epilogues ic community.

My nephew has all these big dreams. I'd say he gets them from me, but that'd be a lie. His ideas are only getting bigger as he's getting older, and since my brother's off working, I'm the one who has to field all his questions. This is what our letters look like these days:

Can I spend the summer with my friend so we can play music?

Ask your dad.

He didn't write back. So, can I?

No.

You don't have to tell him.

You want me to lie to him?

No, just... don't tell him the truth. Please? You're my favourite uncle.

I'm your only uncle. No.

I hate you.

Go study or your dad will have both of our heads mounted on the wall when he gets back.

And so on. (That last one is an exaggeration.)

Teenagers. Are they all so bloody demanding or am I just lucky?

Hullo Britain,

I'm tired. Exhausted, really. Spell burns really sap your energy.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the sensation, it feels as if your skin were on fire. In fact, an actual fire would be better, because eventually, your nerve endings would just be seared away by the flames and you'd feel nothing at all. This? It keeps your nerves singing and singing in agony.

But I'd gladly bear a body riddled in such burns, because the ten muggleborns we rescued from your government facilities at 52.103373, 1.165949 have suffered so much worse. Five have already died. Their skin was falling off, you see. It had turned to near liquid, pulling away from bone and muscle like wet paper. Their nerves though, were very much alive. It hurt and hurt and we shot them up with so much morphine to put them out of their own misery.

Three probably won't see the end of the week. Their limbs are so swollen. They are hardly limbs anymore. We have to keep draining them, else we fear they may very well explode.

The last two? They'll bear the scars of their experience -- upon nearly every inch of their bodies, there is hardly a patch of skin left untouched, someone was very efficient -- for the rest of their lives.

Ironically, all of this was done for the noble purpose of Healing, so that the witches and wizards of Great Britain -- that is, all of you -- can live long, healthy and relatively prosperous lives. So the next time you visit a Healer, I hope you will spare a thought for how many people suffered slow, agonising deaths for your treatment. I do hope it was worth it.

Strange broadcasts? Muggleborn voices? Virulent Muggle illnesses with the power to jump to witches and wizards? These are very strange times indeed.

Our brethren call for peace, insisting that civility is instilled only through order. I suppose we, having submitted to the yoke of their direction all those many years ago, merely chafe to be permitted a voice. Magical British folk, when possessed of the courage of their convictions, deserve to be heard.

And our party, our Knights of Walpurgis, shall give them voice.

I do hope they've figured out how to keep such disgruntled employees from having access in the future. It was quite unnerving to have everything sort of disrupted as it was.

I have not ever been quite so excited for summer as I am currently. Sunshine and trees with green leaves, and it makes my heart want to sing just a little bit. And as the days get longer and I have time to actually walk outside after work in the light? It will be ever so much better. Come summer come.

( 6 May 1984. )

The truth is the truth, after all the years, and I am glad to see it win out over any more bloody lies. (Hullo, all you all. I am neither re-educated nor dead. There's many a failing in that for you.)

But such as those failings may be, I have one more failing for you: I guarantee you won't catch me again.

[M]

Allow me to offer my most heartfelt congratulations. We've delivered the initial communication. How's the sun feel on your face?

Well, this citizen of the Empire is determined to only have the lower half of his face photographed & captured in portraiture for the next year. Very fetching -- and very effective at hiding my expression of pain from the whiplash I got from those somewhat entirely contradictory messages.

Next we'll be nodding dumbly along as the weather crier tells us it's sunny while he's standing under a downpour.

Emperor Grindelwald looked absolutely amazing in his white robes. I wonder who is his tailor?

Today is a special broadcast from Emperor Grindelwald in Berlin, Germany. His message is broadcasted live across all nations (in Great Britain and Ireland, his speech is being broadcasted across the WWN) and an automatic transcript and moving picture is simultaneously made available across the the magical journal network. During this period, no one is able to write or read other journal entries.

( citisens of the empire... )

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