(no subject)
Celebrating the martyrdom of some hapless Muggle twit who died centuries ago as...what was that expression I heard in my film book? Ah, yes -- a "secular, commercialized, elitist conspiracy to make those not engaged in soppy, affectionate slobbering to eat massive quantities of chocolate and lose their figure" has to be one of the most pointless ideas in all of human history.
I mean, really. It is akin to giving your cherished cart blanche to ignore and mistreat you the other 364 days of the calendar year. There's nothing like an emotional, over-glorified, romantic deluge to wipe away all past, present, and future wrongs one's love inflicts. How banal.
Did I say banal? I meant plebeian.
Crabbe and Goyle seem to have forgotten the walloping I gave the latter last year for the incident with Pucey and Quidditch. I'd hate to have dumber, animate clones of their fathers holding a grudge, for all that they can't form a coherent brain seizure between them.
Speaking of Quidditch, the new broom is bloody fantastic. I've changed my mind; if Potty decides not to use his, that's his problem, isn't it?
Something about last fall still bothers me...or was it last summer? I can't remember with all of this work and NEWT preparation. Not to mention father's spell books.
There are several written in Greek that proved fairly easy to de-hex. Then he switched to Medieval Coptic, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Cuneiform, something that looks like Old Norse and Merlin knows what else. They'll take months to translate, and several texts I'll need to track down. Mother must have taught him some of this. Or someone else. He was brilliant, but not THAT brilliant.
He never should have let me have them back. Before the year is out, he'll wish his ancestors had never been born.
Which leads me back to that central question...
Are they trustworthy?
Can I use them?
Puzzles, indeed.
I mean, really. It is akin to giving your cherished cart blanche to ignore and mistreat you the other 364 days of the calendar year. There's nothing like an emotional, over-glorified, romantic deluge to wipe away all past, present, and future wrongs one's love inflicts. How banal.
Did I say banal? I meant plebeian.
Crabbe and Goyle seem to have forgotten the walloping I gave the latter last year for the incident with Pucey and Quidditch. I'd hate to have dumber, animate clones of their fathers holding a grudge, for all that they can't form a coherent brain seizure between them.
Speaking of Quidditch, the new broom is bloody fantastic. I've changed my mind; if Potty decides not to use his, that's his problem, isn't it?
Something about last fall still bothers me...or was it last summer? I can't remember with all of this work and NEWT preparation. Not to mention father's spell books.
There are several written in Greek that proved fairly easy to de-hex. Then he switched to Medieval Coptic, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Cuneiform, something that looks like Old Norse and Merlin knows what else. They'll take months to translate, and several texts I'll need to track down. Mother must have taught him some of this. Or someone else. He was brilliant, but not THAT brilliant.
He never should have let me have them back. Before the year is out, he'll wish his ancestors had never been born.
Which leads me back to that central question...
Are they trustworthy?
Can I use them?
Puzzles, indeed.