Okay. Okay? OKAY?! How was any of this bloody okay?! He was going to end up thrutching on a bed hospital, or hexing his bollocks off, or proper dead—as in dead-dead, not dead, ha-ha-ha, but dead as in "HOLY MOTHER OF BLOODY COWS! He's-not-breathing-or-moving" dead... "Sweet pink and adorable baby Jesus" he mumbled under his breath as he scribbled on the ripped paper of a notebook. Phillip hated parchment. Parchment was not cool, yo. It was old, and smelly, and old and... just dicky mint, okay? Okay.

He turned to look at Carstairs, and suddenly there was more... panic in his eyes? If that was even possible. And he felt his minging kite grow hot and red and he instantly turned back to scribble with a vengeance, mumbling something to himself. "Ya, menace, I'm done, you add yer lines there at the bottom" he said as he handed her the piece of paper while staring intently at a really scrawny looking owl. God, the owlery really smelled. Like REALLY reeked. Which was dead awesome, because getting weird, awkward bodily responses to his closeness to the bane-of-his-existence-and-most-bloody-ridiculous-mistake-ever was not on his to-do list today. Why did he even go looking for 'er? Before he'd had time to go "Kinsey, ye minger, are ye off yer trolley?!" he was practically stalking her at the entrance of the Ravie common room. "Well, bob on, Carstairs, take the bloody thing!"

To my most esteemed employer,

So... I may have or may have not signed up for my own death sentence. Ye know there's this Tournament thing going on at the school? Well, ye, me and Miss Panties In A Constant Twist have just been picked for the Third Task. Awesome right? It most certainly bloody friggin isn't. PEOPLE CAN DIE DURING THIS! Why? Why me?! Why did I ever sign up for this thing? Why, Rick?! Why... So, ye, in case I kick the bucket (which is becoming more and more plausible) you can have all my stuff, okay? But the Playstation goes to Michael, ye? Poor lad. They'll have to make some mingey cover-up story, no? Damn. BLOODY HELL!

So, yeah... ye know, wish me luck? I'd bloody brohug you, if I didn't know ye'll banjo me straight up my kite. This is emotional, ye? Well, then cocknobber, the harpy wants to write you some words too. So, yeh. Uh. Bye.

The pain in your ass that you secretly love,
Phillip

-> Carstairs' corner

Alex still had no idea why she had to accompany Phillip to the freezing cold owlery to write a letter, when both the Ravenclaw Common Room and the wall immediately outside it would have been far warmer places to write one. A lack of comprehension was a theme with Phillip, she'd found, which had been why she'd not bothered to reason with him. That, and being mildly tongue twisted when he appeared unexpectedly, which was also becoming a regular occurrence. At least when he was being aggravating she could focus on that rather than... other things, but it was a small mercy.
 
Pausing only to give Phillip a glare, she took the paper off him, scanning through Phillip's nonsense. "Miss Panties In A Constant Twist?" she read aloud, sounding more amused than anything, "You're the one who dragged me up here." Checking the room hopefully beforehand, she settled on the windowsill, one hand preventing the paper from flapping about while the other wrote.

Rick,

Phillip won't be alive by the time the tasks starts because I am going to murder him. Any advice on avoiding implication for this offence is much appreciated. Oh, I suppose I should repeat that I'm champion alongside Phillip and Hawkins, unfortunately not Jim. I feel slightly sick, along with the anticipation and so on, which is slightly alarming. I'll try to protect Phillip from himself (of course!) and do well in the task, et cetera.

I'll write properly when Phillip isn't raving about how slow I am, as if you won't be asleep when this arrives anyway. Enjoy dealing with your lovely customers without assistance.

Alex

Finished, she held the paper out for Phillip, "Here. I'm headed to bed."

Jan 4, 10:42 p.m.
Donovan’s



Because the guys at the Owlery had it out for him ever since he may have, possibly, gotten one of them dumped (via an instance Rick didn’t really like narrating, unless he was drunk) and their knack for the damn birds bordered on uncanny, the envelope was more or less thrown at his head, hitting the floor with a dull thump. Biting back a curse (but looking nowhere near surprised, because that made it the fourth time this week), Rick swiveled in his seat, shooting the thing a dark, unappreciative glare as he picked up his mail.

