4/9/42, later
The Hog's Head is the same as it's always been: filthy, for the most part. Aberforth made fun of my preference in drinks even though he knows perfectly well that nothing can get you drunker faster than enough Whizzbee Fizzes. He is as incoherent and unreliable as ever and his inappropriately familiar familiar attempted to become inappropriately familiar with my robes, resulting in the loss of several magnets and mirrors, which, while inexpensive trinkets at best, are probably not good for Fiona's digestion.
I don't think that this is going to work out.
We're a week into term and I need to find someone else fast. Abraxas could do the job; so, for that matter, could the Canadian Auror who's been wandering about the castle. I'm sure there are other possibilities I've not thought of. Damn it, Aegenwulf, why did you have to go and sicken on me so quickly? Poor Cyneheard, how terrible to lose his sons that way. He was always so good to us when I was a boy. Not like a lot of the Old Blood, especially some I could name but prefer not to.