Cockney Accents and Motherly Advice

"Oh, nice," Khaat said sarcastically. "I've somehow animated our furniture. And the rest of me is a squib. How lovely! Any clue when life will get back to it's normal chaos? And I do still have Abbey? I'm sorry, but part of me is really still pretty foggy and numb. Is there any good coffee? I sooo need some french roast. Oh, and so you know, I did see you took that potion from me. But I don't seem to have the need for it now. I truly didn't know it would get this far. They told me it was harmless. And I was desperate enough to fall for it. Daddy really did teach me better than that. I promise. I'd have been better at the pub or at the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey, really. I have a sudden urge to go back there and blow their shop all to hell."

"Okay on the food, but you've got to let me have a bit of coffee. Can we compromise? Half a cup?" she was willing to try to meet pretty much anything he wanted. But taking her french roast was going a bit too far for her. "Look--I fully expect that you've decided tings have to be different. So, if you would be kind enough to fill in the blanks and then maybe let me know what all your new ground rules are, I really will try to do whatever you ask. But I'm not sure I trust myself on the steps by myself, and I don't know where I'd end up if I apparated. S0--a little help please?"

"Well, first of all, I told you WAY too much while you were that dumb dog. I know better than to talk to strange wizards, much less take them home. And just how do you know so much about Abbey anyway? And how does she have so much power when she's barely 3 months? I feel like a walking incubator for YOUR child. I know nothing about her whatsoever except that I provide her that little room she has for now. Now I know exactly how my parents felt when it came to my attachment to Remus and my choices to ignore them almost altogether.

"Oh, and one more thing- why didn't you tell me you were a dog, and how the heck did you get stuck as a dog and couldn't get yourself back?" She looked at the pumpkin juice and scowled at him. This was not french roast, and he obviously had lost the Compromise gene somewhere. Freaking pumpkin juice? She was a warrior. Warriors didn't drink pumpkin juice. Ever. Well, hardly ever. She had an urge to sic the sofa on him--if she could figure out how to do it.

"I presume going back to work today is not on my schedule. Am I correct? And I presumed you let Daddy secure a leave of absence for me from St. Mungos for some time period. How long before my magic is unscrambled? You really do not have any idea how my questions I have, do you?"

"Okay, I won't call you a dumb dog, if you don't call Daddy a prick. Okay? I know he irks you, but he means well. You do have to, somehow, understand my frustration at finding out my husband is a labrador and that he knows more about my daughter than I do even though he's not the one that has to do this whole labor and delivery bit. And I am very, very sure I cannot convince you to take my place for that little task. The fear gene in the male DNA prohibits any such consideration whatsoever. Alway has.

"Besides that, you do realize Abbey could turn out to be some weird WereDog hybrid--something never seen before. I might be giving birth to a fur creature. That is a bit unsettling, to think I might have to shave my daughter

"And did you just say a few WEEKS?? Oh, God. Let the boredom commense," she sighed. "I presume then, too, that you have plans for my diet and all sorts of other things that either you or Daddy feel have been out of control." She scowled at him. "I know you, and I know my father. You're in this together, aren't you? In some very twisted fashion, you're actually teaming up here. Well, it should at least be interesting to watch," she sighed. "I knew you were going to make me learn how to knit. Crap!" Without thinking, she waved her hand, and thousands upon thousands of knitting needles appeared everywhere in the house with all sorts of color of yarn, knitting all sorts of scarves, sweaters, hats, baby booties, blankets, with a deafening "clicketty clack" that seemed to drown out every other sound for blocks around. It aggravated the furniture that started trying to snap aggresssively at the knitting needles that just kept making the aggravating, deafening clicketty clacking sound. Khaat sighed heavily.

'You know," she said very softly, "You could have anything you wanted. However, we now have both snarfy knitting needles and snarfy furniture. A whole houseful of it. Can you get rid of it? Then you can have anything you want. And I do mean--anything."