[ooc: set to some point during Deathly Hallows, ch. 22]

Harry has been worrying her for quite a number of days now.

It isn't that his health is depleting (though there is that, too - but they're all exhausted, the three of them), or that he's begun to isolate himself from her and Ron.

It's the Deathly Hallows.

('But don't you see? It all fits ( Read more... )

Dear Mr Riddle ( Read more... )

Her face is shrouded, hidden in the folds of her cloak and hood. She hobbles and her footsteps are quiet - so quiet, in fact, that Hermione can barely hear them at all. Only the swish of fabric brushing the floorboards beneath them whispers, mingled with their deep breaths (hers and Ron's and Harry's) and the occasional squeak of wood disagreeing ( Read more... )

'Ron ...' she starts, but her voice was far too quiet to make any sort of impact ( Read more... )

'Ah, Mafalda! Travers sent you, did he ( Read more... )

General blanket OOC note. (Also a test.)

Leave messages here!