It was comforting, in an unexpected sort of way; the dull scratching of quills and the odd question here and there. It was comparing notes and realising Theo somehow managed to juggle twenty inkwells to ensure his notes and homework colour coordinated. It was realising Harry’s handwriting could not be saved no matter how hard he tried. And Regulus had tried. It was getting distracted by the way Malfoy wrote, elegant swooping letters, meticulously etched into his pages. It was photos and arguments and dodging balled up wads of parchment when Theo decided that was the wrong coloured ink.