Right, he thinks, and stares the blurry notes into submission. Regulus rubs the back of his neck, trying to get the kinks out. He startles when, somewhere on the other side of the wide-open window, a Muggle church bell chimes twelve a.m., joined after a moment by the sinister hum of the downstairs grandfather clock. For a minute or twelve, Regulus just watches the inky millipedes dance. Under the flickering light of Grimmauld Place's brazen gas lamps, the words blur and crawl over the parchment. But there is nothing he can do about it now. Back then, most mornings had been like that, wrapped in cotton wool, the edges softened and dulled and dampened by the lingering effects of Dreamless Sleep Potion. The parchment is dated 6th September 1974, nearly two years ago.įrom the sparse, disjointed notes, Regulus can tell it hadn't been a good morning for paying attention. Boggart, it says in Regulus's stiff, tired cursive on the topmost sheet of a high stack of parchment, four years' worth of class notes.
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