(no subject)
Here are things I know. If for any reason, something should happen to me, or Harry, or Ron, I want you know what happened, and I want you to carry on the business of stopping this madness. If it should fall on you to fight this fight, know that it is a terrible, unfair thing, but I trust you to do what is right.
Voldemort is winning the war he started, though he's been dead for exactly three years, seven months and twenty seven days. This would be because the Ministry is fighting it for him and the public is buying their lies and bigoted rhetoric without question. I am disgusted, disenchanted and saddened, not to mention unemployed and living under the radar, so to speak, of Wizarding Britain.
Harry, Ron and I put together the Order of the Phoenix again. The Order has compiled conclusive information (it's all attached) that Bellatrix LeStrange, resurrected and half-mad and nearly invincible went underground and may have ties to organized crime boss Ilian Dyer; that either or both have some sort of tie in the Ministry of Magic and that somehow the Minister has willfully managed to degrade diplomatic ties with the Muggle Prime Minister to the point that there is violence on both sides and I know for a fact that there is something very wrong here.
Me? I'm twenty six years old, which means that I and my two best friends have been in the business of defeating Voldemort for fourteen years, now, though I suppose in Harry's case, it's been closer to twenty five. I feel exactly twice as old as I am and ten times older than anyone else-- though these factors are subject to change depending on the drivel I hear on the wireless or on the street, newest legislation (though I use that phrase with the utmost contempt) passed and whether anyone I know has been sacked or killed recently. Owls do not tend to bring me good news. When they do, I set the parchment under a strong ward for an hour or so to make sure it will not explode.
I have been sacked by the Ministry for protesting the inhumane treatment of Lycanthropic witches and wizards, Muggleborns and anyone remotely related to either. I have been forced to brew Wolfsbane myself and to distribute it from a corner of the apothecary's shop in Knockturn Alley just a little above cost, as there are days when my housemate hasn't gone shopping yet and I'm not brave enough to dip into my rapidly-dwindling savings for more than a bag of apples or bread. I tried to dump my Auror almost-boyfriend once to keep him safe, and he told me off, declaring that if he was going to die horribly, it would happen whether we were seeing one another or not. He had a good point.
Now imagine what it's like for people who weren't Head Girl (1998), one of the Ministry of Magic's youngest department heads ever, best friend to the bloody saviour of the wizarding world, and purportedly the brightest witch of her age.
Welcome to Wizarding Britain, 2006.
Voldemort is winning the war he started, though he's been dead for exactly three years, seven months and twenty seven days. This would be because the Ministry is fighting it for him and the public is buying their lies and bigoted rhetoric without question. I am disgusted, disenchanted and saddened, not to mention unemployed and living under the radar, so to speak, of Wizarding Britain.
Harry, Ron and I put together the Order of the Phoenix again. The Order has compiled conclusive information (it's all attached) that Bellatrix LeStrange, resurrected and half-mad and nearly invincible went underground and may have ties to organized crime boss Ilian Dyer; that either or both have some sort of tie in the Ministry of Magic and that somehow the Minister has willfully managed to degrade diplomatic ties with the Muggle Prime Minister to the point that there is violence on both sides and I know for a fact that there is something very wrong here.
Me? I'm twenty six years old, which means that I and my two best friends have been in the business of defeating Voldemort for fourteen years, now, though I suppose in Harry's case, it's been closer to twenty five. I feel exactly twice as old as I am and ten times older than anyone else-- though these factors are subject to change depending on the drivel I hear on the wireless or on the street, newest legislation (though I use that phrase with the utmost contempt) passed and whether anyone I know has been sacked or killed recently. Owls do not tend to bring me good news. When they do, I set the parchment under a strong ward for an hour or so to make sure it will not explode.
I have been sacked by the Ministry for protesting the inhumane treatment of Lycanthropic witches and wizards, Muggleborns and anyone remotely related to either. I have been forced to brew Wolfsbane myself and to distribute it from a corner of the apothecary's shop in Knockturn Alley just a little above cost, as there are days when my housemate hasn't gone shopping yet and I'm not brave enough to dip into my rapidly-dwindling savings for more than a bag of apples or bread. I tried to dump my Auror almost-boyfriend once to keep him safe, and he told me off, declaring that if he was going to die horribly, it would happen whether we were seeing one another or not. He had a good point.
Now imagine what it's like for people who weren't Head Girl (1998), one of the Ministry of Magic's youngest department heads ever, best friend to the bloody saviour of the wizarding world, and purportedly the brightest witch of her age.
Welcome to Wizarding Britain, 2006.
