The Almost Normal

@Jack Dyllan


It started with Scorp in third year.

They already chattered to each other constantly. But having opted for different subjects and just recently having discovered the narcissistic joy of being angsty teenagers who ‘only understood each other’- communicating throughout the day was imperative. Albus had also just discovered this delightful Muggle invention called texting and it absolutely infuriated him that being at a magical school did not mesh well with it. So what resulted was a sheet of parchment filled with scribbles about the random things he wished to share with his best mate during the day- something he scrunched up into a ball and pelted at said blonde’s head at the end of said day. The Malfoy however, being the aggravating twit that he was, proceeded to pompously read out each scribble and attempt to decipher the context, which of course led to an evening of utter hilarity- and so the tradition commenced.

Of course, unlike Fred or James or so many other, normal people- Albus had never really had many close friends. It had mostly only been Scorpius, and after they’d……had their spat, it was no one. No one to share blow-by-blow daily thoughts with, no one to snark at, no one to continue lame traditions with. In the defence of the people around him…….it had been more of his self-consciousness and dependence on masks rather than their judgement, but so it had been, and so it would probably have continued- until now.

muggles are brilliant but their snog stinks up the air

Smog I mean. Their snogging is terrible too. One of the advantages of the stupid-arse conservativeness of wizards- no rampant PDA.

My salad tastes delicious. Tell your burgers to go f*ck themselves.

I saw a painting of a tree today, with snow sliding off the dead, withered branches. It almost looked like someone had peeled the bark back and exposed the white skeleton underneath, brittle and breakable.

Grabbed a burger during lunch. The organic kale salad in my stomach hates me.

Aurelia actually likes kale- I dished up a kale and quinoa concoction today, with tiny currants for sweet interruptions, and she didn’t read her book at the table, which meant she absolutely adored it. Wait, do you know who Aurelia is?

…..and that’s how far he’d gotten, before stopping and staring at the slightly wrinkled scrap of parchment he’d been scribbling on the entire day, and deciding he was certifiably insane. Athena was still at uni though, and his words were stuttering up in his throat, clustered together in the indigo ink dripping from his quill, clogging up the tip of his ballpoint pen. Besides, letter writing was a pure and noble wizarding tradition, was it not? Nothing weird about it at all, even if the letter was the physical manifestation of ‘so-we-had-a-true-and-honest-discussion-without-it-turning-dramatic-tell-me-I-didn’t-dream-that-up’.

Dyll Jack,

Are we alrigh are you happ there’s a real live woman living with so muggles and smog

How’s your day been?

Albus

It was one of those days where Jack was putting out fires everywhere. At the Department of Mysteries, she had to check between a few rooms to mark changes, improvements, etc. Then it was back to her office, where another slew of files had fallen into her inbox. With one hand, she breezed through a file, flipping the pages and taking in the information, the other flicking her wand to duplicate the file she needed and send it off to Fred or Michael or whoever she thought might be interested in teaming with her.

That sorted, she crossed the way to knock on Fred's door, receiving the usual treatment of Dyllan, I've got better things to do than sort our the mess that is your life or whatever he said - she tried to tune him out most days. But she told him to check his own box and that was all she needed.

As she crossed the Ministry to check in with Bishop about Marek, she was approached by an old coworker from the Department of Fluffies. She listened to his proposal and promised a solid answer by the end of the day, arriving just to be informed that Bishop had stepped out on a call. She left a note, and hurried back.

As she re-entered her office, she spotted a new letter on her desk and she sighed, assuming snarky "thanks but no thanks" letter from Fred about any of the new projects. Instead, it was a handwriting she was not so familiar with. Her eyes found the bottom of the page and with a smile she sank down into her chair, allowing this to be the reminder that she did need to breathe.

Albus,

Oh you know. Good day. Got a letter from a friend of mine, had to take him to the hospital because he had obviously had some sort of stroke.

What's this about muggles and smog? And everything else?

