#xxcrabbe

There’s a stillness to the Crabbe house that seemingly mirrors the rest of wizarding London. “What do you think happened?” It’s a plaintive question, barely more than a whisper. Like it’s a wake. She just doesn’t know for who. If the world outside stopped spinning, would they know? Or would it stitch itself back together, reconstitution itself, before she leaves?

She shifts in her chair, resists the urge to fidget with the hem of her robes, and straightens herself. A bad situation does not justify bad posture. She doesn’t know what makes sense and what doesn’t – not the first time she’s felt it, but it’s unnerving to have witnessed so many others sharing that sentiment over the past few days. “He can’t be gone, can he?”