[Bit shorter, sorry! Chapter 3 is still three or four letters short, so I'll post the last snippet tomorrow.]
Dear Mr Graves,
You said to report to you for archiving and stuff, but I’m not sure what to tell you that you don’t already know! Also, I’ve never done reports. Well, there was that WizBiz survey on the new candlestick telephones which I still say is a waste of time – who needs candlelight to ring an Operator, even on night shifts? – but all you had to do was tick a box. Will this do?
Miss Queenie Goldstein thanks Mr Percival Graves for a perfectly delightful undercover booze week-end where all the right people were taken in and only six No Majs got Obliviated. She was a bit worried that her skills might come down to zero, what with the Chi accent and catching a head cold in that saloon skirt, but it was a piece of cake and she’s okay with the pinch, which was a professional hazard and not worth Mr G. socking the buster. Miss Goldstein also wishes to congratulate Mr G. on being a grand undercover thug, although he might want to at least try sipping his Flaming Gin and, yes, he could dance the Fwooper Hop real neat if only he would learn. He’s not that old.
I do feel better, but I’d still rather not be an Auror. My job is what it is, Mr Graves, but it’s a people job. You get to talking, not all the time but you do, and you get to knowing folks. And sometimes it feels like a small-people victory, having fixed Java for twelve the way they never taught you in Potions or charmed the quill sharpener right. And so I’ll stick to it for now. But I know it’s not all I can do, and, if you ever need Legi help some time or other, I could work the case? Maybe?
Gratefully, Queenie
--------------------------
J., Dashing this off as the Ilvermorny Council insists I stay for another 48 hours. Their library is stacked with Wampus lore, etc., so I thought I’d better take advantage of the offer. But no longer. Not with Imbolc Night on Thursday, which
(Sorry, the Quidditch Coach wanted a word on Erumpent attack moves. I’ll make a fresh start.)
About Imbolc. There’s one thing I didn’t tell you, Jacob, and it’s rather important so I want you to read this carefully. It’s not just a feast of fires. It’s about the return of warmth in the dead of winter, and, more than anything else, it’s a home feast. This we tend to forget – it’s all fireworks and firewhisky, these enlightened days – but I like to remember. When I was in Hogwarts, my Housemaster had this phoenix I told you about, and on Imbolc Eve he gave it the run of the house. It sang and it shone, so brightly that it turned our yellow walls into like gold. Home was a country away, but on that night there was a hearth for me.
Jacob, you asked if I’d be at MACUSA on Thursday. The answer is no. My friends will attend the ceremony, I dare say. There’ll be speeches and bonfires, and President Picquery will bless the blackthorn, pour the milk before three hundred wizards. But the only fire I want to see is lit in your stove, with the little round opening that shines like a rose window and the good smells warming up.
See you in two days, Newt
-----------------------
Mr Graves thanks Miss Goldstein for a perfectly adequate report, the most refreshing to have graced his in-box yet. As its self-appointed editor, Mr Graves wishes to emphasize that, while Miss G.’s skills were crucial to the success of Operation Booze Week-End, her physical integrity is and should be considered of equal note as his. Should Miss G. agree to act as a consulting Legilimens, she and Mr Graves will work on the understanding that they have each other’s back, and share socking priviledges as a result.
I’m afraid the Imbolc Gala is too austere for dancing, Queenie. But in case you and Tina want to see the Fire ceremony, I have written you up for the inner circle.
Fill - When the Clouds Roll By (8/?)
Dear Mr Graves,
You said to report to you for archiving and stuff, but I’m not sure what to tell you that you don’t already know! Also, I’ve never done reports. Well, there was that WizBiz survey on the new candlestick telephones which I still say is a waste of time – who needs candlelight to ring an Operator, even on night shifts? – but all you had to do was tick a box. Will this do?
Miss Queenie Goldstein thanks Mr Percival Graves for a perfectly delightful undercover booze week-end where all the right people were taken in and only six No Majs got Obliviated. She was a bit worried that her skills might come down to zero, what with the Chi accent and catching a head cold in that saloon skirt, but it was a piece of cake and she’s okay with the pinch, which was a professional hazard and not worth Mr G. socking the buster. Miss Goldstein also wishes to congratulate Mr G. on being a grand undercover thug, although he might want to at least try sipping his Flaming Gin and, yes, he could dance the Fwooper Hop real neat if only he would learn. He’s not that old.
I do feel better, but I’d still rather not be an Auror. My job is what it is, Mr Graves, but it’s a people job. You get to talking, not all the time but you do, and you get to knowing folks. And sometimes it feels like a small-people victory, having fixed Java for twelve the way they never taught you in Potions or charmed the quill sharpener right. And so I’ll stick to it for now. But I know it’s not all I can do, and, if you ever need Legi help some time or other, I could work the case? Maybe?
Gratefully,
Queenie
--------------------------
J.,
Dashing this off as the Ilvermorny Council insists I stay for another 48 hours. Their library is stacked with Wampus lore, etc., so I thought I’d better take advantage of the offer. But no longer. Not with Imbolc Night on Thursday, which
(Sorry, the Quidditch Coach wanted a word on Erumpent attack moves. I’ll make a fresh start.)
About Imbolc. There’s one thing I didn’t tell you, Jacob, and it’s rather important so I want you to read this carefully. It’s not just a feast of fires. It’s about the return of warmth in the dead of winter, and, more than anything else, it’s a home feast. This we tend to forget – it’s all fireworks and firewhisky, these enlightened days – but I like to remember. When I was in Hogwarts, my Housemaster had this phoenix I told you about, and on Imbolc Eve he gave it the run of the house. It sang and it shone, so brightly that it turned our yellow walls into like gold. Home was a country away, but on that night there was a hearth for me.
Jacob, you asked if I’d be at MACUSA on Thursday. The answer is no. My friends will attend the ceremony, I dare say. There’ll be speeches and bonfires, and President Picquery will bless the blackthorn, pour the milk before three hundred wizards. But the only fire I want to see is lit in your stove, with the little round opening that shines like a rose window and the good smells warming up.
See you in two days,
Newt
-----------------------
Mr Graves thanks Miss Goldstein for a perfectly adequate report, the most refreshing to have graced his in-box yet. As its self-appointed editor, Mr Graves wishes to emphasize that, while Miss G.’s skills were crucial to the success of Operation Booze Week-End, her physical integrity is and should be considered of equal note as his. Should Miss G. agree to act as a consulting Legilimens, she and Mr Graves will work on the understanding that they have each other’s back, and share socking priviledges as a result.
I’m afraid the Imbolc Gala is too austere for dancing, Queenie. But in case you and Tina want to see the Fire ceremony, I have written you up for the inner circle.
With my best regards,
Percival G.