[ she'd like real company, actual company, not almost-company that does more to frighten and unsettle her than calm her nerves. she'd like to be able to reach out and know for certain that the person sitting across from her is flesh and blood, and not just a specter or a flash-burn or a ghost.
she'd like the sounds of his footsteps in the background to correspond to the thump of feet on the ground, and not just distractions in the dark meant to spin her around. ]
What kind of sciences?
[ she hasn't taken a proper muggle science class ever. primary school had been only introductory, and though hermione had always been clever, she hadn't exactly taken physics. ]
Where are you? [ it, too, is a short, quick message. ]
Biology and chemistry, mostly. [ there's a pause and a muffled sound of rustling and a a quiet, indistinct mumble, before— ] It was at my old high school. There was an administrator— [ julie. julie. ] I'm pretty sure she's immortal, sustained by a petty hatred of competency. [ beat. ] I asked her to order a book, once — The Poetry of Science. D'you know what I ended up with?
[ does he wait for a reply? no, not really. another message comes, a few moments later. ] The essentials of cooking with fowl, pig and cow. I still have nightmares about it.
The village. [ the Village, perhaps, in her tone. she rattles off a few descriptors to narrow down which tiny a-frame cabin is hers... not that she's had much time to do anything to it yet. ] Grand Portal, I think.
[ she means to laugh — or react, in some way, to show she's listening — but whatever message she meant to record and send back in response to his story is derailed by a hitch in her throat, the involuntary reaction to the sight of blood pooling on the floor.
it isn't her own blood. she's not bleeding. there's no one else here, so logically, it would stand to reason that it isn't real. but blood doesn't just appear, and so hermione's mind whirs with complications, fear and rational thought warring all over again. ]
I'll need to lift the wards for you if you're coming.
[ that if is a damn near please in all but the words themselves. ]
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no subject
[ she'd like real company, actual company, not almost-company that does more to frighten and unsettle her than calm her nerves. she'd like to be able to reach out and know for certain that the person sitting across from her is flesh and blood, and not just a specter or a flash-burn or a ghost.
she'd like the sounds of his footsteps in the background to correspond to the thump of feet on the ground, and not just distractions in the dark meant to spin her around. ]
What kind of sciences?
[ she hasn't taken a proper muggle science class ever. primary school had been only introductory, and though hermione had always been clever, she hadn't exactly taken physics. ]
no subject
Biology and chemistry, mostly. [ there's a pause and a muffled sound of rustling and a a quiet, indistinct mumble, before— ] It was at my old high school. There was an administrator— [ julie. julie. ] I'm pretty sure she's immortal, sustained by a petty hatred of competency. [ beat. ] I asked her to order a book, once — The Poetry of Science. D'you know what I ended up with?
[ does he wait for a reply? no, not really. another message comes, a few moments later. ] The essentials of cooking with fowl, pig and cow. I still have nightmares about it.
no subject
[ she means to laugh — or react, in some way, to show she's listening — but whatever message she meant to record and send back in response to his story is derailed by a hitch in her throat, the involuntary reaction to the sight of blood pooling on the floor.
it isn't her own blood. she's not bleeding. there's no one else here, so logically, it would stand to reason that it isn't real. but blood doesn't just appear, and so hermione's mind whirs with complications, fear and rational thought warring all over again. ]
I'll need to lift the wards for you if you're coming.
[ that if is a damn near please in all but the words themselves. ]