She began finding little notes in her pockets, her belongings, slipped between the pages of her books and wrapped around her quills. Mudblood. Always a variety of handwriting, differently coloured ink, and occasionally some annoying charm linked to the paper—sometimes they’d burst into flames, or confetti, or birds that twittered annoyingly around her, but then they began sticking to her. Removing them proved increasingly tricky. Once, she’d had to go almost the whole day with one sleeve protectively tucked out of sight, hiding a scrap of parchment that wouldn’t come off.