Natty was quietly grateful his friend hadn't asked him to elaborate on the term. The whys of why he was a Ghost Writer, instead of a writer under his own name, were a little embarrassing. A little depressing. But there were more pressing things at hand anyway.

"The theft took place scarcely an hour ago. I'd left the flat to run a quick errand, and left a window open to catch the evening air. When I returned, I saw a figure climbing down the trellis from my window, manuscript in arms. But as I ran forward, she apparated."

... Did he just say she? He wasn't sure where that came from.