Room 308, Thursday evening

[smartestone]

Hermione was writing. A lot. Several pages in her notebook had been covered in her own handwriting, and years of writing superfluous reports far longer than they would have ever needed to be in any universe meant that her wrist wasn't even tired. If anyone asked, she wouldn't tell.

Crookshanks and Wadsworth were fed, she'd already checked her voicemail, and she was fully prepared in case anyone's hand was bleeding.

[Open!]