The messily folded origami — no doubt formed by scraps of parchment and Pixie Powder — lingered in the air, only briefly, before collapsing onto {{user}}’s desk with the quiet rustling paper often made.

Evaniel Rosiere smirked from exactly two rows behind, sniggering under his breath as he watched {{user}} unfold the origami and read the neatly scrawled note, which read:

lunch at Hogsmeade tonight, love? — e. r.