I was wearing my favourite Muggle type pyjamas as a gesture towards atmosphere. Yet many Muggles appear to wear their pyjamas in public. Several little Muggles choose to point at me, saying "Professor Trelawney!" in tones of some triumph. I bowed, collected two copies of Harry's book and left.
It wasn't easy, but it had to be done. Once it was announced that an element of the Muggle community had decided to act unlawfully and find out about Harry Potter before the official midnight release, some of us in the wizarding community decided to make a stance. This meant procuring the book on Friday the hard way, refusing standard owl delivery.
In doing so, we forsook ease of travel. Ignoring my trusty Firebolt, we attempted to arrive by Muggle transport. Motor cars are wilful inventions, rather slow so I had to force it to gather sufficient momentum to ensure we were photographed at a more daring angle by the giant roadside camera. Not only are cars far less versatile than broomsticks, they are conspicuous.
I abandoned mine near the Rotunda hospital, and approached two policemen. Firstly, in case they suspected I had stolen the vehicle. Secondly, to ask them to use their pocket phone, a small silver object, and alert the Muggle bookseller, a disgraced squib rejected by his pure-blood family.
The rain was heavy but I refrained from using my wand to dispel it. My hair was standing on end, as it does, but I think the policemen became more unsettled by my cats, all four had insisted on coming - and all four, two of which were on my head, insisted on growling.
Outside the bookstore Muggles of all ages queued with unusual patience - considering the famous Muggle reluctance to wait for anything, - I was relieved to see several individuals wearing cloaks, although most were attired in typically drab Muggle wear, trousers with holes in the knees and across the seats. I could not face the motor car and used my wand to return home.
There my daughter and I arranged ourselves and the four cats on the long sofa in the attic and read and read and read. It took me just under six hours but then both of my eyes whiz twice as fast as Mad-Eye Moody's single one.
Any decent members of the wizarding community will tense at the mention of Rita Skeeter, the nightmare hackette, and it was with much apprehension that we read the excerpts from her insane biography of my beloved old headmaster, dear Albus Dumbledore. But as for the rest of this compelling tale upon which I close the covers with the first light of day, it is already part of wizarding history.
