Darling, I was just thinking -- I'm really glad I let you borrow that belt. Definitely one of my better decisions.

Anyway, it occurred to me this morning that you've probably never had the experience of a Muggle ice cream cake before, so I went ahead and picked one up for you.



Needless to say, there are other gifts, but I've got to tell you, I'm pretty excited about the cake. I have to run out and get some green frosting to write "happy birthday" on it -- back in a flash! Oh, and we have dinner reservations at 7. Have you been to Barcelona before?

Anybody go see it yet?

Acromantula-man, Acromantula-man,
Does whatever an Acromantula can.
Saves a boy and is saved by a boy.
Seriously, you don't want to know.
Look out! Here comes the Acromantula-man.

Thank you, Dobby. I've had so much to say recently, and the non-robust server has been preventing me from saying any of it for what seems like months!

Well, that and the new fall season of wizarding programs.

Oh.

Hmm.

I appear to have done something wrong when saving my drafts. Oh well. Perhaps tomorrow.

I've been hearing a whole host of disturbing rumours about NEWTS, and I thought one of you wonkier sorts might be able to tell me what's true and what's not.

1. That there simply are no NEWTS this year, and that we're free to begin our summer holidays at our leisure.


2. That NEWTS this year are going to be replaced by some sort of wet-robe contest at the Three Broomsticks.


3. That NEWTS have been replaced with SALAMANDERS, which apparently is an acronym for Seriously Alarming Life-Affecting Mean And Nastily Difficult Exam Regarding Sorcery.


4. That the Ministry has decided to simply pass all of us without a test.


5. That the Ministry has decided to simply fail all of us without a test.


6. That the Ministry has fucked off to Ibiza on holiday and has no idea we're still at Hogwarts.


7. That Potter, freshly dry, has declared himself Minister For Magic, sent the current one packing, and invaded Bulgaria. Oh, and instead of taking NEWTS, we're all to go and fight and probably die out there in some horribly angst-ridden scene.


8. That the NEWTS are to have a slightly longer essay section than in previous years.


9. That the NEWTS are to no longer include analogies.

So? What do people know?

Did anyone Wizvo My Name is Ezekiel or WCSI: Salem last night? Pansy apparently set mine to record some thing on Sun Tzu, and I really don't want to miss either of them this week.

OH, MERLIN, I THINK PANSY IS MISSING NOW AS WELL. I'VE LOOKED IN TWENTY-TWO DIFFERENT PLACES, AND SHE'S IN NONE OF THEM!!!!

WAIT, I JUST THOUGHT OF ONE MORE PLACE TO LOOK.

BRB.

SHIT, SHE WASN'T THERE, EITHER. I'VE LOOKED IN TWENTY-THREE PLACES, AND PANSY IS DEFINITELY MISSING.

HELP!!!!!!

CORNER!!!

THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE, CORNER!!!

AND, MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHAT ELSE IS THIS INFERNAL MACHINE OF YOURS GOING TO DO TO PANSY?

I NEED TO RESCUE HER, NOT TURN HER INTO RAGGEDY ANN.

I finished the rum.
Now the tequila is gone,
And none of it helped.

I am so stupid,
I'd kill for a time machine
Just to make it right.

I'd wish I were Boot,
If only I had no pride.
Thank Merlin, I guess.

Rum is delicious
But tears are bitter, salty.
I miss my Pansy.

Various things that annoy me:

• People with no sense of how wide their brooms or carpets are, who are incapable of flying in the same sky as oncoming brooms because they're petrified they're going to hit one another, even though there's always enough space to fly an elephant through.


• Goyle and Finnigan skulking around the castle, acting all secretive and such. You two fail at skulduggery.


• Boot.


• Those who like Boot.


• Our pathetic summer classes.


• The fact Hufflepuff last won the Quidditch Cup in 1624.


• The fact Arsenal last won the F.A. Cup in 1993.


