notes from the wizarding world

For all the HP nerds out there. Magical dreams, foibles, & fuckups. Occasionally just a look at the humdrum of daily magical life. Photos are not mine unless otherwise stated. Harry Potter & his universe are not mine either. Feel free to ask me anything; I am also here and my HP fic is archived here. I will no longer be updating daily in 2014, but submissions will remain open, although I can't guarantee that your submission will be posted. By and large, there are no warnings for what you may find here, so scroll carefully.
29th September 13
Ms. Mulciber, the only Mulciber, in June 1998, after the death of her last relatives, found herself upended and dragged across the sea. And for what?
Three vaults, which only just covered the various punitive Ministry levees, not to mention the cut the goblins took, for reasons indecipherable. A large house in the country with the roof falling in, home to several colonies of mice and snakes. Paintings of uncles and aunts and unnamed fat infants with tufts of golden hair, odd tweezers and old combs, candelabra rusted over with age. Seventeen goblets, twenty-five cups, twenty plates, sixteen forks, nine spoons, twenty-six knives, and a teakettle. A photo album: the snapshots of brief, inconsequential, forgotten moments. Books no one wanted to read, the magical census of 1744, snapped quills and putrid-smelling tins of Sleekeazy’s. A jar of boomslang skin. Four Slytherin ties, a Hufflepuff tie, and the collected works of Mr. Cantankerus Nott. A music box which would not work, some bed frames she could sell for Knuts, the contents of an Azkaban prisoner’s box. Three ruby hair pins, six pewter cauldrons, one broken broomstick, and every issue Witch Weekly had ever published. A set of magical dentures. A child’s rattle. 
All hers, or so the solicitor had written, unless she should choose to ignore them, the way her father had ignored his birthright and brothers, and shipped off for more temperate climes.
Of course, in that case there would be a substantial increase in the death taxes. 
So to England came Ms. Mulciber, on that balmy June, 1998, to stare about at all the treasures of the Mulciber name, all that remained after her esteemed Mulciber forefathers had gone to their rest, the sole testament to their lives.
What junk, she thought. And she thought of life and death, and of all the many odds and ends she had accumulated in her own lodgings back home. She sold the pins, kept the photos, binned the rest, and politely declined the invitations from grieving persons like Notts and Parkinsons, persons who had known such-and-such Mulciber. Then she went home. To live.
Someday someone would be coming along to catalogue her, too.

Ms. Mulciber, the only Mulciber, in June 1998, after the death of her last relatives, found herself upended and dragged across the sea. And for what?

Three vaults, which only just covered the various punitive Ministry levees, not to mention the cut the goblins took, for reasons indecipherable. A large house in the country with the roof falling in, home to several colonies of mice and snakes. Paintings of uncles and aunts and unnamed fat infants with tufts of golden hair, odd tweezers and old combs, candelabra rusted over with age. Seventeen goblets, twenty-five cups, twenty plates, sixteen forks, nine spoons, twenty-six knives, and a teakettle. A photo album: the snapshots of brief, inconsequential, forgotten moments. Books no one wanted to read, the magical census of 1744, snapped quills and putrid-smelling tins of Sleekeazy’s. A jar of boomslang skin. Four Slytherin ties, a Hufflepuff tie, and the collected works of Mr. Cantankerus Nott. A music box which would not work, some bed frames she could sell for Knuts, the contents of an Azkaban prisoner’s box. Three ruby hair pins, six pewter cauldrons, one broken broomstick, and every issue Witch Weekly had ever published. A set of magical dentures. A child’s rattle. 

All hers, or so the solicitor had written, unless she should choose to ignore them, the way her father had ignored his birthright and brothers, and shipped off for more temperate climes.

Of course, in that case there would be a substantial increase in the death taxes. 

So to England came Ms. Mulciber, on that balmy June, 1998, to stare about at all the treasures of the Mulciber name, all that remained after her esteemed Mulciber forefathers had gone to their rest, the sole testament to their lives.

What junk, she thought. And she thought of life and death, and of all the many odds and ends she had accumulated in her own lodgings back home. She sold the pins, kept the photos, binned the rest, and politely declined the invitations from grieving persons like Notts and Parkinsons, persons who had known such-and-such Mulciber. Then she went home. To live.

Someday someone would be coming along to catalogue her, too.

(Source: zuciok.35photo.ru)