Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Mafalda Hopkirk's LiveJournal:

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Monday, April 12th, 2004
10:20 pm	November 1, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk Oh my God. You-Know-Who Lord Voldemort is gone. Albus was with us at Al and Holly's house for a Halloween feast before he disappeared. We waited for him until about two in the morning, when we gave up and decided we'd catch up with him for breakfast. We did, obviously, because while Albus Dumbledore's the most trustworthy man in the universe, in spite of that nasty article of Rita Skeeter's, and Barty's even nastier creation of it, he tends to forget the basic functions-- eating, sleeping, that sort of thing. I'm rambling. None of that matters. Most of us went back to Al and Holly's throughout the morning-- I went for breakfast, I had no intention of having cereal when I could have Holly's bacon and eggs-- and Albus looked about ready to pass out, but he told us. Lord Voldemort is gone. All thanks to a one year-old with a rattle. And at the sacrifice of James, Lily, and hundreds of lives before them, may they all rest in peace. If that doesn't put me in my place, I don't know what could. You-know Voldemort's disappeared, and from the sounds of things, will not quickly return. We'll just have to see about that, but I have confidence in Albus. As of right now, Voldemort's powerless. An enormous amount of tension has left my body. Current Mood: relieved
Sunday, March 14th, 2004
11:08 pm	Sunday, October 14, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk I’m never going to get used to having a secretary, or having an office where more than two people can conjugate comfortably, or having a schedule that actually gets me out of the office by six-thirty. Somehow, I already am, which is the best part. The convenient hours have given me a chance to exercise again, which I haven’t for a few years but have for the past week. I go with my friend Zinnia every morning before work—she’s an Unspeakable, so that means a four-thirty wakeup call, but I’m surviving it. It brings me back to my days with my mother and her Olympic training—she was an Olympic trainer, I don’t think I’ve mentioned it. Swimming. She had me on the fast track to the Olympics starting at around the time I was three, weighing the risks of me actually getting my Hogwarts letter. I did, of course, and that ended all hope of my making any future of it, but she did like to drag me out of bed every summer home from Hogwarts. She always said that Hogwarts was the most unhealthy school a person could possibly attend, what with their feasts for breakfast and a sport that requires constant sitting, so it was her obligation to ‘shape me up’ over break. I carried that after I graduated up until somewhere around three years ago, and I never exactly got back on track. Which makes me feel like I’ve failed my mother, but now that I’ve woken up and realized that I have to wear Muggle clothes with this body, I’ve stepped back onto the straight and narrow. I’m passing the point where I feel the need to ice every evening, finally, and I think those endorphins are kicking in. I’m trying not to act like it, but we’ll see how long that lasts. On a quick, random note, I'm not sure what I think of Colin Fuller. He's hesitant to a fault and he seems confused about everything. I'll have to keep an eye on him. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 25th, 2004
5:12 pm	Wednesday, September 25, 1981 Gods, Isabel. I guess I've settled a few issues in that relationship (mine and hers, the relationships beyond that are just starting to get complicated), but reducing her to tears wasn't what I had in mind. I didn't want to tear her apart, I just wanted her to realize that she can't go around doing whatever she wants to. I've blown up at Barty for similar actions more times than I can count. You don't just go around creating hope for someone only to dash it later, and you don't dress familial abandonment up like it's a good thing. I'm not a parent-- in fact, I'm the only person in this circle of drama who isn't-- and I shouldn't feel like I have to scold people. At the same time, when you're upset with a person you care about, you tell them why. The meeting ended with apologies. Incredibly unusual, and I'm glad that I went, because for my part, I'm not bitter and angry with her anymore. I'm at peace in that regard. Right, and I should probably mention something about my first few days in the office. It's immaculate. Huge, for one thing, because it's one of the newer offices in the Ministry, with white carpeting, a large desk, and windows. Chances are it's supposed to accomodate Muggles, should they have to come through, so it's not particularly decorative, but it's strangely serene. Which should change as soon as I run into my first speedbump. Current Mood: calm (Comment on this)
Monday, February 16th, 2004