• House elves. (sometimes)


• Potter. (also sometimes)

Those of you who find yourselves agreeing with me, as I'm sure the vast majority of you will, may wish to display this banner in a prominent place:



That will be all.

Now I see why you didn't respond at all when I suggested we meet up on your birthday.

I'm sure you're proud. Congratulations. To both of you.

This is your birthday present.



I picked it up last month in London. I don't know if you're familiar with the concept of birthstones, or if it's just a Muggle thing. Each month has a gemstone attached to it, and many girls wear the stone from the month in which they were born. This is made of peridot, the August birthstone. The green reminded me of Slytherin; the clovers the peridot are made into reminded me of the luck I had in having you in my life; the pearls were just pretty. I thought it would look pretty on your wrist, and I suppose it still will, but I don't especially care to see it anytime soon.

I'm handing it to Eloise after Care for Mundane Creatures Such as Earthworms class; she'll give it to you in your History of the Wizarding Horror Film class; I don't care what you do with it after that.

Enough with the travelling, yeah?

This is awkward, but Pansy, I do hope you have a happy birthday. Somehow, I feel it's worse to not mention it at all than to mention it like this; I wouldn't want you to think you were far from my thoughts, now, or indeed, ever.

I have a little something for you; it's not as if I think it will make any difference in your feelings, but I did buy it for you last month, and I neither want to return it nor could I imagine giving it to someone else. if you have a moment today, perhaps I could give it to you and apologize again, perhaps in person for once. Perhaps after dinner?

Pathetic, isn't this? Still on the run, so to speak?

Another day, another strange location.

Not for the first time, I recognise that cities such as this one are fascinating places to visit, but I can’t say I'd wish to actually live here. Too isolated, too primitive; too far from who and what I love.

Sure, I’ve gone and fouled that up, possibly beyond repair; she's refusing to respond to me, which can’t possibly be good – but I can’t imagine ever giving up. I'll find a way, even if it takes forever.

Yet, it is beautiful here, in its own way; nothing could compare to her beauty, though, and seeing these places without her leaves me feeling incomplete and empty. I walk the streets half in a daze, unwilling and unable to to fully absorb the enormity of the bloody mess I've made of my life. Again. This compulsion of mine to be entertaining and a flirt has really done me in this time, and I don't know how to fix it.

If I thought I could make some grand gesture to make it all better, I would. Riding the squid would probably be fruitless, especially with all the random splooshing and general squid-related strangeness that seems to be happening now.

Merlin, I just don't know what to do. I wear my heart on my sleeve, as they say; it's not as if I'm attempting to send hidden messages here, where there's some hidden message to be gleaned from the first letter of the names of the cities I'm visiting, or from the initial letter of each paragraph in this particular post.

Sitting here in a sidewalk cafe in the capital city of Mongolia, drinking a yak-milk latte, which is every bit as disgusting as it sounds, I can't help wondering what she's doing right now. And if somewhere, under all the anger that I so richly deserve, if she doesn't miss me, just a little.

Oh, I imagine you'll want to see what it looks like here. A typical building:



Strange style, but I rather do like it. It somehow fits.

Ostentatious, I suppose, but you have to understand, I've seen men riding on horseback, wearing swords -- and I'm fairly sure they were just commuting to their jobs. It's rather an ostentatious place. I hope Professor Lupin enjoys it, though, I didn't know he was coming, and I suspect I'll be gone before he arrives. Definitely a strange coincidence -- I was as surprised to read of his plans as anyone was.

Really, I don't know why I'm still writing. It's cathartic, I suppose. And there's always the chance, however slim, that it will make a difference.

Ridiculous, I know. But, still, here I am, and here I'll stay. Here metaphorically, I mean; I think I'm ready to leave Ulan Bator, really. But I'll be working on this, waiting, doing whatever it takes, for as long as necessary.

Years, if need be.

So, I thought I was going to Jakarta today.

Or Jerusalem.

Jaffa, possibly.

THIS, however, was NOT ON THE LIST:



A warning to all of you: Apparition should not be done while you are distracted or upset. I'm lucky I didn't leave an arm behind, you know.

