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evan gabriel rosier. ([info]gastrolyor) wrote in [info]cortinula,
@ 2008-06-16 11:12:00


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Who: Evan Rosier and Jeremiah Wilkes.
Where: History of Magic.
Date: 2 September 1977.
When: 9:17AM.
What: A series of charmed notes.
Rating: R for language, references to drug use, and violent scheming.
Status: Complete.

[CORTINULA]
Przepraszam. Jestem bardzo pijany. What the fuck is Binns on about now?

Now that term has begun in earnest, I think we ought to remind the local population of our charitable natures, perhaps by providing our new (and ever so illustrious) Head Boy & Girl with a long-overdue opportunity to demonstrate their infinite talents. A day of 'interhouse unity' ought to do the trick -- 'socialist in content, nationalist in character,' if you will. Your role, of course, will be to play the saboteur: I'll talk about peace and love while you steal Gryffindor's Quidditch plans. (The enemy is not fighting this war as per Gryffindor regulations, hm? They'll never see it coming -- granted, it would be rather difficult for Potter to see anything with his head that far up his arse, but Evans ought to know better, the fucking moronic twat.)


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CORTINULA.
[info]gastrolyor
2008-06-16 11:15 pm UTC (link)
(And what a marvelous opportunity for you to secure your membership in the Club: a simple nudge back off the wagon ought to be enough to place you in his graces forever.) (While you choose to make another one of your scathing comments, I will instead pause to reflect on the fact that you even know what embarrassment is -- after that incident in Royal Castle Square, I simply assumed you were a feral child and as such unable to grasp the concept. How else to explain your incessant leeching, your false pride, your -- well, I'll stop here, or else I might never stop.) (Excuses, Yezhov.)

(And that comment rather proves that you have the uterus this week, hm? Do try to raise your conversation above the level of 'primary school girl,' would you.)

Consider it a 'date,' my darling flower of femininity. And now, if you'd be so kind, shut the fuck up, as the bell is about to ring and I have no need for your companionship any longer.

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