11:25 am	Monday, September 16, 1981 Mafalda J. Hopkirk, The Minister for Magic has accepted your application for the position of Muggle Liason for the Ministry of Magic. The Minister for Magic Office has sent transfer request papers to your superior and expects them to be resubmitted by Saturday, September 21, 1981. Millicent Bagnold Minister for Magic That's it. The letter. I'm leaving, which is what I wanted, but I don't know if I'm ready for it. Now I have to tell Barty. No doubt he'll call me to his office when he reads the owl, but God knows when that will be. Current Mood: blank (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 5th, 2004
9:49 pm	Wednesday, September 4, 1981 Since the MacDougal incident and Carolyn's subsequent death, my friends have me under constant surveillance. When one of them isn't owling, another is sitting in my fireplace, often after sending children to bed, to check on me. I stayed at the office until ten tonight and came home to three angry heads poked in my fireplace, demanding to know where I was. All in all, I appreciate it. Four of us are going to dinner tonight, and that's probably as good a time as any to make my job announcement. Not that there's much to announce, yet, and there might never be-- I might not get the job as the new Muggle Liason that I'm applying for. Why they would want a woman from IUMO is beyond me, despite the fact that I think I'm qualified. I have experience under all of the necessary criteria. I should have a job that matches my potential. Yes, I came to the decision after close introspection relating to Carolyn's death, but I don't want to write about it. Right, so Barty cried himself to sleep on my couch the other night. Having him under the same roof was weird. Not comforting-- more the opposite, really. This was the first time one of us has attempted contact outside of the office. It isn't significant, it doesn't represent anything, I'm not emotional about it, it just is. Which is what I've come to discover is the truth about Barty-- he isn't a pillar I stand on, it's not some kind of a relationship, he's just a fixture that has hung in my life for so long that I don't necessarily want to take it down. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, January 13th, 2004
7:53 pm	August 13, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk I've brewed a full mug of tea, which I despise on a regular basis, and am sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get all of this sorted out. I'd be walking around like a blind idiot if I didn't just sit down and handle this, so that's what I'm doing. Barty married Isabel. That invitation Barty sent back then was enough to engrave the fact into my memory, but I'm just starting to come to peace with it. Barty and Isabel married. Isabel was everything Barty wanted in a political career, and they had the misfortune of meeting when Barty and I were still involved. If only Barty and I had seen sense when we had to and broken things off earlier, it could have progressed naturally. People end relationships all the time because the partners want different things, there's no reason Barty and I couldn't have. Perhaps there's no reason I shouldn't have done what he wanted, either. First I got upset-- I hate admitting it, but the jilt hurt like you wouldn't believe, probably much more than it hurt him to leave me, if it hurt him at all. Then he joined IUMO, and I got angry. He grew angry, too, and we spent our days ripping each other apart. Eventually he left, which partially solved that problem, but we never got out of the habit of bickering, until he decided he needed me, and even then I've kept at it. Now he wants me to stop, because he's stopped. All right, Barty, I'll stop, and not just because I'm sick of arguing. God knows I've invested something in him that I can't get back, and I'm getting to the point where I think I do depend on him. Oh, to hell with it-- yes, I depend on Barty. In the back of my mind, I need to know that he's there. It may or may not be so horrible, but it's too late to decide on that. While I'm struggling to clean my life up, I need to look at my career. It's been wasting away since Ott's arrest, and it's time I quit being negligent about it. Contrary to popular belief, I don't enjoy shuffling papers and schedules. I like the constant challenges here, with meeting deadlines, organizing, and even working with the broken coffee machine and intern, it continued to rise and change as the Department Heads kept cutting over the years, but now it's like clockwork. I go in there, I go through a process, I leave. I like structure as much as the next person, but it's become meaningless, and that's one thing I can't tolerate. I feel limited here, like I'm stuck in a cardboard box, though that could be my pride talking. Maybe working in this Office by myself has boosted my confidence a few levels too high. I'm wondering if it's time I pursued another job. I know I was nearing a promotion around the time of Ott's arrest, but the hype of that and my connection to Ott shut that down. It could shut me down again, if I'm not careful, and the way to do that is to become the model employee. Which means that I've got to have a positive working relationship with Barty's office, not snap at people when I deal with them, perhaps look nicer when I come into the office, etc. I know what it takes to get noticed, and while I'm behaving the way I am-- behavior I'd defend if I had to, but self-criticism reaps progress, something I'm sure I've heard my father say-- I won't get anywhere. No one wants to hire an employee who won't tell their Department Head when someone's abusing them, or who disregards their employer's authority. Gods, this would mean a complete makeover. I haven't made any decisions, yet, so I may just stay where I am, even if I spend the rest of my life feeling bitter about it. Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 8th, 2004
