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Scuttlebutt or they think that gossip is a bore
Dear Poor Unfortunate Souls,
I admit that, in the past I’ve not coddled my readers nor will ever do so, some may have implied with an improbable criticism, that I am nasty, but you’ll find that while I have not said anything rude, I mean to make amends and follow the policy of not looking for trouble with the way I shall henceforth or most possibly shall not commence with providing my most prized and elite guidance, that I have most graciously condescended to use on the behalf of the miserable, lonely, and depressed, dearest pathetic and ungrateful readers….
Excerpt from longwinded rant that would make Mr. Collins blush from an unknown advice columnist circa 1947*
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“You’re staring again, Harry,” Hermione had gritted out the side of her mouth at her bespectacled friend, nudging her shoulder against his.
“Right. Brilliant.” He attempted to return to the course work Hermione had set before them. However, the sound of a very girlish and he loathe to admit it attractive giggle kept distracting him.
Across the very dusty Library at one number 12 Grimmauld Place was Harry’s best friends younger sister, gleefully tossing her fiery red hair over her shoulder as her legs were dropped over the arm of an old antiquated arm chair.
“What do you think she’s reading?” Harry had meant to ask Hermione more discreetly but his tone of wonder even caught Ron’s attention.
“Wotcher got there Ginny,” he suspiciously asked staring at Harry.
And unlike any other time where one Ginerva Weasley would tell him to shove it, she instead happily blurted out, “it’s nothing. Just this old advice column I found. The advice-giver-witch is like totally buggin'out! ” she laughed throatily. “like listen to this, “Dear Pure Mistress,” like for one how did she get away with that being her columnist name anyhow,” Ginny cleared her throat, and began to theatrically narrate, “My father believes I should, blah-blah-blah, basically the person she calls herself, Desperate for guidance, wants advice about her parents wishes on getting married immediately out of Hogwarts instead of pursuing Potions Mastery, but like the, Pure Mistress, gag me, advice is literally just, “Life's full of tough choices, isn't it?” and that’s it,” scoffing, “I wonder if she was a relative of Rita Skeeters?” She laughed again kicking her feet. “Oh and listen to this one—” she began.
Ron groaned, tugging at his hair.
Hermione sighed, “like I’m in the Gryffindor dormitory with Lavender and Pavarti.”
Harry just rested his chin on the palm of his hand listening dreamingly till Ron caught on, snapping his fingers at him, “Oy, mate.”
Ginny walks over to the trios study table laying the well preserved newspaper along the table point toward the column. “Could you imagine mums reaction to this, ‘you pitiful, insignificant fools!’ How did this even make it to print in 1948?”
“Money,” Sirius responded from the doorway. “My, dear mother, certainly had a way with idle words and money.”
Ginny’s eyes widen with glee.
As Ron asked, “you mean that batty old portrait lady of your mum use to give advice.”
“Very badly! If you been listening,” Ginny cackled, clutching the paper. Then gesturing with the papers toward Sirius, "why do you still have them? And how did Kreacher not take them to his lair?"
Sirius steps into the Library further and gesturing towards the doorway, "try walking them out."
Ginny flounces over to the door way, and Harry practically breaks his quill, and Ron expression of disgust nearly sends Hermione into a laughing fit as the newspapers Ginny had been clutching zooms pasts them and back to Where Ginny had been reading them.
"Along with the gift of gab, my mother has always possessed an unique talent with magic. And like her portrait I have tried to dispose of her written works."
"And after all, dear, what is idle babble for?"
The group turn to see Walburg Black in the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black.