August 28

Dear George,

Harpies won! Finally. That game shouldn't have taken nearly that long, but I guess you do have to give the Australian beaters some props for targeting the one player that they knew could make them loose…

Cannons that shoot glitter… first of all, what in the world made you think of that? That sounds like something Ginny would have made up when she was two years old to accompany her fantasy wedding. I suppose you might sell a few, but if I were you, I would take a few polls first. See what your audience thinks of it; maybe you could even take some preorders. Make sure to include in the poll what the cannons would shoot. Live doves would be good for a wedding, while glitter would be better for a party. Depending on the results of your poll, you can make approximate price estimates based on how many you will be able to mass produce at one time.

Anyway, I got half of my interviews over and done with this morning, and allow me to tell you that professional Quidditch players (besides Ginny of course) are… let's just say that their level of sociability is not one to aspire to. I asked one of them how long he had played Quidditch, and he responded to me by sneezing on me. His snot was a variety of colors, varying between fuchsia and turquoise. I had to scourge it to clean it up. Then he just wiped his nose and gave me a blank stare. I wrote down, "Not very long," and continued with the interview. There were so many other stories that if I wrote them all down, it would weigh the owl down too much. I guess I'll just have to tell you once I get back.

I miss you a lot. Hopefully I will be able to be back in a few days. Then we can assess the damage you did to the shop, and you can clean it up under my helpful direction.

Love,

Angelina

I put my letter into the envelope, sealed it, and gave it to the waiting tawny owl. It took the letter, peered at it for a few seconds, flapped its wings, and then it was gone.

I waited one hour, then two, then three… I didn't have any more interviews today; they were all tomorrow. A letter from George usually arrived at this time of the day. I watched the seconds tick by on the floating clock on the far wall of my tent. I had kept my tent clean all week, but I guessed the stress had gotten to me. The entire floor was covered in a layer of paper, quills, newspaper, and other bits and bobs that were unrecognizable among the mess. I leaned back in my chair and began to tap my nails on the desk. When would George's letter come?

"I would come in and hug you, but I'm afraid I might impale myself on something."

I looked up and saw a tall man with a shock of red hair at the entrance of my tent.

"George!" I leapt over piles of unorganized stuff and practically knocked him over with my hug.

"I missed you," he whispered into my ear.

"I love you too."