9:00 pm	Thursday, August 8, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk My eyes are finally at the point where they can tolerate writing in print, thank the gods. The doctors have put me on a schedule that I'm supposed to follow when it comes to work hours, which are short to begin with and gradually increase over the next two months, but I know what it's about. They're going to extremes because my cataract's the first they've come across with the specific properties in the copy machine's light, and they don't know what they're doing. Better to leave a woman completely inactive for two months than let her continue the life she dropped next to that blasted copy machine. I'll modify it and get healed in a month, tops. My coffee machine had better be repaired when I get back, that's all I can say. Not that I can drink it, especially with the healing cataract, but it'd be nice to know that I have free will in some areas. I've had Barty, Arnold, and my father on my back moreso than ever, with this incident. I'm apparently on speaking terms with Barty, at this point. The genuine kind, not just the kind where I snap at him and he criticizes me, though there was a fair amount of both going on during his hospital visit. The man's completely untrustworthy, given his track record and his slanted code of ethics, but it's not as if anyone with any sort of respectability has come into my life. Except for Basil. Basil came to see me in the hospital. He, too, brought flowers-- it's a good thing I'm not allergic to them, with the numbers of various people who've brought in. Arnold didn't bring flowers, but he brought thorns, which is more than enough. Honestly, there I was, trying to figure out why in God's name I was sitting in the middle of that damned hospital, and he goes off on me about how insensitive and inconsiderate I am. I still hadn't oriented myself to conducting conversation in the dark, and he wanted this deep, now-or-never profession of endless devotion. Gods. Give a woman a minute, will you? He didn't even give me a chance to wash out the bad potion aftertaste. What am I, some sort of saint? I'm sure Isabel would have reacted differently, but Isabel doesn't have to worry about getting paid sick leave when the sick leave is her fault, or losing her job, or standing on her own two feet when four different men bump into each other trying to keep her from falling. Gods. Isabel the heroine. I can't believe Arnold brought her up at that last dinner we had. That was the first thing he thought of as the reason I was being difficult about. Jealousy about Isabel. And Barty calls me a lesser woman because I never married "like I was supposed to." What does it boil down to? I'm sick of it. There's so much damned pressure. It's going to drive me up the wall. In the meantime, I want to work again. I need to stay focused, it's the only way I can get through this emotional tug-of-war. Yes, it was my fault that MacDougal attacked. Yes, I should have a better job than I have at my age and ability. Yes, I should be married with children and a social group to meet with three times a week. But I'm not. I'm dealing with that, and everyone else should suck up and deal with it, too. I'm feeling extreme failure in my life-- what's going right, I wonder?-- but there's no use in dwelling on it, so I had might as well keep working. If Barty wants my trust, well, it's not as if he could do much more damage to my life than I've already done to it, myself. Too bad my father's not one of the types to vicariously live through their children. He probably would have done so much better with my life than I have. I don't know what I'm going to do about Arnold. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll just go away. He's made it clear that he will, but I'm not sure if that's the charitable thing to do. It isn't, but the man needs to quit applying the stress, I don't need any more of it than I already have. Current Mood: discontent
Saturday, December 6th, 2003
11:42 pm	Saturday, July 6, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk I'll keep this short, since it's a little after one a.m., and I want to sleep. One of the MLEP's secretaries took maternity leave on Thursday, and ever since then, the MLEP's half of our paperwork hasn't been completed. The immediate solution is for me to do it and get it out of the way in time for all of the legal proceedings to continue as planned, but I'm going to have to talk to MacDougal about it. He's been significantly more cooperative since Barty's rumor got around, but he still thinks he can own me, which makes any form of civilized conversation with the man impossible. On another note, Eleanor's pregnant and Isabel's sick. I'm done dealing with both of those issues, and am hoping that they won't come back to haunt me.