-Jack

PS. Really, I've had a crazy day at work but I'm good. Crazy helps my sanity.

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Stroke? Of course you spent your day heroically rushing half-dead people to hospital and saving li- shit. sorry

I don’t know why I keep doing this. Habit I guess. You deserve bett

Salazar, I’m doing it again. But can you really fault me? All these messed up ideas society inserts into our heads about karma and deserving and ultimately judging

Attempt [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

Jack,

So glad to hear your day’s going well. Which is surprising if you’re still working with Fred- that man can give anyone a stroke. And that delightfully inappropriate segue way brings me to: which friend? Lucky that you were available to help; hope he gets better soon, give him my regards.

Never mind the smog and other nonsense, it was just my Dicta Quill acting up-

f*ck, I’m making myself sick. I clearly have a gift – I’ve never read such fake-ass, plastic words in my life. How do you bear me?

Attempt [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

oh you were. you were talking about me. I thought the stroke thing…..I feel like an idiot.

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The day my first and only book was due to be published, I promised myself in a suitably dramatic fashion, as one does; that the only lie I’d ever write on the page was my pseudonym.
Of course, then the Quibbler followed it up with the review: ‘the author is either delightfully acerbic or absolutely serious, and the reader’s inability to make out which is alternately interesting and infuriating.” Which means the most appealing thing about my writing is my own inability to tell the difference between my lies- and what use is a mask you can’t take off?

There’s something about the shape of letters on a page, that makes……me, if not anyone else, incredibly aware of the intent behind them. Because that’s what letters are- intent given form and meaning, and if that substance is hollow, then the words fall through. Which basically just translates to- bullshit is easier for me to read than hear.

This is an apology for all the bullshit you’ve had to hear over the years from me.

• Smog is basically smoke particles suspended in fog, thereby making it thicker and unhealthier than the regular kind- Muggles coined it mostly because they’re responsible for it, wizards just call it ‘pea soup fog’ and consider it another natural phenomenon of the universe. Smog blocks out the sunlight, especially in winter; which I hate, because winter sunlight is cold and bright and flying under it is one of the best things in the world, only second to flying under the stars. But Muggles spoiled that with smog and I get irked at them because of it, and wizards usually irk me more- but they’re more environmentally friendly than Muggles. Even though its more by accident and backwardness than anything else.
  

• I was concerned if you were doing alright. But obviously you’re just dandy if you have time to scoff at me (snark totally doesn’t count as bullshit).
  

…so there’s something I need to-

• Okay, remember Athena Goyle? Became a Rookwood couple years after she graduated, served a brief stint in Azkaban. I kind of…..bumped into her with her kids at Diagon and we got around to talking because [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.] – damn, Fred was right, hashtags are terribly addictive, shit this no bullshit rule is harder than I expec- I bumped into her again the night I left Layabout after our….after that night. There was something about her- our loneliness just seemed to fit into each other’s spaces, I guess. She gets the….pain, maybe? The quandary? I don’t know, telling the truth is hard when I don’t know what it is. But she got me out of Ministry custody when I refused to go along with the marriage law, Merlin knows why, and she was slowly getting throttled in her home and I just…..couldn’t help but offer her an alternate option, I suppose.
  
  The crux of it, is that she and her kids are staying over at my place now. Its probably…it is temporary, even though we got the walls painted.
  

Crazy in the world helps you think your insanity is commonplace and justified. I’d know.

Albus

I       Oh. Athena Goyle. I remember her. You She's living

Rip. New Page.

Albus,

Not lying is a good promise. A hard one. One

Crumple. New page.

Albus,

I didn't know you wrote a book. I can tell you're endeavoring to be open... like really open, so I'll try to keep the deflective humor at bay the best I can. That's hard because, as you know, I am a brick that feels no emotion- there I go again.

