“I’ll assume what I like,” she shot back churlishly, determined not to be any nicer to him simply because he was helping her.

And Mr. Rosier didn’t seem half as stupid as, in any other situation, she would have wanted him to be - but mercifully she didn’t have to acknowledge his adequacy, because, as he had just put it, they were up against a halfwit. She couldn’t help but snort. (The statement was true enough that she didn’t have it in her to disagree.)

Instead, Porphyria glowered out at the suspect boat. They had him well and truly trapped now, she supposed, her heart still racing just a little at the thought of all her poetry that was in his possession. But the moron of a thief probably hadn’t even learned to apparate!

Relieved to find her wand tucked in a pocket and not languishing in the thief’s possession as well, Porphyria pulled it out and narrowed her eyes at the boat on the water. She supposed she might have waited to hear Mr. Rosier’s plan, or used accio in her bag’s recovery, but there would be less satisfaction in that than giving the thief himself a fright. With a swift carpe retractum, Phyri reeled the swan boat steadily in towards them.

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