Saturday, November 29th, 2003
11:15 am	Saturday, June 29, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk The meeting with Alexander Hamilton fared better than I expected. Breakfast, however, did not. I’ve been thinking about what I told Alexia for the past day and a half, and I still haven’t decided if it was the right move. I’ll have to justify it in front of Barty, because he’ll hear about it, if Alexia’s mouth is anything like her daughter’s, but whether or not I can justify it to the point where I can keep my job is— Out of the question. I’m going to get fired. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true. I wonder if I should move into Muggle Liason before the time comes. Someone needed to take responsibility for what is happening between Barty and Eleanor. Barty’s permanently damaging her, and I can’t just sit back and watch when it’s someone’s daughter he’s messing with. If it were my daughter, I’d sure as hell want someone to tell me about it. What he’s doing is degrading to women (she’s “a passing fancy”, after all) and it’s complete crap that it’s gone on for so long. Except that it’s going to continue, because Alexia is a Muggle. That’s both a relief and a disappointment, because when Barty fires me, I can at least testify that it had no long-ranging effects. Unless Eleanor leaves him, but I almost think losing my job would be worth it if that happened. I probably should have dealt with Barty directly, but if I had, he would most likely go to her more often to spite me—that is, if I actually mean anything to him, which I doubt at this point, in which case telling him would be futile. That brings us to all of those underlying motives, and I'm internally debating if I had any of those. Barty means nothing to me, and I might have told Alexia about Eleanor to prove it. I'm sticking a huge 'might' on that. It could also have been because every conversation I've had for the past month for anything other than business purposes has been tight-lipped, and I was sick and tired of it. If it wasn't for Eleanor's own well-being, though, it makes me a horrible person. Current Mood: uncomfortable
Tuesday, November 18th, 2003
8:25 pm	Tuesday, June 18, 1981 The Muggle fire department is supposed to handle gas leaks within twenty-four hours of discovery. It's been four days since the first encounter, and we're still dealing with it. This building is worthless, apparently-- they've found six gas leaks in the entire building, one of which was in my apartment, so we all have to evacuate for the next week or so. Since my apartment's involved, I've spent all afternoon trying to sort this thing out. I've had to let them know I'm currently unemployed so they won't try contacting me at "my office". Last night's dinner was a train wreck followed by the seven hours of agony involved in stripping my apartment of all its magic, I keep getting worthless thank you Owls from Americans, and I've got to eat dinner with the family tonight. I'm going to go do paperwork. (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 8th, 2003
11:54 pm	Saturday, June 8: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk It's 4:00 a.m. and I'm sitting outside in the pouring rain with a poncho, waiting for the Muggles to let us go. There's been a gas leak in the building, and they've spent all night inspecting it. Gods, what a pain. I could swear myself hoarse right now-- all I want to do is sleep, I've only had two hours of it in the last twenty-four. I have to meet with Mrs. Fudge at eight. Sleep isn't going to happen for me tonight. No coffee, either. I'm sticking to that, even if it murders me. I've just accepted some hot chocolate. Perhaps that will do the trick. In the meantime, I had might as well try sorting out yesterday's events. I went into Barty's office to get his signature and came out with it, but somewhere in between the two he managed to confuse me. Gods, I'm tired. This must be so incoherent. He keeps bringing up that I'm important to him. It's getting to the point where I can't look at it as him messing with my head, as much as I'd like to. I'm leaving the option open, though, for the time being. I'd have been a better choice than Isabel. Of course I am-- I'm "grounded". I'll have to review this after I've had more sleep. He wasted an endearment on me-- that was him messing with my head-- and shared one of his "moments". This, and the fact that his ego forces him to spit out a bunch of nonsense, is what makes it difficult to believe him about anything. All of this something I just have to accept and get over.
Sunday, November 2nd, 2003
5:11 pm	Sunday, June 2, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk It'd be nice if were someone "grounded" to talk to me about my problems. I could go and speak to an actual person rather than carrying on a conversation with my bathroom mirror. I've given up on confiding in my father, because whenever I do, he insists that I need to find a good husband ("Too bad that Barty Sr. got away. Imagine where you could be if you'd stayed with him!") and settle down ("There are only so many problems a pile of paperwork can solve, Mafalda. I was in politics for thirty years and I can tell you, there's not a whole lot to it unless you've got a spouse waiting for you at home. Your mother always wanted you to find someone") and Merlin knows I haven't had that mother in over fifteen years. Talking to my various other relatives ends in singeing my hair in Exploding Snap or warning them against flying in thunderstorms, and the friends I had in Hogwarts are all too occupied with their children and white picket fences for this. I'm Arnold's power of attorney. Basically, I'm the only person qualified for the job, and the only person to trust with this. I'm shaken up by it, and we'll leave it at that. Isabel needs to grow up and Arnold needs to let go of his unhealthy attachment to her. That, and the fact that neither is actually going to happen, is about everything I got out of that topic of conversation. Arnold apologizes for my being stuck in this mess, but I don't see what good his sympathy does. It's nice knowing that someone realizes I'm actually there when they talk, as he and Barty have both expressed lately. I don't blame Arnold for coming to me-- he's got no one else, as he said, but whatever Barty has in mind is probably invariably connected to his ego, and the last thing I want to do is support that thing. I suspect he genuinely needs me, however, which is the worst part of all-- I have to submit to the fact that I'm an irreplaceable piece of the Barty Crouch support system. I'm "grounded", after all, but it's not as if I'm getting anything out of it. All of this is a constant reminder of how I'm still alone at this point-- Arnold expressed surprise at the fact, though I can't see why, there are few men who can actually tolerate me once I lecture them about filing paperwork. If being involved with someone gets you into this Crouch sort of mess, then I don't want to find someone, but I've got Arthur Weasley and Spurius Perkins across the hall as living proof of the opposite. Though I'd rather be alone than married to either of them, as well.