His button-down getting uncomfortably tight when he did (he had an appointment in an hour, don’t judge), Rick’s hand crept up to his tie, loosening it even more as he flipped the envelope over with his other. At the name of the sender, his brows twitched upward in surprise—it wasn’t often the brats wrote to him, although they did keep in touch (and it was mostly to annoy him, on Alex’s part). They still wrote, from time to time, even if he didn’t always reply immediately, if at all.

(Not that he much choice in the matter, of course. CeeCee just, y’know, made him—nagged and nagged until she might’ve well have been a Howler herself, pushing at him to write. Phillip was practically family at this point, and Alex– well, that was self-explanatory.)

Didn’t mean he had to like it, though-




Aw, who was he kidding. This was hilarious.

Brats,

• 
  
  Play nice, kids. CC will probably be the only one to cry at your funerals if you kill each other.
  
  Which is to say, if Alex doesn’t kill you first, Phillip.
  
  That said (since CC might as well be hovering over my shoulder anyway), good luck; I’d try to offer advice, except I don’t actually have a lot of experience signing up for shit that will almost definitely end in disaster. So I’ve only got this: don’t get yourselves killed. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to scrap every possession you ever had for parts (I honestly don’t know what else you expect me to do with them), and who else is going to walk Runt over breaks?
  
  
  
  Rick
  
  p.s.- That’s a lot of focus on Alex’s underwear, kid.

It wasn’t the only one, though. Written on an another, separately folded and specially made sheet of paper the girl should recognize (seeing how he’d shown her how to make it just before he and Phillip had left for California), was a second letter, one even shorter than the first and distinctly more private.

Alex,

• 
  
  Don’t kill him (or let him get himself killed), or you’re taking over his duties. I’d wo   tell you to not get yourself killed too, except we both know I would’ve never taken you on if you weren’t at least that competent.
  
  Anyway, I’m not in the mood to go find another apprentice (much less deal with your dad), so it goes without saying. And next time you’re here, you’re smoothing every piece of scrap we’ve got. By hand. Phillip can blame you for the docked pay, too.

Your Boss

Jan 5, 05:30
Hogwarts owlery

Phillip didn't know what he did in another life to deserve this. Whatever the bloody hell its was, the damned owl had insisted to come all the way to his window and peck the crap out of the glass until he let the barmpot in to deliver the letter. At an ungodly hour when no one with reason should be up. And then the little shit had the nerve to bite his hand when he tried to extract the letter. "Feckin birds..." So Phillip set to write the reply, half hungover from that wretched cheap whiskey he found at the bottom of his backpack that obviously needed to be drunk, regardless of the lack of company or occasion.

To Mr. Broody McBrooderson,

T'is owl is the worst troll ever. CC is the best thing that ever came out of the Donovan family,  I dun even know how ye two can be related. She's pure mint (I love you CC, yer seriously BAMFy!) And yer like the manliest, broodiest version of constant PMS-ing. Yer still my homie bro, tho. 'Cause ye feed me.

Miss Harpy Extraordinaire shan't be doing any killing. I keep telling ye, she all fir coat & no knickers... And I'll attempt to keep myself  breathing. Also, yer awful, absobloodylutely awful. HOW CAN YOU EVEN THINK TO SCRAP MA SHIT FOR PARTS?! There's a PSP in there I went to great lengths to "indefinitely" borrow, you cocknobber. Plus the Atari is already worth like... a lot. And FrouFrou is a damn vintage collection Ibanez. SHE'S A CLASSIC! She'll be worth thousands on E-bay after I die! And if you touch my Monty Python and Dr. Who DVD collection I will kill you. Slowly.

YOU KNOW WHAT?! I take everything back. You'd never see the true beauty of my treasures. You get zilch, nada, nil when I die! How are we even friends?! I only like you for your dog, anyway... (Hug Runt for me and tell him he's the sexiest beast ever.)

Ze Magnificent Phillip

P.S.: Shut up, Donovan. Too soon, way too soon...

Phillip huffed and shooed the owl away before he threw himself back on the bed and huffed. Bloody great, now he'll be thinking 'bout Harpy's underwear for the rest of the day. He grudgingly fixed his pants around him and proceeded to ignore everything. How was this his life?