Esme flips the newspaper over so that it no longer shows the flawless image of a ragged looking Draco Malfoy. Instead, to keep herself distracted, she hums, standing up. Her mouth emits a melody, drifting into her ears. Her feet travel across the wooden floorboards of his room, approaching his bookshelf. Her fingers trace against all the new spine's he's replaced, eyes wandering across the various novels he has changed for her. Her head turns towards the clock, and it's seven.