Thursday, October 30th, 2003
7:54 pm	May 30, 1981 Well, if my day hasn't been a complete mess, I don't know what else to say about it. I have to deal with the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol practically every day, so it's hardly anything new, but that today they decided worse than usual. It started out with one of the secretaries trying to transfer paperwork and owls over to my Office. When that didn't work, they sent in Spinnet, who's just been stuck in a desk from a Quodpot injury, then I spoke to a few more MLEP personnel before MacDougal, apparently the man responsible for the transferral attempt, stopped by. Our stunning argument ended when he gave up on loading his work on me and expressed frustration at my broken coffee machine. Brooms enchanted to go over the speed limit are part of traffic control and the MLEP's problem, not mine. I think I'll make a sign and post it on MacDougal's door. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, October 26th, 2003
7:48 pm	Sunday, May 26, 1981: The Private Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk I visited with two Crouches in one day on Friday. The only good thing about it is that afterwards I was inclined to get all of my filing done for the rest of the week. There's not a whole lot to say about the meetings themselves, except that I must talk to both of them more often than they talk to each other, and that I should have just kept my mouth shut. Mrs. Crouch didn't need to know that I know about her affair, and Barty didn't need to know that his wife thinks the two of us are having one. I had reasons for saying both-- I caught Mrs. Crouch in her hypocrisy, and I informed Barty that he needs to tighten the leash on his wife-- but reason, as we all know, is not the Crouch area of expertise. My job would be so much easier if Crouches would just shut up. And if the owls quit dying, and if I were allowed to drink coffee, but those are other matters. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 18th, 2003
10:24 pm	Saturday, May 18, 1981 This week I saw two decades worth of Crouch photo albums, sat through a round of Barty Crouch seeing how much crap he can spew at an attentive audience, toured the Crouches's forty-six walk-in closets, listened as Basil Stump gave a detailed account of Grogan Stump's political career, yelled at roomful of MLEP officers for messing up the coatrack case, searched desperately for a perpetrator of the said case and found out exactly what curses were on Eleanor's gun, which are enough to keep whoever was responsible behind bars from six months to sixteen years, and went to see a medi-wizard for the boils Catchlove gave me in return for sending his case to court, where he's sure to get a 'guilty' sentence. As if my week could get any worse, the medi-wizard's informed me that I can no longer drink coffee. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 8th, 2003
9:40 pm	From the Journal of Mafalda Hopkirk My intern should do something useful for once and clean my office of all of the quills. I'm thinking of writing Dear Rabby, even after that ridiculous Bagnold article. Barty's got control over my standard of living, career, politics, and familial relations. The entire family loves him, they want to know when I'm bringing him home for dinner again. While both options sound equally revolting, I'd quit my job before I slept with him, or even agreed with him, for that matter. Which I might have to do, if he keeps it up, and give him a whopping sexual harrassment case while I'm at it. With Eleanor and Isabel to inflate his ego, I don't see why he would. Or why he did at all, that bastard. I should have slapped him when I had the chance.
Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
10:15 pm	Fair Warning: Everyone who's come within five feet of me within the last week has left either severely scathed or with double the paperwork they came in with. I've drunk so much coffee, it's started to taste like water. I don't like thinking about where I'd be without the break from that horrid Alihotsy incident, mainly because I don't like thinking about that incident at all. Eleanor's pistol had suspicious curses all over it. I've sent it in for further testing, but if the results come back positive, either International Cooperation or the Daily Prophet are going to have a field day-- whoever gets to it first. My job requires that I send it to the IMC, but I'm just boiling at all of the trouble she's caused, so I may just send it off to the newspaper and let them go wild over it. It'd be interesting to see if I lost my job over it. Now I'm contemplating career suicide. I need another employee, another drink, or some more sleep to get over it. I wonder how much work it'd take to train Janitorial House Elves to do some of my "Bloody Evil Paperwork" for me. Between traveling to and from crime scenes and chasing the intern out of the Auror's quarters, I have to stay after hours in order to get it all sorted. Another minor complaint I have is how my ceiling keeps leaking from the downpour of rain we've been getting. Damn piping. We're underground, this shouldn't even be an issue. (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 29th, 2003
6:07 pm	Ministry's been quiet, lately, which I'm grateful for. Quiet usually means that the tension's building up and we'll be ready for an explosion within another week or two, but I'm going to ignore that and be grateful for the fractionally smaller amount of paperwork I've been getting. Nother more than a few charmed house keys, which has mostly been Arthur and Perkins' area. The guy who got his wand broken goes to trial tomorrow, and he's been attacking the department like a stuck murtlap. Our trackers don't lie, so I'll testify in court tomorrow and that'll be the end of it. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 13th, 2003
2:28 pm	March 13, 1981 I've been stuck in this damned hospital room since the eighth, thanks to Barty and his Alihotsy leaves. Alice are adamant that it's the fault of the hit-wizards and Alastor blames the Death Eaters while Arthur and I think that Crouch set it up to get more funding for the Aurors, and Twist is convinced that anyone and everyone are responsible-- he included ourselves in that for about five minutes until Alastor set him straight. Why anyone would put themselves through that is beyond me; we've all been put on night-time sedatives to keep from having nightmares about it. We toyed with the idea that Eleanor was to blame, but of course Alice shut that down right away, and I had to concede that Eleanor is too stupid concerned about Auror welfare to have done such a thing. I was also wondering if Bletchley, one of the blokes I recently fired, did it as some sort of revenge, or if one of Odell's friends stopped in for a bit of a treat, since the Ministry clearly lets anyone in these days, but there's no reason to suspect any of them other than that they're pains in the arse, and the hit-wizards have better access to the coffee machines than they do. Between Arthur's royal terrors children and Alice's screaming bundle of joy son, I've had enough to keep me on the brink of insanity occupied, but thank Merlin for Peasgood and his flask paperwork. I've gotten a good amount of it done and owled it back to the Office; the medi-witches tried to pry it away from me, but after I attacked them with one of my quills, they saw it best to leave me be. They took it from me again in the middle of the night last night, but after an hour or so of screaming at them about it this morning, they determined that I'd get more rest with the paperwork than without it. Kingsley, check on the owls, there should be several from me. I'm never going to drink coffee out of the Ministry machines again, that's for certain. I'm going to have to resort to buying it across the way or stealing it from Barty's private stores. I can just imagine the amount of money Barty's getting for all of the Department repairs. I'll bet he's satisfied, though I'm starting to question the safety of the DoMLE-- if I can sneak into his office and steal a chair and someone else can poison the coffee machine, security is clearly nonexistent. Though you'd think a bunch of Law Enforcement officials could watch out for themselves. Current Mood: annoyed (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 6th, 2003
12:10 am	March 5, 1981 Well, if this hasn't been the perfect day. Started off by stealing Barty's chair to prove a point about equal distribution of funding, and I had him storming in here at around nine o'clock this morning demanding to have it back. So if any of you on the DoMLE level were wondering what in Merlin's name all that racket was, it was your Head of Department throwing a temper tantrum. He refused to give us any more funds, as anyone would assume he would, but I finally got him to fire Potter and Bletchley, which I've been waiting for for the past two months. I doubt it will be necessary in Potter's case, however; I highly suspect that he's dead, as I caught a quick obituary in the paper about a "Luke Potter", but I never heard anything else about it. I hope Bletchley, the nonexistent Head of the Office, remembered to send flowers to the family. Since he's getting fired, one would assume that I'm moving up to fill his spot, but the chances of getting some sort of official word on that are about as likely as Arthur enjoying his encounters with Billywigs. As if that wasn't enough, the owls started acting up at about two this afternoon, and then I got a call to go check on a rouge bludger in Wales. Apparently one of the Harpies jinxed it to go after Muggles; I've sent the tests in to determine the wand type of the caster, so hopefully we'll get that back tomorrow. If the Office had the funds for them, we'd have the devices to determine this kind of thing on our own and I'd already know who the culprit is. Otherwise, I'm here after hours, as usual. I hope one of the Crouches keeps their word on fixing my coffee machine. Current Mood: aggravated (3 Comments |Comment on this)