidently fate had other plans in mind. On my last foraging trip I came back with a sackful of Lythrum salicaria instead of L. virgatum: a ridiculous mistake to make and one that I would have taken House Points for, were a student to do the same, and I didn't notice a thing until the cauldron began to spit acid-yellow sparks. The whole lot had to be tipped away and while it would have done nothing for my mood, it seems to have made short work of the persistent malachite green stain around the drain.
Circe, I could do with a decent ni