Perhaps the house-elves took it. Perhaps I am searching in the wrong robe. Perhaps—fuck, I’ve lost it. And as this place is swarming with Students and Other Abominable Creatures ™, I am not very likely to retrieve it.
Hopefully it happened somewhere out of her reach. Blast. How could this happen? I can’t be discovered littering my belongings all over the place. Especially not belongings such as that. Let me examine my robes once more—
Well I’ll be damned. There is a hole in my fucking pocket. I haven’t been carrying something acidic around lately, have I?
Oh … damn.
So. Maybe I stepped over the line just a millimetre or two. But I could not have distributed the potion to anyone else before I was entirely sure of its efficiency. Over the years I seem to have developed a certain tolerance for strong substances, so I stand by my decision: I was the only right person to test it. (Not that I ever doubted it would work, of course.) And it is not as if the inhabitants of this castle are on their most active peak at three a.m., so Sinistra was the natural choice, obviously. I could of course have picked a house-elf, but the human brain has got a limit as to how many grammatical errors it can digest in the course of ten minutes.
And she did not really think about anything important.
In a way.
However, I am pleased to have finally found the culprit responsible for those blasted letters. Though sadly enough, from what I gathered, they seemed to serve the purpose as some sort of revenge, so that means that if I retaliate, I will get even more flowers, or some disgusting variation of the theme. What I said about having substantial proof was of course a downright lie, but I suppose I could always have found a quirk in the handwriting that matched one in one of the regular owls I have received from her.
In any case. If taken in a slightly larger dose, the potion should be a sufficient weapon to have in stock. Less fortunate people, i.e. people not possessing the abilities of a Legilimens, will probably find it useful. And now that we know where Dumbledore is—I only hope someone somewhere is planning his rescue, because I have certainly not heard word about anything. Leave it to the werewolf and the man whose sole ability in life consists of transforming himself into something that pisses on people’s legs to foil everything.
On another note, I am growing tired of Sinistra constantly physically attacking me to show just exactly how much she appreciates me. (Though I would probably have done the same thing myself.) At least I got a peck on the cheek out of the whole ordeal, like some overexcited third-year taking a break in his wanking to take a step into the real world instead.
Not that I, ahem, masturbate.
Oh, do shut up, you’re just a bloody
"You" are a journal.
You cannot talk back.
St. Mungo's, make room.