Edgecombe.

I think I ought to go to St. Mungo's. This morning I made coffee for everyone on my floor, without being asked. I also apologised to the Quidditch editor when he walked into me. To cap it all off, I smiled at Rita Skeeter.

Clearly a rational person does not behave in this manner, as there is no obvious goal or outcome to it.

Morag, Princess, you're not being very nice at the moment, however.

The army of boxes continues to move in down below. Perhaps the residents are running an illegal drug cartel masquerading as a furniture removal company. Carmichael, maybe you can grace this with your famed investigative abilities?

( Private to MacDougal )

I am stuck in a building with eight, no, no less than nine Gryffindors. Salazar, strike me down now. Or rather, strike me up, considering where you would most likely be located.

And now you are all going to get fat. Well, some of you anyway. The rest are already there.

Carmichael, could you be any less original? Next you'll be saying that she's joined a cult.

Oh, and incidentally, Wood is McCormack's pimp.

Kirke and Summerby, you could have passed over your old flat to someone quieter. There's been boxes dumped here and there ever since seven this morning. Imagine how noisy it will be once the actual residents have moved in.

I need a shag coffee. Or any creative way of combining the two.

Apparently coffee and tea have antioxidant properties, but only if you take them black. Pre-emptively vetoing any puns made on my skin colour based on my descriptor for not including milk or sugar. But yes, way to spoil my fun.

Speaking of, I would still like to know who is responsible for signing me up for that blasted Secret Santa.

No Secret Santa. No.

When I next look, I want my name to be off that list.

Well then.

MacDougal, I think doing the dishes for a week should suffice. Fawcett, I've yet to think of something for you to do. And before you ask, no, it won't involve your usual repetoire.