Hermione shakes the memories of the morning from her head, again attempting to compose herself. The tremor returns, ever so slightly, tea ripples as it’s brought to her lips.  Stiff upper lip,  she reminds herself, keeping an eye on the door. She studies each figure that walks through, wondering if they could be the F.G. written about in the diary with a stunning lack of detail. There’s the occasional mention across the entries, but always vague, and incredibly unhelpful.