Order Only
Mar. 25th, 2009 03:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alt_poppyJust ahead of Monday afternoon's excitement, I received the first crates of the medicinals we've been expecting. I am now equipped for floods of bed-wetting but am still at a complete loss should anyone sever a limb or or receive a poisonous bite, which, thank Merlin, no one did during Monday's excursion into the Forest. I was, however, called upon to be appropriately glozing in expressing my gratitude to various and sundry of our official visitors, for their 'help' in greasing the wheels of bureaucracy and speeding these precious commodities along their path to my cupboards.
Speaking of poison (I was speaking of it, wasn't I?), when I last talked with my connections at St Mungo's, they were grumbling at the effrontery of the Ministry (imagine that!), which sent a courier to demand Magistery of Bezoar of them. When met with disappointment, the young courier witch had the temerity to ask what sort of hospital would fail to have any in stock! (The sort that's had its orders for same refused by the Ministry's Commerce committee, of course.) Turns out it wasn't a poison antidote they needed anyway: apparently they were near desperate because someone had had a violently allergic response to Veritaserum, but no, no it was quite impossible to bring the patient along to St Mungo's for treatment! St Mungo's only get those with whom MLE have finished, it seems: the other grim piece of news they had on offer was that they've seen a sharp spike in admissions with untreatable Cruciatus damage -- they say they are running low on beds after this past week. They are debating whether to renew their request to open a sanitarium in New London. It's gone nowhere the other six times they've put in such a request, but they say they are very nearly at the magical limits of their space on the fourth floor and can't imagine what they'll do with the next batch of new patients. I suggested they might simply mark them Return to Sender.
I know you all have been following with horror the aftermath of the Lord Protector's feast here. You are not alone in your questions. (What on earth was the Protector thinking to have served something so corruptive to his own followers? Was it some sort of loyalty test? Did they believe it would confer some perverse power? Did it, in fact? Was that the point of it all or was the feast beside the point? Those are the questions swirling around the conversations I've heard and read.)
The children -- some of them -- are murmuring questions, too, which may be the most encouraging thing to come of it all. This morning, young Mr Boot broached the subject with me. He asked whether I knew what sort of meat had been served to the Lord Protector's table at the feast. He said he'd seen it -- Carrow had taunted him with his plateful -- and the boy had known somehow, instinctively that it was a gross evil to eat such a thing. He has powerful untrained magic, our Mr Boot, and this is not the first time it has seemed to offer him instinctive protection from harm.
He was very worried that it might hurt the Headmistress to have partaken of the roast. I tried to reassure him as best I could, but as you know, I couldn't pretend that it's had no consequences. When I finished, his eyes had grown very round, and he whispered: 'The meat juice . . . it was silver.' Poor lad, I think he was fighting back tears: he turned round and hurried off as soon as he'd said it.
I shall, of course, leave it to Minerva whether she has any more to report on her own condition. She was managing this morning, when I left her.
Speaking of poison (I was speaking of it, wasn't I?), when I last talked with my connections at St Mungo's, they were grumbling at the effrontery of the Ministry (imagine that!), which sent a courier to demand Magistery of Bezoar of them. When met with disappointment, the young courier witch had the temerity to ask what sort of hospital would fail to have any in stock! (The sort that's had its orders for same refused by the Ministry's Commerce committee, of course.) Turns out it wasn't a poison antidote they needed anyway: apparently they were near desperate because someone had had a violently allergic response to Veritaserum, but no, no it was quite impossible to bring the patient along to St Mungo's for treatment! St Mungo's only get those with whom MLE have finished, it seems: the other grim piece of news they had on offer was that they've seen a sharp spike in admissions with untreatable Cruciatus damage -- they say they are running low on beds after this past week. They are debating whether to renew their request to open a sanitarium in New London. It's gone nowhere the other six times they've put in such a request, but they say they are very nearly at the magical limits of their space on the fourth floor and can't imagine what they'll do with the next batch of new patients. I suggested they might simply mark them Return to Sender.
I know you all have been following with horror the aftermath of the Lord Protector's feast here. You are not alone in your questions. (What on earth was the Protector thinking to have served something so corruptive to his own followers? Was it some sort of loyalty test? Did they believe it would confer some perverse power? Did it, in fact? Was that the point of it all or was the feast beside the point? Those are the questions swirling around the conversations I've heard and read.)
The children -- some of them -- are murmuring questions, too, which may be the most encouraging thing to come of it all. This morning, young Mr Boot broached the subject with me. He asked whether I knew what sort of meat had been served to the Lord Protector's table at the feast. He said he'd seen it -- Carrow had taunted him with his plateful -- and the boy had known somehow, instinctively that it was a gross evil to eat such a thing. He has powerful untrained magic, our Mr Boot, and this is not the first time it has seemed to offer him instinctive protection from harm.
He was very worried that it might hurt the Headmistress to have partaken of the roast. I tried to reassure him as best I could, but as you know, I couldn't pretend that it's had no consequences. When I finished, his eyes had grown very round, and he whispered: 'The meat juice . . . it was silver.' Poor lad, I think he was fighting back tears: he turned round and hurried off as soon as he'd said it.
I shall, of course, leave it to Minerva whether she has any more to report on her own condition. She was managing this morning, when I left her.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-25 09:05 pm (UTC)A remarkable boy, really.
(I wondered: I suppose you've told both him and Hermione about the mice you're trying to catch? Did they have any ideas?)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-25 09:24 pm (UTC)Miss Granger had a host of suggestions about what might inspire students to theft of my stores, but no actual information. Of course, if she were to overhear something, I expect she would come to me directly, but as yet that has not occurred.
I don't doubt that I will find a clean inventory this month: it's been busy here these several weeks, but not frantic as it was in January and February, so it would have been considerably more difficult for anyone to find an opportunity for pilfering. And now, if anyone does find a way into my cupboards, we should know it in short order.