I wish I could be as poetic about the idea of letter-writing as you are. Most of the words I have written have typically either been exceedingly practical or utter bullshit - all those Potions essays, you know. But the one thing that's pretty cool about written letters is their permanence. I can't go back and say you said something you didn't if the words are there. I mean, I could, but I'd look like a horse's ass. When you write something, it's really much harder to take it back, harder to explain it away, or claim your tone meant something else or you chose the wrong word. It's a much more deliberate, permanent way of communicating.

We're past apologies    No need to     Thanks. And the same for my own.

Thanks for the lesson, sir, but I'm actually a muggleborn, in case you forgot, so I do know what smog is. Never took you for a hippie- SORRY. I'd try to stifle that tendency but it's hard to do that when you're as naturally hilarious as I am.

Anyway.

Yes. People suck. We ruin everything that is good (just like the MoM, hey-o... Sorry. Again). I'm surprised there hasn't been some sort of green movement among wizards. I mean, we have the ability to alter the weather. I know it's fleeting and usually based more in perception than actually changing the climate, but we have spells that can do some sort of good. I'm sure there's some way to create a magical filter for those toxins. I suppose you'd have to figure out where to put them, as you can't just make something disappear, it's gotta go somewhere-

Well look what you just did. Your cousin is going to hate me because I just came up with another riddle for him to solve.

Thanks for the concern. I actually am. Our talk was really helpful and after that I only suffered one minor break with reality that could have ended really badly but... I kinda liberated myself? I don't know much about this feminism shit but it almost felt like that? I don't know.

And please. I always have time to scoff at you. I could be on fire- alright, I'm gonna stop myself here before I get too carried away.

I do remember Athena Goyle. And by remember I mean I know her as someone who went to school with us and I probably glared at a lot because Gryffindors rule and Slytherin drool - I've said it once and I'll say it again. Either way, she has me beat two for two. I just... sent you away the first night and then yelled at you. A drink and a bailout -

Anyway, that sounds... messy. You don't seem like the messy type. I must have rubbed off on you. Ha.

Yeah.

Maybe we should have a playdate

That's really good of you to do. Most people wouldn't.

-Jack

Jack,

Deflect away. This doesn’t have to be an exchange, you’re not bound to act as if you’ve dosed up on Veritaserum just because I’m being abnormal.

(…..and that, ladies and gents, is how you finish up a manipulative ploy to get your emotionally reticent friend to spill their guts. Also why Slytherins are cool and Gryffindors are bleeding fools….but I digress.)

(Kidding. I didn’t mean to do it intentionally. Be an unemotional brick for all you want. Unemotional wall. Unemotional lamp-post.

…..do we still have lamp-posts in Britain?)

Shut it, smog seemed like a good place to start, alright? Like you’re so eloquent and verbose when you’re trying to be genuine about things.

And of course the nice, fundamentally decent human beings who’re actually mildly concerned about the environment we’re living in going up in flames get called names. No really Dyllan, thank you. And you know that Fred mostly doesn’t give a flying f*ck and is in love with those roaring Muggle vehicles that defecate smoke everywhere anyway- and I’m going to be the one lying awake at night, plagued by possibilities of solutions. Maybe a potion capable of being aerosolised, reacting with the particles to produce something harmless which solves the problem of putting them somewhere-

Oh, damn you. Can you not let me vegetate and do nothing in peace, for once? Must we always try and change the world?

You make me want to

Minor break? Feminism? You do know that your every breath is basically a hurrah for women’s liberation, yes? Living embodiment of female emancipation: Jack Dyllan. And no, I’m not lapsing to being all starry-eyed and worshipful again, basically every woman in my life has been an embodiment of feminist values. And some of the men.

(…..so I’ve realised you use humour to deflect and I resort to a queer mix of sarcasm, self-deprecation, hyperbole and insults. Its so much harder to remain honest and straightforward when you’re being snarky too.)

Anyway, tell me about this minor break. : )  <---------- (this is a ‘smiley’. It’s meant to imitate the human face with punctuation. I know you’re a muggleborn. Your people invented this…..exercise in stupidity.)


