The first chill of winter was in their air; it was nothing steady, nothing too cold, but nipping with enough bite that she had draped herself in a comfortable sweater she had swiped from Hermione instead of her usual cutoff shoulder affair. The leaves were still tumbling all across the ground in imitation of snowdrifts that would crunch and scatter at the movement of their feet. It was pretty, in that Autumn sort of way that let their hearts know that soon enough this ground would be white and pristine with frost and air that burned their lungs.