This story is dedicated to Charmingly-holly, without whom this story would not exist. I am very sorry your professors are off their collective rockers.
I own absolutely none of this; it's all J.K.R.'s.
The Angry Post of Mrs. Eliza J. Thumble
Introduction
Dear Mr Potter,
I am writing this as regards the destruction of my fifty year old Windsor china set.
As I learned on the evening of the twenty-second of last month, the Auror department under your guidance and the illustrious Mr Robards has taken less care than usual with the personal property of your protectorates; being myself and the property of my deceased grandmother, Mrs Julia P Worthington, formerly of Kensington. The care with which the two aurors dispatched to my place of residence was such that they found it permissible to heedlessly and by means of utter clumsiness and uncontrolled movements to decimate a very old and prized family heirloom. I cannot describe the pain this loss has caused me.
I have no doubt that you will be issuing me a formal apology, and that you will have a care to watch the training and the politeness of your employees while they are doing their noble civic duty. Such, however, has not been my experience.
Yours,
Most Sincerely,
Mrs
Eliza J. Thumble
206 Mariner's Cove
Brighton
The clock on the wall struck three, and the sound of a semi-agonized groan issued from somewhere within an impossibly deep mountain of paperwork sitting on a desk. With a dull thud, a dark-haired young man's head slammed into the pile of papers in frustration. "Fucking Emmons…" he muttered irritably, dragging his quill to the parchment once again. He glared down at the papers about the death eater in question, who in actuality had no direct connection the dark haired young man's frustration. Emmons' scowling face glared balefully up at him from the surface of the topmost paper. He had, according to the heading of the page, been "recently apprehended at the residence of Mrs. Eliza Thumble at 206 Mariner's Cove in Brighton."
He swore, remembering the incident in question. The woman was a mad old bat who had started hitting the aurors with her umbrella when they'd accidentally knocked a platter of very old and expensive china off her sitting room table. An irate letter to the ministry had followed. Flipping through the case file, he found the letter and groaned once again. This particularly scathing piece of literature meant another several hours of paperwork and apologetic letters, despite the apparently simple Reparo that had been done on-site.
Perhaps it was the late—or early—hour of the night that made Harry Potter come to the conclusion that all this was nothing more than an enormous load of waffle. Who cares about Mrs Thumble's china anyway? He thought to himself bitterly. I've destroyed plenty of china! I accidentally Vanished a set when I was nine… He thought about this. Hmmm…they did reappear two weeks later, strangely full of fresh green tea and under Aunt Petunia's couch…delicious, though...if a bit dusty...
His thoughts drifted wildly, far from the mundane, brainless paperwork, spinning together random connections from his past. That couch was about as stunningly uncomfortable as this bloody chair…I wish I was at the Burrow… He sighed deeply as he leaned back in the stiff, wooden chair. That couch is the most comfortable thing in the world…Ginny and I always used to sit there together until Mrs Weasley kicked me out at half two… always wondered how she could tell, though…the only clock in that room is the Family Clock…
He rested his head on his hands. I wonder what Ginny's doing right now; what the clock shows. Is she asleep? Is she still on the road with the Harpies…? Would that show Travelling or Work for her? Would it be in between? Would it spin wildly like that time… He mustered a grin at that memory. What will happen when's she's not Ginny Weasley anymore? Will her spoon on the clock fall off and have to be replaced? Or will it change itself to read Ginny Potter?
The enormity of the previous thought came crashing down on him suddenly, the force of it knocking him backwards off his chair, knocking Emmons' file to the ground, along with Mrs Thumble's blasted letter.
Harry no longer cared about the pile of papers now strewn about his floor or the throbbing pain in his back. He had to see her, talk to her,tell her. He paced the room wildly, suddenly realizing that he actually had no idea where Ginny was, given the Harpies' latest tour. He sat down on the floor on the pretext of picking up the mess, but really just blown away by his own revelation.
A red-head stumbled blearily into the room. "What the hell?" Ron demanded, still half asleep, gesturing wildly at what could be anything from the pile of papers, to the mess on the floor, to the Harry on the floor.
Harry stared up at his best friend of over ten years, and without even thinking, burst out with, "I want to marry your sister."
An awkward silence ensued.
They stared at each other, Harry still sitting on the floor, Ron standing at the doorway looking completely baffled. Eventually, he asked, "…Why?"
They paused again awkwardly, now trying not to meet each other's eyes.
"Well," Harry muttered eventually. "Um, I really like her."
Ron stared at him in something between horror and confusion. "This is obviously a nightmare. You're a complete nutter and I'm going back to bed."
"Um, okay." Harry still had not managed to get off the floor. He heard Ron's door close and looking around, Harry mumbled, "I am so fucked," to the room in general. He fell backwards onto Eliza Thumble's angry letter, arms flung wide. He stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep, confused thoughts about a mixture of his girlfriend, Eliza Thumble, his soon-to-be-irate boss, and strangely, dive-bombing pigeons swirling about his mind.
Ironically enough, at that very moment, two innocent pigeons were brutally awakened by a furious man storming from the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic. "Bloody English meddlers!" he muttered. "Those two were my best yet!" Shooting a furious glare at his surroundings, looking for anything to lash out at, he spotted the two pigeons and pulled out his wand. "Avada Kedavra!" he shouted before stalking away, leaving behind him a tragic cooing and a cloud of feathers slowly fluttering earthward.
