The colossal hoax of clocks and calendars, it seems, cannot be defeated by plumes of pink smoke signalling the close of summer. The latter having been aided by the unique stench smell of rotting tropical fruits, however -- well, it's an advantage that can't be denied.
Should anyone have an extra copy of The Daily Prophet, I'd be grateful if one
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I can owl one to you. We've been encouraged to keep in touch, or something like that. I don't know.
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I recall hearing something similar; nine months of the year is sufficient for me, but I'd appreciate the paper independent of any (further) forced interaction.
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I can do that. Further interaction will not be necessary.
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Thanks.
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But yes, as someone who acknowledges your incredible devotion to me, I'll send you a prophet. The Quidditch bits stay here, but you can have the rest. It's not like my Dad reads the other shit.
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Irving's sending me a copy, actually, but thanks for the offer all the same.
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The last student who tried to tamper with the professor's alert system, however -- well, I'm sure you've smelled heard that story, so I wouldn't try anything drastic.
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