It has been four months of me writing to you without you ever receiving a word. I think it has become a habit by now, one I know I should stop. It isn't healthy, my uncle says though I don't know what makes him an expert on some things. He tore all his paintings in a rage once when it seemed he would possibly never paint again. He's an artist, you see, and was severely injured in the Ministry explosion that happened. His hand, his dominant painting hand, was crushed. But he paints once more.

I don't know why I'm telling you about my uncle when you have never met him. And likely never will. I find my thoughts drifting to you now and then though as I wonder what you are doing now. Who you're with and if you are covering exciting crimes.

If I were to become an outlaw, would you be the one to interview me? But then again, I am much too used to the good life as you would call it to be on the run or in Azkaban.

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