“Mr Albus, is everything alright?”

“Wha- Aurelia.” Albus’ head shot up from where it had been bent over the mildly wrinkled piece of parchment, only to get far too startled by a pair of large, solemn eyes observing him. He exhaled, feeling far too rattled for something that was so minor and lasted only a split second. “F-…fine. Everything is fine. Just……” A quick diversion of the gaze back to the half-filled in roll of parchment. “Writing a letter to a friend. Wasn’t being able to find the right words, so I was rambling on about nonsense, pretty much.”

“You’re a writer.” Aurelia stated.

“That is correct.”

“Why are you having trouble finding words then?” Pause. “Do you need a dictionary?”

No, darling. Albus clamped down on the endearment before it could escape, blinking rapidly. He didn’t know why it so instinctively rose to his lips- words which were made just to broadcast affection pretty much went against everything he was inclined towards. He didn’t know why it seemed so easy to say it now. He didn’t know why he didn’t.

“Or is it the format?” Aurelia’s lips pursed around the ‘o’, teeth coming together sharply at the ‘t’. Perfect diction, for a child. He wondered how long she had to practice. If others made her. “Maybe you just like writing stories?”

“No, letters are…..they’re nice.” Albus glanced down again, eyes scanning over the pages. When you write something, it's really much harder to take it back, harder to explain it away, or claim your tone meant something else or you chose the wrong word. It's a much more deliberate, permanent way of communicating.  

Deliberate.

“I like them. I always have. It’s just that…” Either way, she has me beat two for two. “…you can’t see the faces of the people writing them, that’s all.”

He couldn’t pin it down. The words were all there, all right. Casual, simplistic. They sounded like something Jack would write.

Anyway, that sounds... messy. You don't seem like the messy type. I must have rubbed off on you. Ha.

But was she being honest while she was writing them?

Damn, why was he being so hung up on honesty of a sudden anyway? Sure, their dynamic had significantly improved since they actually started saying what they meant. Less outright fights, for one. But…

They were talking about feminism and embodiments of female emancipation and Albus wanted to talk about Athena. Talk about how she’d been in shackles most of her life, pureblooded shackles that chafed and hurt and held back her brilliance for all that they were metaphorical. Talk about how she’d wrenched free, how it hadn’t even been self-driven – she just wanted to get him out of jail. It wasn’t just a ‘bailout’. It was her spitting on the ashes of what she’d belonged to- the society, the people, the ideology. It was her making enemies, throwing away a roof above her head. Albus had always admired Jack- but her bravery came to her naturally. It was hard to imagine her knowing what it was like- to be quiet and live in pretense for most of your life, quake at the thought of endeavouring to be different. To finally gather up the courage to be something more than what you’d been since the very moment you’d been born, and your name had been branded across your forehead.

Athena knew. She'd been branded twice.

Albus wanted to talk, but for some reason he couldn’t write- and that. That was the problem with letters.

That's really good of you to do. Most people wouldn't.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Aurelia broke into his thoughts, and Albus didn’t startle visibly this time. He flipped the quill over and over between his fingers, indigo staining the skin underneath his nails.

“No, it’s alright. I’m done.”


Maybe not most people. You did.

Perhaps you should meet her.

Albus

Just write to him. Just write. Just write what you are thinking. The other letter hasn't come yet, you just sent one, but you still feel like talking. This is your chance. He offered. You can talk. You can talk.

Albus,

Look at me, starting a letter before I've even received yours. I don't know, I just have all these brilliant thoughts racing through my head, I'd hate for any of them to get lost.

Okay, truth is, I have to talk about this right now, I just have to. And, surprise surprise, I don't have people lining down my block to be my confidant. Sucks for you.

I took Goose to Mungo's today. He has basically no magic. None. But the Lupins found traces. It's being suppressed. I can't... not advocate for him. It looks like he's going to Hogwarts. It's going to be hard for him. Really hard. But I can't deny him that.

