Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
oooOooo
August 15, 2009
Again no luck finding a job.
Though it went better than yesterday. I didn't freeze in the middle of the sidewalk (yes, there is a sidewalk in Hogsmeade now, properly paved), caught by lines and squares like a little fly in an enormous spider's web until Severus found me late in the afternoon.
Today I managed to reach the bookshop. "Pince's Books". The proprietor is one Inigo Pince. I wonder if he's related to the late Irma Pince (second column from the right, thirteenth square from the window, right where my pillow would have been if there was such a thing in Azkaban). He certainly has her vulture-sharp looks and volatile temper. Maybe a nephew? Madam Pince told me once that the books were her children, so I assume she had none of her own. (Except the books.) I did not get a chance to inquire; Mr Pince does not employ ex-prisoners. Not even to vanish the contents of his latrine, and much less to come close enough to his precious books to Charm the windows.
Even that short glance at the books through the dirty windows from outside—Mr Pince never invited me in, but preferred to interview me on the sidewalk, a spectacle for all passers-by—was painful. Not as painful as thinking of Harry, or Ron, or even of Madam Pince. But the sight of all those tomes, hardcovers, paperbacks, neatly arranged on shelves and tables caused a dull ache to spread through my body. I have not held a book since before Azkaban. Eleven years or 135 months or 589 weeks or 4,124 days or 98,976 hours I have not held or read a book. There was no time for reading books at Draco's. And while our new home came fully furnished—including dishes, pots, pans, pillows, sheets, and even garden tools—, the shelves in the living room are empty.
I admit I enjoy the pain of the blood quill for the sake of a page of new parchment under my fingers every day. For the pure joy and sweet agony of writing, of forming letters—every day more evenly, more easily. But my left hand is getting worse; weeping pus, never scabbing over before I pick up the quill again. I know Severus worries how I'll be able to find any job that way, with handicap piled upon handicap…
Still, I'm not giving up. Not until I'm back in my cell.
After cleaning windows at the bookshop fell through, I went back to the post office, counting houses and fence posts and doing my best to ignore the flagstones of the sidewalk.
The post mistress allowed me to demonstrate my talents at Cleaning Charms in the Owlery. Contrary to what I would have thought eleven years or 135 months or 589 weeks or 4,124 days or 98,976 hours ago, that does take skill. You must not disturb the roosting owls, but scour everything to perfection all the same.
I am supposed to come back tomorrow.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Fliewatuet and Mia Madwyn for looking this over.