Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Remus Lupin (Trio Era)
Dear me, this journal looks empty.

[Hexed Private, Sirius can read]
I kept journals when I was young, too, you know. I learned very quickly that a) I enjoy owning many blank, sometimes ornate books to write in, b) I'm pants at filling them beyond ten pages, and c) I should never write when I'm...ah, PMSing as Sirius likes to say. Needless to say, it's nowhere near the issue it used to be. But I still have less than savoury words to say that may or may not be what the chosen receiver of these words may deserve. So I bite my tongue - not always figuratively - and occupy myself otherwise. Elsewhere. "Otherwhere". But it's all right, now that it's not last night or earlier today. In fact, my bum might be getting sore from lying around all day. ...Or it might just...be sore. Were it tomorrow, I would get up and wash some dishes or something. Dust, perhaps. Change the sheets, I think. Yes, that's what I'll do.

Or perhaps, if I can do so without looking exceedingly suspicious (with wolf-like tread?), I will go into town and buy up every single newspaper I possibly can that has Sirius's picture in it. Clearly the original article has already done its damage, but now it's going to be one of those pieces that they keep following, even if it is getting pushed further and further back. Mayhaps it will eventually end up in the Lifestyles section. Although I can't imagine who would want to read an article about a "dangerous" "criminal" taking stylish holidays in the Caribbean. Then, I assume, all the rebellious young folk will rush down there and get themselves houseboats, as well. The islands will hit a peak in popularity. Just lovely. If not that, they can put him in the personals. "Unkempt, vicious murderer - sometimes hound - seeks trouble. Constantly. No matter what precautions his mate tries to take to keep him out of it. Refuses to listen and, often, to wash his hair." I hate the Prophet. It's quite ridiculous. Were it the last piece of literature in this world, I would scoff at it and find a new hobby.

But, I do think we all know that it is not entirely the fault of the periodical's outstanding team of investigative reporters (not, may I add, "writers" - if I were a lesser man, I would send in all the issues I've gone over with my red ink) that such news has reached its pages. The phrase an "ounce of prevention" might come into mind, along with the notion that someone in this household either doesn't understand its meaning or flagrantly disregards it. I think the latter seems most likely, don't you? It's one thing - and I'm not pointing fingers at anyone, Sirius - to be a charming, large, black dog, romping around a nearby park. But to make the journey all the way down to a train station where plenty of people who might know that you're not just a dopey, loveable family pet of a very well known young man...well. I said I wasn't going to say anything about that. I didn't. At the time. But let's just say that if I were not living in this house, I would have already sent several Howlers to the man who does, regarding the aformentioned incident. I don't, however, want to hear the sound of my own voice any louder than I commonly have to.

Now, here's where the "pound of cure" comes in. Whose pound? My pound. Take that as a pun, if you will, because Sirius, I think you're grounded. At current, I may not have my strength, but, heavens, do I have my wit. I realize that the Prophet enjoys blowing a lot of hot air on most occasions, but that doesn't mean the whole wizarding world takes it as such. I don't care if they're "full of it", I know they are. But the common rabble will take this as legitimate news. People will be on the lookout. I realize you don't care too much, but you do have a godchild who needs you to not be captured again and, perhaps, killed in the process. Or after the process. Or at any time. Ever.

You also have a me, who needs much of the same. But that's a sidenote, just a reminder. In case you ever think to take that into consideration, too.[/private]

That looks a little better. Now, I think, I shall take another nap, if only to stop saying things like "Ach, my hip" or "Oh, my back" out loud. I'm nearly thirty-six, not one hundred.