I'm getting a souvenir for Pansy and I'm getting out of here.

I was thirsty.

Seamus, nice town.

My travels continue.



Fascinating and historic, and somehow, seeing it alone, it barely means anything.

Aphrodite rose fully formed from the sea, the Goddess of Love. More beautiful than any other goddess or mortal, or, at least until Psyche came along, but that's a different story, albeit one of my favourites. All of it, of course, just reminds me of her, and of my own tragic stupidity. The ouzo helps, and the mezedes are fantastic — I should owl some back to the kitchen elves so they can learn — but in the mornings, my mouth is dry, my head is throbbing, and my bed is still empty.

And for what?

So, I've decided to fuck off for a while. Everyone hates me, myself included; if they don't, they obviously haven't been paying attention. Rather than facing the death glare of all Hogwarts, I've chosen to just go away for a while. Eloise, if you feel like lending me your notes from Defence Against His Dark Materials, I'd appreciate it. The Milton references always lose me. If you don't, I'll understand.

I don't really know where I'm going, and am sort of just flooing around at random. Well, perhaps not exactly at random, but there's no real rhyme or reason to it. I've always loved to travel, and there's something wonderful about being able to just floo off someplace new, where no one knows who you are or what you've done or how badly you've bollocked things up.

My Rough Guide suggested I see Sagrada Familia today, and I'm glad I did.



It's a stunning work, begun 113 years ago, and still at least 30 years from completion. Antoni Gaudí was hit by a lorry or something some forty years in, but they keep going, and it's just magnificent. The man was singlehandedly responsible for the design of much of the city. (The park, in fact, is beautiful, and I found myself staring at his sculpture of a lizard there for a full hour, for no reason that I can explain; perhaps it was bewitched.) It's really rather amazing he wasn't burned at the stake, because clearly, no one could make such compelling things without the aid of magic. In fact, while I can't find proof anywhere, this detail from one face of the cathedral suggests to me that he was actually an Arithmancer.



No matter which direction you add the numbers in, they add up to 33, a number that someone who actually didn't fail Arithmancy can probably confirm is very powerful.

Pansy, if you happen to read this, be aware there may be some owls headed your way. I can't apologise for the way I've been — I mean, I do apologise, and I understand why you're not able to hear it now — but I know I can't make it up to you — and it's not as if I naively believe I can win you over with gifts or anything, either — but I feel like I have to do something, and at the moment, that seems to involve sending you things I see on my travels.

If you smash them, well, it's not as if I won't understand.

SUMMER SCHOOL?

HOW?

WHY?

A GIANT CHISELED BLOODY BOULDER JUST CAME CRASHING THROUGH MY WINDOW, APPARENTLY CARRIED HERE BY AN ENTIRE TEAM OF OWLS, AND IT CLAIMS THAT SOMEHOW, AFTER YEARS AND YEARS OF SPELLING MY NAME CORRECTLY, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CALL MYSELF "JUSTIN FITCH-FLENCHLEY" ON EACH OF MY EXAMS THIS YEAR, AND AS NO ONE BY THAT NAME EXISTS, ALL MY EXAMS HAVE BEEN DISQUALIFIED, AND I HAVE TO COME BACK FOR SUMMER SCHOOL NOW.

I HATE THIS PLACE.

Speaking strictly hypothetically, in regards to that Quibbler contest:

If I were to write a short story about a wizarding farmer who hears a voice telling him to build a Quidditch pitch out behind his house, and he builds it, and once he does, all these long-gone classic players like Bowman Wright and Roderick Plumpton and Basil Horton suddenly walk out of the wolfsbane field and start playing Quidditch games that only the farmer can see ... would that sound like a good story to anyone else?

Just checking.

Spring comes to Hogwarts
Flowers begin their blooming
You're much lovelier

Don't go to dinner
I've bribed Dobbie with some new socks
He'll bring us our own

Five syllbles here
Seven go in the next line
I've run out of thoughts