Yesterday I fell asleep after getting ready for work and didn't have time to narrate my idea. Yesterday, I watched The Diplomat. To be honest, it's such a gentle variation of House of Cards, and I enjoyed it. The character reminds me of Hermione, and it was perfect for me, and how much I liked the dynamics of a crumbling marriage! So while I was watching, my head was full of ideas for a fic where Magical Britain tries to resolve a conflict about werewolves attacking the Aurors of France. So we have two diplomats from France and England trying to keep the world from slipping into the Third Magical while they fight and bicker. It could have been a great fic, but I won't be writing it of course, but Merlin what a good idea it is.

Hermione walks to the edge. Rusty snags squirm above, and Hermione's veins freeze as she thinks about yesterday. The distance between the ragged bars of the balcony and the stairs seems insurmountable to her in daylight and normal weather.

She hears the screams of seagulls and casts her eyes down to the black cliffs below. Thousands of needles hide in the blue of the raging sea, gathering into a huge giant, scattering crumbs of rock beneath the crests of the waves. Hermione had never seen such a blue-black sea. The marshy edging of the waves crashed against the crumbs of rock time after time. The dark sea water frightens her, as does the point of the rock peering menacingly into the tower. As she circles the floor, she realizes that there is not a single peace of land on the other side. The tower is the only thing separating her and Parkinson from the sea tentacles.

Her stomach jerks sharply downward in despair, and she sighs. No one and nothing.

She peeks down through the bars, peering up at the enormous structure on which the tower stands. Downstairs is still approximately four floors. Up one, maybe two.