This Is War

Superbra! Ditt språk är verkligen jättebra och berättelsen också!

Awesome!!!

Åh, tack tack tack!!! Och jag är klar med nästa inlägg! Det är ganska händelselöst, men jag kände att det behövdes. Det kan hända att jag hoppar rätt långt in i framtiden om jag känner att det inte händer någonting spännande att skriva om, så ni får se till att läsa datumen också

~~~

July 31st 1996
Dear Marie
I got a job! A real, fulltime job! I don’t do much, unpack boxes mostly, and it could be in the most boring shop ever (“Gibbons Magic Knitting Supplies”, even the name makes you want to yawn), but it’s a job! Auntie Rosie wasn’t too thrilled; I had to assure her that I wouldn’t end up in a shop for the rest of my life like fifteen times. Uncle Ben surprised me though, said that he didn’t care what I worked with as long as I was happy. I thought he’d be worse than Auntie Rosie. I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.

For the last week I’ve been getting up at 6 am, eaten a fast breakfast with Uncle Ben and apparated to Diagon Alley where I start working in the shop at 7 am sharp. Before Ms. Gibbons, the owner, gets there at eight I go through the mail, send off a coupled of orders for new balls of yarn in every colour possible and, if I’m lucky, manage to boil a pot of coffee. As soon as Ms. Gibbons arrive I hurry off to the bakery to buy her a couple of biscuits and a scone. At 8.30 am Ms. Gibbons and I open up the shop for customers. The shop is never crowded, and that’s saying quite a lot as it isn’t very roomy. A couple of old ladies, friends of Ms. Gibbons it seems because more often than not they leave without buying anything, comes in from time to time to gossip away about nothing, but they leave not after long. From time to time someone purchases something, but only to leave quickly. No one wants to linger in the same place too long, afraid that the death eaters will show up. It’s quite frightening actually, even more so for the ones that can remember last time You-Know-Who had this much power. I wouldn’t know how it was back then of course; I was only two when he went under, but I can imagine it was a lot like this. For me it just feels unreal. The sun is still shining, the birds keep on singing, and this far all the evidence of the rise of He Who Must Not Be Named is the articles about death and disappearances in the Daily Prophet, and the shops of Ollivander and Florean Fortescue which are now empty and closed. I guess I won’t really accept that this is for real until I see something happen with my own eyes.

How are things in France? Is your father feeling any better? I’m sending a recipe for some kind of potion Auntie Rosie recommends. She says he’ll feel better in no time if he takes it.

Yours truly,
Alex