Productive.
So. We were summoned to the Ministry about the amazing disappearing Goyle. Thankfully, Potter had enough sway to keep us from the indignity of being dosed with Veritaserum, but I don't feel we were entirely believable with our story of Goyle dropping Oscar on our doorstep for a Boxing Day filled with fun and games, and then simply not bothering to collect him at the end of it. I tactfully pointed out that the holidays are rife with desperate people being led to do desperate things---there's a reason the suicide rate is through the roof at this time of year, isn't there? Evidently, my hypothesizing didn't endear me to the investigators, but there was hardly enough proof to hold us as co-conspirators. We've been allowed to keep Oscar indefinitely, pending future events.
While we were there, I turned in a stack of applications for grants, scholarships, and other mundane daily needs that had been neglected for decades. Potter can whinge until he's blue in the face, but I fully intend to milk the Ministry of every last Knut we have coming to us. I don't think Potter grasps the notion that every spare bit of money we can collect will go toward improving the lives of every last child there, and that every bit of our own money we save is money left for future projects the Ministry doesn't care to fund. (Like elves. Although I did manage to wrangle a list of elves registered as currently lacking ownership, whether they like it or not. This will be one of my next tasks, I reckon.)
Potter is in trouble, anyhow, because he keeps accosting me when I'm working on filling out the tedious things. Why paying bills and sorting out paperwork gets him hot under the collar I may never know, but I do know that one of my arsecheeks is still stained indigo blue from the ink pot he upset during one of his sneak attacks. I hope no one from the Ministry's Health Department notices the ejaculate on our permanent-placement Mediwitch request form.
Molly Weasley has graciously accepted Potter's pleas for help, and has been cooking like a woman possessed, as the kitchens at Widdleton will be out of commission while I have them thoroughly disinfected and . . . updated. Even after a thorough cleaning, the thought of eating much of anything prepared in that rat hole makes me vaguely ill. The flooring is permanently stained, as are the countertops. The walls are filthy and splattered with Merlin knows how many years worth of shoddy cooking. I've had industrial-sized refrigerators installed to hold everything that will tide the kids over while things are out of commission, but the rest can certainly wait until after the renovation. Pre-cooked things that can be heated up with a single spell are going to be the next big thing, I say.
When I wasn't busy mentally rehearsing my lines for the Aurors or taking inventory of the soups, stews and casseroles Mrs. Weasley has been slaving over, I ransacked my storage cabinets like a Niffler on hallucinogenic potions. Perhaps, deep down, I always knew there was a reason beyond my own neurotic inability to part with My Babies' history. Now, I've come to realize that hoarding all of the toys, games, trinkets, and every last pair of socks was merely for a purpose I'd yet to fully realize, and that purpose is Widdleton. I suppose none of this will do the older brats much good, but for the ones that are younger than Muffin, Morty and The King, this shall be like the second coming of Christmas. On the other hand, it's the older kids I expect will get more out of trips to the shops to find their own sense of style. The girls from Madam Malkin's shop will be here this week for uniform fittings, actually . . . weather permitting.
While we were there, I turned in a stack of applications for grants, scholarships, and other mundane daily needs that had been neglected for decades. Potter can whinge until he's blue in the face, but I fully intend to milk the Ministry of every last Knut we have coming to us. I don't think Potter grasps the notion that every spare bit of money we can collect will go toward improving the lives of every last child there, and that every bit of our own money we save is money left for future projects the Ministry doesn't care to fund. (Like elves. Although I did manage to wrangle a list of elves registered as currently lacking ownership, whether they like it or not. This will be one of my next tasks, I reckon.)
Potter is in trouble, anyhow, because he keeps accosting me when I'm working on filling out the tedious things. Why paying bills and sorting out paperwork gets him hot under the collar I may never know, but I do know that one of my arsecheeks is still stained indigo blue from the ink pot he upset during one of his sneak attacks. I hope no one from the Ministry's Health Department notices the ejaculate on our permanent-placement Mediwitch request form.
Molly Weasley has graciously accepted Potter's pleas for help, and has been cooking like a woman possessed, as the kitchens at Widdleton will be out of commission while I have them thoroughly disinfected and . . . updated. Even after a thorough cleaning, the thought of eating much of anything prepared in that rat hole makes me vaguely ill. The flooring is permanently stained, as are the countertops. The walls are filthy and splattered with Merlin knows how many years worth of shoddy cooking. I've had industrial-sized refrigerators installed to hold everything that will tide the kids over while things are out of commission, but the rest can certainly wait until after the renovation. Pre-cooked things that can be heated up with a single spell are going to be the next big thing, I say.
When I wasn't busy mentally rehearsing my lines for the Aurors or taking inventory of the soups, stews and casseroles Mrs. Weasley has been slaving over, I ransacked my storage cabinets like a Niffler on hallucinogenic potions. Perhaps, deep down, I always knew there was a reason beyond my own neurotic inability to part with My Babies' history. Now, I've come to realize that hoarding all of the toys, games, trinkets, and every last pair of socks was merely for a purpose I'd yet to fully realize, and that purpose is Widdleton. I suppose none of this will do the older brats much good, but for the ones that are younger than Muffin, Morty and The King, this shall be like the second coming of Christmas. On the other hand, it's the older kids I expect will get more out of trips to the shops to find their own sense of style. The girls from Madam Malkin's shop will be here this week for uniform fittings, actually . . . weather permitting.