Ooh! Not seeing you there I wasn't. Not seeing me here you shouldn't be either. But work is work. In the normal, this is eventide, when you is all munchied. Munchied and scrumptious, yes. That work too. But what here is normal?
This floor not normal even for here normal. Sense it makes, I'm thinking, of the Charms, yes. Charms are mighty in this place. Dominate, they do. Oh, not like old masters, not wand walloping, not broom beating, but whisking and flitting and making . . .and breaking. Yes, the breaksies can be terrible, what when a Charm runs to find its true master, the Professor. Here he is too, right he makes it, swish and flick, and all better. Aaah. We never has wandsies. Wizards don't think . . .oh, well.
Lots of Charms, and lots of sparklies, too. The Room of Reward, the Hall of Honour, the place where all the really big cupsies gets together and admires each other. Yes, they does. Not so shiny when you cleaning them though, no. Not so sparkly when it's your spit and polish. Sometimes, nice students help, but never beaming the helpful. Don't know why. We all live to work, and work to live.
And there's the bong, the deep booming bong, comes from the clackety-clacks turning and churning, they are, night and day. Like us. Like house-elves. But steely. So, not like us, really. Clock, they call it, their flitting blacknesses, and Tower. Can't make up their minds.
But we is moving towards the shushy place with the sharp lady. Sharp nose, sharp ears, even sharp lips if you is doing wrongness. Lives for the books, she does, all day. Never seen her nightsies, though - maybe she has other piles of books, snuggled away somewhere. That Library, that her queendom, yes.
This corridor going many places, once to the Pinkness it led, yes. The overwhere, everyplace pinkness. Scared we were then, when she said “Headmistress am I”, but I'm hearing how the Castle said, “No!” Locked itself against her. Soon gone, bad dream.
Further I mustn't-mayn't-shan't, for there are terrible living pictures, not nice, normal shifty-sideways ones, no, but leaping-out grabbing-you pictures, what is called Wizard Art from their Professor. And we is close, too close, to the Disappearing Point, where flitting blacknesses are suddenly – not flitting. A witch, they say, to blame, an ugly, twisted crone. But I is not knowing, 'cos I is not going. Not that way. Must be back. Bye.
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