"Jack, the macaroni is burning. Like really bad. Like, there's black goo-"

"Shit."

And hours passed.

There was no reason to send this letter. She sat staring at it, pajama-clad and fan blasting to keep the room cool. Her bed was calling her, but she sat at a desk, feeling like a right... idiot. Sitting before  a blank piece of paper. Trying to talk herself out of continuing this letter. She realized now that she could have left out the part that indicated she had jumped the gun, could just send it once she received the next letter. It wasn't a lie. What did it matter when she started writing?

Somehow it mattered. It mattered that she couldn't wait for his letter. She was tired of not letting things matter.

Goose is feeling really hopeful, which is scary for me. Really scary. Hope is a terrifying emotion. Its death is ugly.

This was stupid.

The next day at a park, she found she could not wait. His last letter was still in her pocket, alongside her own half-started one from the night before. She figured she would probably end up throwing this away. It was dumb. Really dumb.

But her hand was already moving.

So, okay, get this - yeah it's the next day, whatever. New pen too. Okay, so, I'm getting ready to take the kids out. Because part of the guardianship agreement is I'm not allowed to keep them in cages in the basement, even though it's so much easier that way. But, okay, I'm getting ready to go and my mother flippin' father, yes like the man who allegedly conceived me, showed up at my door. He's waiting there now. Wanna pop over and light my house on fire? Not feeling up for whatever it is I did wrong this time-

We've never talked much about family. That's weird.

Did you know I'm like obsessed with your uncles Fred and George?

She felt like this wasn't real. She wasn't going to send this letter. This letter that was so okay, that left no trace of the heaviness that had settled on her after his last letter, after her last reply. She looked at the page.

If she wasn't going to send it.

You're stupid.

She smirked to herself.

You're pretentious and so is salad. Death to salad.

She glanced upwards, trying to keep in the laugh that wanted to escape her lips. She shook her head and looked down at the letter.

Isn't it lame that I have to tell you all of this. Like, I should probably have more friends. Reflects poorly on me. Why do you even put up with me.

La di da di da. Write write write.

I am at a park. Park. P. A. R. K.

If it's not obvious, there's no way I'm going to send this. I refuse to give you the satisfaction of believing I just couldn't wait to write to you.

It's weird, but it's just easy to keep talking to you. Writing. Whatever. I didn't say that. Got it bud? Bud. BUD? When do I say bud?

Bud. Buuuud. Buddy. Friend. Best friend. Only friend.

Albus. Albus Potter. Albus Severus Potter. Your name is long. You probably think it's pretentious.

I wish I was named after someone. Or had an important name.

Jack Dyllan.

Jack "Don't Call Me Jaquellene" Dyllan.

Jack Severus Dyllan. HA! Jack Gryffindor Dyllan.

Jack Pot

Her hand seized on the page, crumpling it as her muscles tensed, jerked out of her thoughts by a familiar voice, and Michael Tremaine was walking her way. Her heart was pounding as though she had been discovered doing something wrong, discovered being foolish. She recovered quickly, adopting a look of pleasant surprise as her fingers twitched within the folds of the paper, which she could only ball up further and further. She would go on to greet Michael, catch up, the parchment a shameful secret held tightly in her hand until she could secret it back into her pocket.

The day and the day's events would take her away. The train. Gregory Dyllan. Everything in between. By the time she got home, she had enough time to remember the letter and decide she had no idea what to do or think about it. So she would sleep.

The next day, his letter reached her and she avoided reading it for the time it took her to feed the animals and have another weird conversation with her father. He offered to watch the kids outside and refused to be convinced out of it. It left her to stare at a beckoning kitchen table, taunting her with time and will. She had no excuse.

So she sat. And she read.

And she went outside.

It was an afternoon spent with little talking, just play with these two kids and her father, a man who had apparently been a stranger for the past twenty three years. She actually laughed, finally stirred from an expression of slight distance and worry to one of mirth as Goose managed to balance on a toy broom, panicking her poor muggle father. Sunny could not stop revealing more and more magical oddities to the man, and he was endeavoring to understand.

