Things have been in a bit of an uproar ever since Malcolm got himself arrested. Old Boy came round wanting to drop off a mess of odd, fur-covered cauldrons that hissed whenever anyone ventured too near. He claims they're a hybrid of quintapeds and anthropomorphised kettles, and while I can't imagine why anyone would want one of these things Gran
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I admit it made me rather aggressive. And I spent all afternoon scraping stuff from between the floorboards without my wand, convinced I would find some wonderous treasure. The parlour floor looks exceptionally clean now.
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