The Last Station

Violet, bless her traitorous little heart, prefers the blue, red, and yellow sugar quills at Honeydukes. The green quills? 'No,' she tells her poor father. What's more important, of course, is why didn't the sweet shop sell House sugar quills when we were in school? And why do they still sell blood-flavoured lollies? They don't really contain blood, d--

No one warns you that fatherhood is rife with heartbreak - or so few opportunities to drink. If you ask me, June is enough reason for that, and Roger keeps going on and on about Muggle bar-bee-qs. Is that right? Who fancies a bit of a do this weekend?

Gods, I'm knackered. Sunday's Quidditch match buggered me well and proper. I swear to Merlin I opened my journal for a reason, but I'll be fucked if I remember what it was now.

Honestly, on afternoons like these, I don't miss pick-up Quidditch one bloody bit. Even with charms to keep the rain off, it's cold and it's near-impossible to see shite when you're in the air. Sitting in the stands isn't much better, truth be told, but at least Violet enjoyed splashing about in the puddles.

Of course, now I've got to force her into her Sunday dress and pray to Merlin she steers clear of said puddles, at least until tea with my mum and Roger's is through. And I know we haven't many mothers in the village, but Happy Mum's Day to those of you who are here.

I imagine I would be far more upset about my Healer's recommendation that I no longer play Quidditch if I wasn't in Milan. As it is, I've very nearly literally purchased all of Dolce and Gabbana's summer collection. I've plans to do the same with Gladrags' fall line just as soon as you cease Owling my Galleons back to me, Tracey.

Our hotel here is brilliant, even by Italian standards. We've a corner room with floor-to-ceiling views of the city, an enormous soaking tub, and a massive bed.



Do forgive the two-day-old picture. I'd have taken one this evening to share with you all, but my Greek god of a husband is lounging, naked, and I've shockingly little desire to share him.

Gods, but this winter has affected our sense of the cold. Even those of us who aren't human-- the hobgoblin in the attic opened all the windows this morning, I assume to air out the house. Of course, now the question is how long have we got to leave them be to avoid offending his sensitive soul.

Regardless, it is quite lovely out. Who fancies a meal by the Black Lake?

Violet is-- after four hours at the Ministry of Magic and an interview in which her sole responses were 'No!' and 'Pol' bear!'-- officially a Davies-Urquhart, just like both her fathers. Though I can't remember whether we submitted that paperwork... She has been for ages, really; she takes after Roger more each day.

Gods, but it's difficult to believe she'll be three in less than a week. If I've any intention of maintaining her favour, I suppose I ought to arrange a birthday celebration. Has anyone got a polar bear I can borrow?

Terribly funny creatures, Muggles. The old man and I are vacationing abroad for several days (after Valentine's Day, mind, as Violet insisted that she was both our dates, rather than Roger mine), in a bloody gorgeous mountain resort. (Ta again, Trace.) The Muggle guests are half-mad for the notion of tying thin strips of wood to their feet and launching themselves down the seemingly tallest and steepest of the mountains. It's all a bit of a death wish, if you ask me.

And I've a cold coming, of course, because I've no immune system thanks to those potions, and why--, because it's the winter and when have I not been ill at least once per year? But I'll make do with hot chocolate and spa treatments.

I've no idea how I expected Mum to respond when I Owled her, but 'That lovely twit was wonderful enough to marry you?' was not the answer I was hoping for. Anticipating, yes, but bloody Hades, Mum. The three messages that followed about eloping without our families present (that is the definition of the act, Mum...) and about visiting immediately are not at all a surprise, either. I can only imagine what she would have been like during any sort of wedding planning.

Warded to Mandy Brocklehurst, Millicent Bulstrode, Serena Capper, Asher Chambers, Cho Chang, Tracey Davis, Julian Dorny, Marcus Flint, Ernie Macmillan, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Adrian Pucey, Alicia Spinnet, Sebastien Summerby, Caleb Warrington, and Oliver Wood
Roger and I hope you're free tomorrow to celebrate our wedding with us. We've reserved a private dining room at Grace, in London. 8:00 p.m.

Warded to Theodore Nott
I've something of a problem. Roger claims it isn't, but he's mad. And as understanding as he's willing to be, I'm not.

Gods, but Violet can manipulate-- so well, in fact, that this evening she charmed a second dessert off my brother and a third off Roger. Both within fifteen minutes, mind, and she was clever enough to do it with one when the other wasn't within audible or visual range. Of course, when her stomach bothered her later, she was kind enough to throw up on my shoulder.

Parenthood, yeah?

While I have admittedly written any number of inappropriate and provocative messages in my short lifetime, what follows is certainly the oddest: has anyone spotted a snow bear about the village? By 'snow bear' I do, of course, mean an approximation of a mammal made of snow, rather than an actual predator, but for Merlin's and my own sake, don't tell Violet that.

Roger, Violet, and I built one, and then we charmed it to move for her, and while he was quite content to amble about outside 19 Main Street this morning, he wasn't here when we returned this afternoon. Violet's left him a dish of Duke's food out, but it hasn't done much good, and to say she's upset would be an understatement.

Warded to Caleb Warrington
I owe you an apology. I wasn't in the best of moods yesterday, I'm afraid, though that isn't much of an excuse. Are you free for dinner late next week?

Warded to Millicent Bulstrode
Can we leave Violet with you from Friday morning until midday Saturday?

Far be it from me to tell anyone how to conduct their lives, but a party without proper cups and sustenance? You Ravenclaws do like to live dangerously, don't you?

