Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
oooOooo
August 16, 2009
Last night Severus brought me soup for a late supper, left-overs from his job. His soup of the day was Mulligatawny soup—something most patrons of the pub had never heard of, much less tasted. Still, judging from Severus' smirk, it was a success. His reasoning seems sound: onions most finely chopped, not mutilated; carrots, parsnip, and potatoes perfectly diced, not butchered; evenly sliced, spoon-sized pieces of lamb, not meat randomly torn apart. I thought his soup tasted of paradise. Severus, however, had no appetite. Naturally; he spent the whole day keeping a full pot of it burbling steadily on the hearth of the pub.
I would like to think that he enjoyed his first day at work. But I am more than satisfied to hear that nothing went wrong.
This morning, I returned to the post office, trying not to get my hopes up.
Not surprisingly, what hopes I may have nourished in the 18 hours since I left the post office yesterday, were snuffed out as soon as I took one look at Madam Clif-Wyrt's face today. I must say, though, that the elderly witch in charge of Hogsmeade's mail seemed honestly sorry that she's not permitted to hire an ex-inmate of Azkaban for even the most menial of jobs.
Her pity, however, does not change the fact that I still have no job.
When I left the post office, I collided with Madam Agan. Without the warning from Padma and Parvati, I might have thought her kind: She caught me and stopped me from falling. When she realised that her touch was uncomfortable to me, she released me at once. Then she noticed the inflamed wound on the back of my left hand. She showed no disgust. Instead, she offered her help, in form of a rare potion. But she did not press the issue, just left it at an open invitation to drop by—I know where she lives, don't I?
But I must admit, the way her hard, black eyes focused on me, made my skin crawl. And when she gazed at the bloody, inflamed incisions on my hands, the tip of a pert pink tongue slid over her lips in quick, greedy movements that did not seem quite…normal. Or human, really.
Of course I'm not a good judge of what is and what is not normal or sane at the moment.
I should have kept going then, should have gone and knocked at every door of every shop in Hogsmeade, asking for a job.
…but I couldn't. Just couldn't.
I'll come back tomorrow.
At Hogsmeade station, I had the second unexpected encounter of the day: I met Millicent Bulstrode.
The last time I saw her was right after I shoved her cat out of the way of a stray killing curse. I never knew if either of them survived the battle, much less that she knew I had survived. If you can call imprisonment in Azkaban "surviving".
She was strangely cordial.
…I invited her for tea.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Mia Madwyn for looking this over.
Further notes:
# There are a million recipes for Mulligatawny soup. I looked at this one: http:// www. bbc. co. uk/food/recipes/database/jennysmulligatawnyso_71379. shtml
# "clif wyrt" is an Old English name for beggar's button or burdock/cocklebur.