[Standing gracefully, Narcissa holds out her arm and carefully balances the broom on her palm. The room snatches it away in a trice; the ribbon she releases into the wind, where it follows the feather over the cliff to be lost amid snow and nothingness.]
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Date: 2012-01-18 04:22 am (UTC)I think we ought to have hot chocolate.
[It's a comforting sort of thing.]