Warded to Roger Davies
You poisoned me, you and your Housemate. Is this part of your strategy? Even if I die, you won't bed Potter before I do. And where have you gone?

Warded to Ernie Macmillan
We haven't made things terribly awkward, have we? I've never invited a friend to sleep with my boyfriend and me, so I've no idea of the protocol this morning. I hope trust we met your expectations? It was the liquor. I've no issue, usually, with going again.

Warded to Millicent Bulstrode
The things I do when you aren't about to stop me.

Lovely thing, the relationship survey I received via owl this morning. But I do feel it left we folk who are in open relationships or single with a bit of a short shrift. To address this critical issue, I've developed an assessment tool, as well.

In five minutes, it will appear in your journals. Your responses will be marginally private, at best be handled with the utmost care and discretion, and should I note a suitable match, I will, of course, be more than happy to introduce you to one another.

And if those of you in committed relationships or marriages wish to take part, I shall happily provide you with compatibility data. Maybe.

Warded to Emma Dobbs
Would you like these results, as well?

Christmas Day with an almost-three-year-old and a partner boyfriend is rather satisfying, as it happens. Mum's behaved (as much as Mum is capable of doing), Henry's abandoned his Colossal Arse phase, and Dad's, well. Dad. And the Davies'... Tread carefully, old man. Your sisters and I have spoken, and they are glorious creatures.

Thank you, of course, to those who Owled gifts. We're terribly spoiled, Violet and I, most of all by Roger. And Violet's a canine sibling now, with talk of adopting a--! Kevin was kind enough to open The Barkery and Catfe to us yesterday, and Roger was foolish enough to indulge my pleas for a pup. And so we've Duke, a nine-week-old Weimaraner with the largest paws and sweetest disposition I've seen. Even the cats like him.

I've been quite the nice young man this year month week, it seems, and someone knows me entirely too well. A Swiss ski resort and spa? Merlin, yes. Never you mind that the filthy acts I committed with my boyfriend last night were the very definition of 'naughty'-- you can't pry this from my greedy little hands, trust you me.

Warded to Tracey Davis
You were entirely too generous, love. And don't deny that it was you; the Tschuggen reeks of your taste.

Gods, but I've been exclusively in the United Kingdom for far too long. Did you know November and sunshine can peacefully co-exist, so long as you do not, evidently, reside in a remote Scottish village? Midnight snowfall is perfectly romantic for some, I'm sure, but I far prefer a bloke in a tailored coat, a snug pair of leather gloves, and a designer scarf to one in twelve layers of winter clothing.

Though perhaps Nonna is correct-- I ought to work on my Italian. It's gone to shite without a consistent conversational partner.

Warded to Roger Davies
D'you fancy dinner in Lake Como? Violet will be with my grandparents, and we can stay the evening at the Urquhart estate. No one lives there now.

Warded to Theodore Nott
When are you and Draco free to walk the estate? There are half a dozen potential spaces for your hand fasting and another six for your reception.

Good gods, where did I go wrong with Violet? Her response, when Mum asked her how old her poor, unsuspecting father would be on his birthday this year? 101. That's right: one hundred and one.

What have I done to deserve this? Let alone three hours of Mum waffling on the date for the annual Urquhart Frost Ball. We've settled on Friday, December 20, finally, at the Urquhart estate on Loch Ness. Need I remind some of you not to try riding Nessie this year?

Alicia, Isabel, Julian, Millie, Theodore-- your presences are expected once more. And if anyone else fancies attending, let me know, yeah? The more the merrier. Mum makes a fantastic egg nog and a wonderfully lethal spiked cider.

Warded to Roger Davies
Mum and Dad would like to invite you to Christmas Eve dinner. And-- well. D'you want to be my date to the Frost Ball?

Warded to Theodore Nott
Did you or did you not tell me, some weeks ago, that you intended to marry Draco this December?

Oh, my gods.

Warded to Self.
Alright. Calm down, you silly melodramatic sot. On one hand, it's permanent. Smoothly done. It's a rune. You were only reading about the properties of rune magic on the body before you went to Theodore's birthday do. Well done.

On the other hand, Roger traces a handsome rune. Merlin knows the inside of the wrist is a conspicuous location, but at least you evidently told him not to use black. But why is it silver?

It's obviously an 'R.' If you marked him with an 'M,' you're both bloody unoriginal.

Warded to Roger Davies.
Right. It was my idea to brand one another, wasn't it? How angry are you?

It's been brilliant, Woodcroft Clinic. And in all sincerity, it's me, not you. What I mean to say is-- I quit. I'm a free man the moment this shift concludes at 4:00 p.m.

Warded to Millicent Bulstrode
Hypothetically, if one discovers that one's partner non-boyfriend bedmate-on-a-semi-regular-basis will be celebrating his birthday in less than a week, one ought to arrange a celebration of some sort, yeah? Even if one hasn't been directly informed of said occasion? And hypothetically, how expensive is too expensive a gift? Because one's bedmate-on-a-semi-regular-basis would look brilliant in Dolce and Gabbana, but does high fashion require a relationship status?

Help a poor bloke out, Millie.

Unbeknownst to Merrill, Violet updates his journal...

Madame Pomfrey returned to the castle this afternoon, which means that dear old Merrill (who evidently talks about himself in the third person) will be a staff Healer at the clinic once more. Or so he assumes-- the head of hospital has yet to respond to his Owl from five hours ago. Bugger. Did I or did I not submit that Leave of Absence Request?

With Violet with Nanna Urquhart, I do believe Merrill will be off now to Proof's Nine-Inch Night.