I've slept--barely--so I've mostly climbed down from the towering rage.

All right, if I squint really hard, I can get a glimpse of her underlying reasoning. Barely. Especially after Neville. But comparing your grief over not having a body to bury with his--a boy who helped save all of us from Voldemort versus a man who went into a rage and murdered over fifty people...

It makes me want to spew.

Oh, Alice. I found myself wishing this morning that you and I could just run away on a silly little holiday somewhere. Lyme, or Blackpool, or the boardwalk at Brighton or--or somewhere. Stuff ourselves sick with pudding and get sozzled on cocktails and bask in the sun on the beach in bathing suits that would embarrass anyone to see, or, I don't know. I haven't had a holiday in years.

Neither of us deserve this.

I love you, Alice, and I'm certainly not going to break our friendship over this. You're doing an amazing job in a situation that would break anyone. Evelyn is a lovable little girl with a big heart, and I'm sure I'll hug her next week when I'm over the urge to smack her silly.

Oh, bloody hell. It's Ginny's birthday.