Penelope Aglaia Diggle-Summers

If I kiss you where it's sore
Will you feel better, better, better

Will you feel anything at all? ( anything )

Hags, dragons and death eaters, oh my. We're moving to Tripoli. Or Barbados.



I'm only joking. Or maybe I'm not; it's hardly safe to open the door any longer. At least the Wizengamot is one step closer to putting another of those monsters into Azkaban. Hopefully. In any case, since the dragon's joy-ride (is that the proper term?) through Hogsmeade and the after-effects of hag week I've practically been living at the hospital. Or maybe I'm still just trying to pay that ridiculous fine from last month. Either way, I feel like I've been living under a child infested rock, so, hello world, I have missed you.


Andromeda

Play date/Grown-up date soon? I've got some crafts for the girls to do for the holidays and an excellent vintner of elderflower wine. It's just begging to be shared while we pull out the Christmas decorations.

Axis of Short

I have too many children and not enough plants. Roll call please. How are you all? When are you coming to visit and when are you taking some of these sweets from the hands of my sugar-shocked girls?

St. Mungo's.

What was that? Did everything flicker or shake on anyone else's floors or just ours?

I'm no supporter of Death Eaters by any means, but I can't help but to think, if the Aurors were able to land the killing curse, they could have landed an incarcerous or stunning spell or some other charm to detain them. They were only teenagers. Teenagers who for whatever reason: pressure or fancy, made bad decisions. Jeremy was a lovely addition to the hospital and promising trainee, I'm sure young Mr Rosier was just as lovely. If his choice of friend is any indication.

I don't think fighting death with death is the answer and if it is: then what are we fighting to save?

Axis of Short

I'm home. Resting. But will live. You're welcome to visit.

Thanks for looking after the girls the past few weeks.

Quarantine Club

It was a pleasure rotting with the lot of you. If you need anything during your recuperation or after look me up at St. Mungo's, I'd be happy to see to your care.

And once we're fully healed I call for a proper reunion.

My skin is peachy in colour and not rotted OR maggot infested. And I was able to hug my little girls. Today is a win in my book.

[written amidst a hallucination. handwriting is shaky, slanted and uneven]

my girl s they

eff y adra


no

i have to go i'm goin g they can' t


     i have to go

bye jo ey, berti e, ap ril, hes tia, kingsley


little kingsle y

i have--
[Penelope has left the buil- err quarantine.]

Private.

I can't decide if it's all the vomiting or the chunks of skin falling off that is more disturbing- disgusting right now.

John Summers

The only possible excuses are eaten by a mountain gorilla, fell off a cliff, became stuck in a collapsed subterranean cavern while spelunking. If you're not home taking care of the girls because you're still off chasing lost relics of who the fuck knows what empire I'm feeding you to the tentacula.

Diggles.

I think we should talk. About arrangements.

Where the fuck is my fucking husband?

Someone needs to feed the tentacula.

Axis of Short.

How are my girls? Any word from my husband?

Could someone owl me a pair of mittens? The scratching is unbelievable.

I think I'll plant tentaculas, bubotubers and devil's snare all around my house, stand in my living room and say Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort all I like. I'd like to see Death Eaters get through that. (not really.)

(I may have already planted the devil's snare. At least I know a name can't disable that.)

Warded to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Good afternoon. My name is Penelope Summers, I am a healer at St. Mungo's hospital and I am the Aunt of Octavius Pepper. He is currently being held by your department for allegedly vandalising the Ministry's entrances. I wish to visit him. Is it possible to schedule a time to do so? I would assume he has not yet been transported to Azkaban.

( Howler sent to Edward Carmichael c/o Graeme Carmichael )

A loss of life, no matter who or how, is always tragic. I didn't know those boys, but it sounded like they were heroes. My deepest thoughts and condolences are with their friends and family. And those that would debate that in any form should keep their mouths shut and their quills down.

Whew. Amazing what Sunday cleaning can do for you. I thought I had lost this little gem until I found it hidden under Adrasteia's bed with a cookie cutter, a box of foil and my favourite pair of turquoise heels. Along with numerous other sundry items that are neither here nor there. I've no idea what she was plotting. Perhaps some sort of cookie-flavoured metallic monster to combat bath time. But apparently in my absence my niece has taken up a career as an international art thief and my nephew is being attacked by lethifolds. (Is it any wonder my daughter is building cookie monsters out of tin foil?)
Fortunately, John returns home this weekend.

And apparently the whole of the world is going mental. Let's hope the law hasn't taken leave of it's senses as well. I don't know Miss Burbage, but I'm quite certain Bradley is not capable of attacking that poor Undersecretary. And I respect Miss Bones and what she had to say, but motive and character witnesses do matter quite a bit. When something is completely out of character for one's person then obviously I hope the DMLE and prosecutors will look deeper into it. As we saw with Healer Savage's trial earlier this year.

Thisbe.

We'll just gloss over the part where I dutifully and successfully persuaded you not to become an art thief. I can get you on at the hospital; if you would like?

St Mungo's

All right, loves?

Diggles.

Effy made you all biscuits. For the love of Helga please come eat them before she tries again. There is cookie dough all over my kitchen and not to mention the mess she's made of herself.
( Cut for image )

Children. So precious, priceless, precocious, perplexing, messy.