She was called in to work, because she always was, and then she went on a run, taking Goose with her to help with his physical therapy.

And then the next day came. And work with it. And she was bogged down at the Ministry, mind busied and body weighed down. Everything was wrong now, and children were missing, and she couldn't stop working. But Bishop passed by her and after they exchanged information, having reluctantly come to the agreement that the other was good at her job, a strange moment passed them and the blonde reached out, offering a rare moment of genuine nonprofessionalism.

"Take a break."

So she sat in her office, swivelling in her chair, because she had demanded a swivel chair, a whiskey in her hand, because she ignored the rules about keeping mini-fridges and drinking at work. And she sighed, pulling out a fresh sheet.

Albus,

Let me know if you have any break-throughs with the smog. I've decided to start a list of the world's problems and disappointments. I'll have it on your desk by Tuesday, and I expect your solutions by Thursday.

Peace is lazy. Peaces only comes after the fight.

Write that down. You can quote me when they name the Ministry of Magic Statue after me.

Ugh. Nevermind. Don't let them name a Ministry of Magic structure after me. I want my name on something cool. Something important to society. Like a... go-kart track.

Well, okay, I guess I never thought about it, okay? I don't know, why is it even a question? Women are obviously as awesome as men. Why are people still talking about it?

(You? Self-depreciating? Noooo...

You don't have a monopoly on sarcasm. That's a wink. It implies that I just made a joke-type sentiment. LOL. That means I didn't actually laugh but had mild amusement. Hasn't humanity come so far?)

My mild break... It feels kind of not important right now. I'm sure you've heard about the train. That's eclipsed a lot. Don't get me wrong, I righted some perceptions with people that desperately needed correction, and it was really good for me, and for them, and I feel better. But I feel foolish talking about this small mental victory when we've just suffered such a horrible loss.

The Ministry is in a panic. We're not sure what to do. A lot is happening right now. A lot has happened in 24 hours. And I've just felt That's actually why this letter isn't so prompt. I've been busy over here. Watch get this. Since your last letter:

-Goose has been diagnosed with some magic blood disease. He's basically a squib but we got him into Hogwarts.
-My dad sort of moved in with me? I think he's having a break down?
-And a train full of kids disappeared.

So I've been working on that. Yeah. Might keep me busy for awhile. Not sure. Hopefully it's some horrible prank... When was the last time you talked to Fred? He has a macabre sense of humor.

I'm not sure how I probably shouldn't

Birds of a feather, I suppose.

If you'd like me to, I will.

-Jack
       no salad though

So, sometimes people didn’t always read things in order.

Albus was a little fussy about that. He liked beginning at the prologue, plodding through every paragraph of the middle, ending at the epilogue. There was a reason why the words had been structured in the order they had, to impart maximum impact. He wouldn’t disrespect an author’s effort by completely ignoring that. Reading things in parts, it resulted in mixed interpretations. Wrong conclusions being drawn. It was completely counterintuitive.

But sometimes, he forgot his little neuroses. Sometimes, accidents happened and he’d be so preoccupied with the bruschetta that when an owl came winging through the kitchen window and dropped a scroll on his counter, he’d absentmindedly try to unroll the end with his stained spatula to find out who’d sent it. And end up reading this.

If you'd like me to, I will.

-Jack
      no salad though

And his lips would curve upward, day somehow brightened by a cheery little sign-off. He’d hum wordlessly as the sunlight streamed in from the open window, bustle over the grimy grill, muse how it needed a clean-up and about the ineffectiveness of Scourgify. He’d be on the tail end of his little cooking spree, but he’d elongate it; pull out cucumber, mint, avocadoes, spring onions, all the most odiously fresh vegetables he’d had stocked up in his tiny cupboards equipped with Cooling Charms. Start chopping methodically, thinking about sauces all the while. Something extremely pleasing to the palate but offensively healthy; it was a difficult thing to pull off.

