Desmond frowned to himself. There was no reason for him to have forgotten that Squibs didn't have the ability to ward journals. The stress from his job was obviously getting to him.

People didn't seem to understand what exactly being the assistant to the Minister of Magic entailed. He imagined it was akin to the way that nurses felt helping a surgeon out during an operation if the surgeon's only real responsibility was to dress themselves. He organized the minister's paperwork, set all her meeting times, and made sure that appropriate gifts were sent to her husband on his birthday. It was a much more stressful job than people could even begin to fathom.

He'd picked up a heavy coat to throw on and then apparated to his usual spot near a muggle payphone in the middle of a small English town, dialing April's number (he'd memorized it long ago).

When she picked up the phone, he didn't miss a beat. "Sorry about the journals," he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair (it was an expression she could probably hear in his voice by now, "I've been a bit scatterbrained lately."

Ha, lately.