The final word.
In the realm of legalities, Goyle has been remanded to Azkaban for a period of six months, and his sentence is more brief than I had hoped for when he decided to put his fate in the hands of bureaucrats. In waiving his right to a proper trial and dragging this nonsense out indefinitely, our solicitor was able to negotiate Goyle's admission of relative guilt into a plea fit for light sentencing. Maxwell, on the other hand, shall likely be handed over to the Russians to deal with. He overstayed his travels to begin with, and thankfully, Russia is not in Europe, and therefore not in the EU. No whinging for asylum will save him now.
At this point, Nott's trial is practically a formality. Potter and I are more than willing to testify to the horrors he and his idiot son have unleashed upon our family, but I had to draw the line at allowing My Son to join us on the stand. What good could possibly come of a child giving his voice to things that occurred more than two years ago? Things I pray he's mostly forgotten, for the sake of his own mental health? There are absolutely limits to what I will allow my children to endure. The prosecution wasn't best pleased about it, but it isn't as if they haven't got a solid enough case without the words of a little boy.
The way I see it, little boys and girls ought to be enjoying themselves and the last stretch of summer before them. As such, I've commissioned a Quidditch pitch to be erected at Widdleton. It is a thing of glory. The goal posts are of changeable height, depending on who might be playing, as is the seating at the sidelines. All of the balls are suitably padded and have been charmed not to leave the perimeter I've designated, so no equipment or rogue brats on broomsticks will be lost.
Potter is under the impression that this is a gift for him, and since even I can admit the timing is suspect, there isn't much else I can do but allow him to believe. I find Potter increasingly difficult to buy for in his old age. Still, I find that giving the gift of sport is far less emotionally taxing than committing to three-quarters of a year of physical enslavement followed by a lifetime of slavery of the emotional sort, which was nearly my only other option for lack of anything suitably poignant. It would certainly be a surprise, if nothing else.
At this point, Nott's trial is practically a formality. Potter and I are more than willing to testify to the horrors he and his idiot son have unleashed upon our family, but I had to draw the line at allowing My Son to join us on the stand. What good could possibly come of a child giving his voice to things that occurred more than two years ago? Things I pray he's mostly forgotten, for the sake of his own mental health? There are absolutely limits to what I will allow my children to endure. The prosecution wasn't best pleased about it, but it isn't as if they haven't got a solid enough case without the words of a little boy.
The way I see it, little boys and girls ought to be enjoying themselves and the last stretch of summer before them. As such, I've commissioned a Quidditch pitch to be erected at Widdleton. It is a thing of glory. The goal posts are of changeable height, depending on who might be playing, as is the seating at the sidelines. All of the balls are suitably padded and have been charmed not to leave the perimeter I've designated, so no equipment or rogue brats on broomsticks will be lost.
Potter is under the impression that this is a gift for him, and since even I can admit the timing is suspect, there isn't much else I can do but allow him to believe. I find Potter increasingly difficult to buy for in his old age. Still, I find that giving the gift of sport is far less emotionally taxing than committing to three-quarters of a year of physical enslavement followed by a lifetime of slavery of the emotional sort, which was nearly my only other option for lack of anything suitably poignant. It would certainly be a surprise, if nothing else.