He’d manage. He had motive.

Twenty minutes later, an airy, compelling fragrance would waft through the well-organised kitchenette- he would be on his hands and knees, head obscured in the depths of the cupboard he was scouring for lidded containers. He’d unearth a cute little circular thing made out of stainless steel, carefully scoop a dainty, fine dining-like portion of the prepared food into its depths and screw the lid into place, smirking all the while.

Then he’d ease out the knots in his neck and sit at the kitchenette table, muscles lax and easy in the warmth of the setting sun, unread letter loose in his grasp, mouth poised to smile. Unroll the parchment completely. Cast a nifty invention with the flick of a wand to stop the parchment from curling back on itself again. Start reading.

(Then, maybe, he’d remember why he always preferred to read things from the start.)

His mouth stayed in that elusive little half-curve, eyes warm in the afternoon light, through smog and Tuesdays and solutions. It faltered a little, at Minister of Magic Statue, and by the time go-karting came around, it flattened out completely- crinkles around the eyes wiped from existence. He read it again, and again- and stopped there, because three times was enough. Because he was being paranoid and they’d been bantering back and forth in the previous letters anyway- there was nothing to indicate this one was different (or maybe that was the clue. Maybe they all were different). Who cared if the jokes were coming in too frequently, who cared if she’d just told him that she used humour to deflect from important things. Who cared if she wrote funny rejoinders and didn’t sound like she was smiling.

It’s a bloody letter, Potter. She can’t sound like anything.

But there was a sound of ripping paper and he glanced down before he could help it; seeing a scrap of white clutched tight between his thumb and index- torn off from the same sheet she’d folded into fourths and tied to the leg of a bird to fly miles over buildings and countryside to make its way to him. A ballpoint pen lay to the periphery of his vision; and a couple of seconds of decisive strokes later, the task was done.

I thought we said no bullshit. The small, jagged characters were hidden in the folded scrap of paper he’d tucked into the edge of the container lid. The container itself was packed tight and sealed in a parcel, Heating charm intact, owl wobbling a little as he took to staggered flight. Deep somewhere under the multiple layers, the salad he’d put together with painstaking, lighthearted effort lay-

-on a beef patty, scooped between two toasted buns.

~

Jack,

I’m sorry, I was being an asshole. Return of the Potter of the yesteryears, though maybe three months would be more accurate. You had important things to say and I- I should have focused on that.

Yeah, yes, I- did. Hear about the train. It sort of fleeted by my notice the same way countless disasters brush by the millions who haven’t been directly affected by said disasters, who read newspapers for the sake of keeping informed, not making a jot of difference. Peace isn’t lazy- I’m not peaceful. Wilfully blind, maybe. So eager at scraps of happiness I’d never glimpsed before that I’d gladly turn away my eyes from all the sorrow and misery going on in the world outside.

I’m sorry to hear about Goose. Healing has come a long way since though- I myself know of a number of tonics that boost failing magical strength (though I admit to no knowledge of their legality), and the mind arts, I think, can not only be commanded by people of comparatively little power, but in general help unlock those parts of oneself. He’s young yet but...perhaps some food for thought?

I…as you may know, don’t have much experience with fathers. I’d rather not implicate myself in a ruinous situation by offering any kind of advice. Scotch, maybe?

Fred’s been embroiled in some international conspiracy investigations, last I heard. The only thing that’s more offensive than his flair for the dramatic is how much his life actually resembles James Bloom’s- or whatever that tosser’s name is. Besides, Fred hates kids.




Would you like to?

Albus <3
sorry about the salad, though. Hope the window dressing made it edible.

Spoiler:

It was attached to a parcel with a bag of croutons. The only thing Jack had ever liked in her salads. She made sure to get a bag that had bacon bits in it too.

You're right.

I don't know.

I don't know why I don't know.

It's James Bond, by the way.

I still don't know.

Send help. I'm on my porch, if you're still up.