The Dungeons

Dear Sir,

A gentleman wizard calling himself Gary Rusbridger, and claiming to be a reporter at your esteemed publication came to see me today. He'd written such a very reasonable letter asking about my published research and that of the St Mungo's medical team I serve on under Josiah Spencer, and on your stationery too, that there seemed no reason to doubt his bona fides. And I can't say that he didn't behave impeccably, and didn't seem well informed about the subject of our discussion, although he had a slight tendency to focus on particular cases rather than the research overall, but then scientists as a rule do not expect journalists to be scientists.

The problem, and I realise that's a strong word for what is probably just a slight uneasiness, is that he didn't seem like a journalist. He wasn't, you'll forgive me, in the least scruffy. And he didn't want coffee. Or even smoke, and if there are journalists that don't live on cigarettes and coffee I've never met one. And I was once very closely attached to a journalist, I do think I know the genre.

It is probably nothing. Perhaps he is new, although he wasn't like any cadet journalist I've ever met either. Charming, to be sure, but in no way like a journalist. And so, although it undoubtedly seems a little strange, I am writing to be sure that you do in fact employ a handsome young journalist named Gary Rusbridger. It's a little late, perhaps, but then I was very careful to be sure that the names on all files we discussed were obscured.

Sincerely,
Octavia Wilde

Remember to brush your hair.

And, although I am positive that you can't possibly have forgotten, or at least I am almost positive, sneakers are not appropriate. There are perfectly good shoes that you have never worn still in their box at the base of your wardrobe. They would go very well with the dark grey suit I bought you just after new year, although of course what you wear is now entirely up to you and none of my affair.

Lily is bringing you the right tie for that suit, however, just in case.

Hello Princess Lily, were you waiting?

Ah. It's hard to get the knack of using this keyboard again. Just another step in re-starting my life again, I suppose

Harry,

Rule 19(b) my arse. If you kissed him and then you argued, then you know full well that it's Rules 14 and 15 that apply. Namely the parts about being sure that you actually are going to go through with breaking up. Arguing means you still care. Both of you. So don't try and tell me you think he doesn't give a shit. That is, in fact, exactly the opposite of what's going on.

The results on the Hogwarts owl came back, and with no useful information, other than further supporting the fact that Marcellus appears to still be in London. I'd almost rather have gotten news he was in Russia. I could mount a rescue mission to Russia. Mounting a rescue mission a few blocks from your hotel? Or in Bloomsbury? It sounds ridiculous. There has to be some explanation for why, if he's so damn close, he can't tell us he's fine.

I might go back into work if I can't sleep again tonight. I know I can't set a bunch of Aurors on a case which isn't really a case yet, but I can still try to see if there are any patterns in the paperwork that might give us a clue.

You should stay over at Lake Cottage again soon. And try talking to Draco, about something other than Marcellus. You can argue if you have to, since arguing counts for something, but talking is better than arguing. And that's so obvious we didn't even put it in the rules.

-Tonks

(Hello Professor Snape. How are you doing this evening?)

John Adams' two-piano piece Hallelujah Junction plays in the background