When the wind blows cold

Come furl your wings in the cage of my heart.

When the sky turns night

Come be where there's warmth and love.

Turn to anyone else before you look for me,

I'll be waiting just the same.

Still in the shadows, still lurking, still seeking,

that weird curiousity - love, that death cannot find.

Hermione was working, trying to knit some hats and create some more pamphlets for SPEW.

Suddenly, she froze, flipping back to the newspaper she had stuffed in her bag more for padding than anything else.

Shit, How had she managed to just read over that? It was right in front of her face.

There was an interesting article, more a story than a sermon, about dodger house elves and the codgy, stuffy gent. How he thought he'd found the best place to eat, and was eating there quite happily, until his house elf was heard to tell his guest about where the House Elf, of all things, thought it was best to eat. And so, his curiousity aroused, he had to go, had to see. And, lo and behold, he found that it was head and shoulders above where he had been going. He asked the house elf, and the house elf said, "I talked with the kitchen elves, and I talked with the bus elves*, and I talked with the valet elves, and then I knew some things." And the alte kocher was so flabbergasted to learn that house elves actually communicated, actually talked and gossiped without being talked to. The end left him asking, "I wonder what they're saying about me?"

But Hermione wasn't really reading to learn about storytelling, or about persuasion. No, she was reading, quite and simply just to see who the name was. Who cared. Because she'd been having trouble even getting Gryffindors to care. She kicked the desk in frustration, before diverting her anger into action, her fingers starting to write a letter even before she had the thoughts together for it.

Hermione was halfway through a frantic and undoubtedly "Needs Rewriting" letter, before Blaise Zambini snatched it out of her hands. "Hey! That's my letter!" She yelped, remembering only at the last minute to keep her voice quiet.

"Pity it won't actually arrive." Blaise Zambini said.

"What do you mean? Give it Back!" Hermione said quietly but furiously.

Blaise held it above her head, smiling and saying, "Even if I gave it back, it wouldn't arrive."

Hermione paused, seeming to swallow her anger in favor of curiosity. "Why not?"

Blaise smirked. "That's a nomme de plume. Oh, the person exists, alright, but he doesn't actually read the Prophet. And he wouldn't condone publically talking about practically anything. It's part of the joke - taking a look into the secret lives of the idle rich."

"So," Hermione said, "Who is writing it?"

Blaise shrugged, "You could ask the Prophet, I suppose. They might know, if it's hand delivered, or if the owl's distinctive enough."

Hermione glared at him, and Blaise took a step back, holding up his hands, "Not my fault, really."

"I know, but you're here, and convenient." Hermione bit back.

*busing the tables.

[a/n: ever been there? frustrated remotely? Leave a review.

The date is Monday (not that you'll care that much, it's an author's note to myself).]