I know you’re going to the graduation ceremony and that you know about my brother’s graduation party. I think this is obvious, but I still think you should know that my brother doesn’t like you and I don’t want you there either. Just so we’re clear here, you are definitely not invited.
He got the letter in the morning. The usual London pea soup was hanging over the city, and he’d let his tea go cold in the mug. He’d barely moved since the owl had flown in and landed gently next to his half-eaten toast. He’d recognised the handwriting immediately, and after untying the envelope and letting the owl begin his return journey, he’d let the letter sit unopened on the table.
He’d been doing rather well and not thinking very much about Mary.
He watched it for a long time, as if it might burst into flames, or start squawking at him. He was going to be late for work. (He was never late for work).
Finally, he opened it. He nodded slightly, as if to convince himself that he’d expected it. Then he scrunched the parchment up as tightly as it would go, raised his wand, and burnt it until acrid smoke filled the air. He evaporated the remainder of the ashes with another flick of his wand, and wiped the table clean.
The only sign of any emotion was the way Doc’s hand shook as he put away his wand.
