lupercusna | (And they were never really stars at heart)

Exams begin next week, and the library is absolutely teeming with worried expressions, sleep-deprivation (though nothing approaching the magifnicent delirium of Draco and Millicent) and panic attacks. Friday evening I escorted two fifth-year Hufflepuff to Poppy after they began gnawing at their books. I have to start keeping Sugar Quills on hand to slip to the ones who look like they're just about to snap.

No word of Peter, no sign nor hide nor hair nor worm-like tail of rat to be found. I have had a few owls on the subject, none of them bearing any sort of news at all. No news is never good news, in times of war, but unfortunately it leaves me in a rather useless position of not being able to do anything but worry, and wonder. And I have really no interest in doing that all of the time, so I have just instructed Harry to never let his wand out of his sight in the hopes that he will never be caught offguard. We can only wait and see, at this point.

Speaking of Harry, he and Sirius spent last night working on his motorbike. I don't know what they were doing to it, tightening grommets and clanking spanners about, Muggle devices, haven't a clue where Sirius got his hands on them. They seemed to have a good time, and they returned far too late covered in motor oil and laughing about some dirty joke or another. I read my books and finished off some overdue correspondence, because they certainly didn't need me around mucking up their fun. At any rate, I love to see them spend more time together, the two of them. Sirius has become an excellent dogfather.

I took a walk today, in the woodsy area on the other side of the lake. From there you can see for miles, and there's a spot (you may remember it, Harry) that is excellent for watching the Squid perform its afternoon water aerobics. I must have sat under the tree for hours, and it wasn't until the sun began to set that I remembered having found the spot as a boy. A favourite escape, from schoolwork and pranks, and myself. I am happy to have rediscovered it again now, twenty years later. And the boy is still there under the tree, happy to share it with the man. I am glad to have found him. I was wondering where he'd got to.

There is no moon tonight, it has hid its face among a crowd of stars, and the air is warm. Sirius is dozing on the sofa beside me, and I don't want to disturb him so I think I shall read, perhaps have a bath. It is a lovely, quiet night for doing quiet things. I love this time of year, when the days are long, the shadows longer and everything just stretches out as lazy and relaxed as Padfoot here, who is drooling upon my leg. So perhaps the first thing I shall do is scratch him behind the ears.

And then, I think, I will sleep.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He'll never know it was us. We should take his records and throw them in the lake, too, so it'll look more random.

That is an excellent suggestion. I should like to start with the Whitesnake.

How can anyone listen to Whitesnake, Harry? Where did we go wrong with him?

Maybe it's because we're so great he needs something really awful to balance it out.

That has to be it. There's no other explanation, short of the Imperius Curse.

We'll spare the Queen. That was your mother's influence, anyway. She single-handedly saved Sirius from a complete lack of good taste. We are forever in her debt.

Really? What else did my mum like?

The Beatles. She tormented us all by singing a song about a yellow submarine for, I think, the entirety of 1977. David Bowie. Elton John. She also loved an artist named Andy Warhol (something about soup tins), and she would read Tolkien out loud to us in the Common Room during seventh year. She could do an amazing impersonation of Gimli the dwarf.

Sometimes, when you're reading and you think I'm not looking, you look remarkably like her.

I should read more. I only ever read about Quidditch. Hermione likes the hobbit books but I tried to read one of hers once and I couldn't get through the foreword. I should have tried harder to read them.

You should read more, but read something you find interesting. Your mother loved Tolkien but your father never read them, I don't think. Sirius has, but Sirius reads everything. You don't have to like all the same things your parents did, Harry. You aren't them, no matter how much you look like them and how much of them I do see in you. You are just Harry, and if just Harry doesn't find Tolkien interesting, no-one's going to be disappointed.

I think you'd enjoy the Chronicles of Narnia, actually. Has Hermione got them? Would she lend them to you?

Dudley has them in my room, but the religious stuff made me kind of uncomfortable. It kind of seemed like a bit, um, much?

Yes, the overt Christianity inherent in Narnia is a bit off-putting, but if you can tune it out it's actually quite a compelling read.

There's always that other book series. I hear it's incredibly popular. Though really, it likely does not measure up to all the fuss made about it.

Perhaps you should just stick to those Roald Dahls I gave you.

I like James and the Giant Peach. I don't think I'm a very good reader though. I still like Quidditch better. I wish they wrote more books about Quidditch. They could be Quidditch adventure stories or something.

I remember reading James and the Giant Peach. Then I made the mistake of lending it to Sirius, and your father went round the school with a peach for a head for close to a week. It didn't help that the boy's name in the story was James Trotter. Sirius had a field day.

You are absolutely right about Quidditch adventures. If you were more of a writer, I'd suggest that you write some. However, as I once marked your essays, I cannot encourage you in such an endeavor. Your penmanship is atrocious, and there is no such word as "alot."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Was it during the summer? Did anyone try to eat his head?

(no subject)

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Any part of you that touches my albums you will get back via owl.

Whose side are you on, anyway!

The good side?

You ate all my biscuits.

I did? Are you dreaming?

Can't you see his legs twitching?

I bet he's chasing bunnies.

It's nice of him to dream about us, really.

Run, little bunny. Should I catch you, I shall eat your face.

Arf arf. Woof.

My face would probably be pretty stringy. It couldn't be filling, it just couldn't be.

It's hardly Canada.

It's more Norway, your face.

Don't listen to him, Harry. His bark is much worse than his bite.

Are you trying to say I look Norwegian? Is it my eyebrows?

No, your eyebrows are Russia. So expansive.

Me and Viktor Krum could be brothers.

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