Author's Notes: Basically – if you recognize it, it isn't mine. I am only playing in JKR's sandbox while she is away. All previous notes still apply
25th of August 2016
It has been so long since I have written in my journal – I have almost forgotten how to do it. Since Harry came back a month ago, things have been almost surreal. It reminds me of the movie The Wizard of Oz (which still bores Ron to tears – he keeps saying "Muggles pay money to see this?!"), when Dorothy leaves Kansas and everything is black and white then she steps out of the house in Oz and everything goes into Technicolor. How clichéd is that? Guess Ginny is right – I have it bad.
And I must say – Ron has been amazing; I was really worried there for a while. Plus the way he found out about Harry coming back and then finding him at my flat looking more than a bit rumpled… looked pretty incriminating I guess. I have a sneaky suspicion that he pulled a big brother routine on Harry while I was out of the room – but Harry will not confirm or deny anything. Those two are still thick as thieves. I guess Fred and George are right – Harry is Ron's twin minus the red hair, freckles, and about 5 inches in height. Thank goodness for that – I would look like a garden gnome in that case.
It seems so strange how much I underestimated how the press was going to turn all of this into a sordid little love triangle. Apparently, I must have been leading Ron on all these years since our respective divorces without my conscious knowledge. How else could I have be "… the clever divorcee who seems to greatly relish cavorting with the two most eligible bachelors in the wizarding world without care to the hundreds of younger and more desirable young witches who would be more than happy to relieve one or the other or even both of these beleaguered wizards of the former Mrs. Finch-Fletchley neè Granger…" After that lovely little article was published, courtesy of the infamous Ms. Skeeter – in started the Howlers… the hate mail… you name it – I was called it.
Confidentially, I will love that article until the end of time – for reasons unrelated to that bit of purple prose. The backlash was so strong – Harry wanted to leave Britain for a while to let things calm down. Two weeks – alone. No work, no floo calls, no owls, no phone, no well-meaning friends popping by at the worst possible moment. Just…perfect. Just a quick owl to Elaine for sightseeing advice and a couple weeks worth of Harry's potion and we were Apperating out to the States.
Also – for someone as allegedly "tough" as she tries to appear, Elaine is a big pile of goo. Just "happening" to know of some of the most beautiful places to go and just "happening" to have an acquaintance there that can assure absolute privacy, discretion, and complete VIP treatment. Right – sure. And Blast-ended Screwts make lovely housepets. Must be why Remus still looks like a little boy at Christmas when she walks in the room.
Speaking of Remus – he isn't looking well at all lately. I know Elaine and Malcolm have been worried for some time. Honestly – how many werewolves have ever lived to his age? Granted with the Wolfsbane potion, all old standards don't apply but still… every transformation seems to take more out of him. It takes him longer to recover – ages him about five years. Even a week later, he seems completely drained. Maybe I am overreacting… I just hope that is the case. We have all lost so many people in the past few years… he just always seemed to hold all of the memories of lost at bay. A tie to the past. As long as we have Remus – it doesn't hurt so much losing Sirius, Molly, Narcissa (seems strange counting her as a friend – even after everything she did…talk about undercover work!), Dumbledore, my parents, … the list just gets longer…
Regardless, I have to go shopping tomorrow with all the "girls" (someone please save me – I am begging!). Everyone will be at the Hogwart's Governor's Ball this weekend, that is always interesting. We may have grown up a bit – but behind the receding hairlines, thicker waists, and crow's feet are still the eleven-year-old First Years waiting to be sorted. Funny how everything changes and yet stays the same.
There I go with the clichés again – I guess that is a sign that I should close the journal before I start in with some inane romantic drivel. Can't have that now, can we?
Until next time…