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[smartass_carrow]

Prick. Prickprickprickprickprick. PRICK.

Fucking Arsehole.

And what's all that shit with Avery anyway? His butt isn't even all that nice.

Stupid birthday.
So. Seventeen.

I don't need presents, mates. Just do me a favour and GET RID OFF ONE ANTONIN DOLOHOV FOR ME.

Please.

And he doesn't have to stay alive.

Thank you very much, in advance.

((Sorry

Comments

[poison_infrench]

Oh, your birthday. I did remember that. After all I am the numbers guy. What I forgot to do was to say happy birthday.

And I have nothing here. So...chocolate from Paris, or a random book that I pull off my shelf? I warn you, the book could easily be a Russian dictionary or the history of the number 7.

[smartass_carrow]

Thank you, Professor. All the same.

Erm... chocolates. My books tend to get salivitated by one ANTONIN DOLOHOV. Those two words are rapidly becoming foul.

[poison_infrench]

Figured as much. Well, not the salivation....

*owl with chocolate arrives*

[smartass_carrow]

Thanks, professor!