Maybe it was because for the first time in a while she wasn't shivering, but Porphyria's annoyance abruptly turned to amusement at his next words. Her eyebrows raised slowly - almost up into her hair - and then she barked out a long, loud laugh. They wouldn’t believe it for a moment, he said, like it was utterly inconceivable. "Are you sure they wouldn't?" She scoffed, her expression implying that she thought that plenty of people would find it perfectly reasonable. So, some girls lacked her stubbornness, that was true; but, in view of his comportment here and his sulky sneer, Porphyria was forced to imagine there were plenty of people about who would be moved to such a motion, in the circumstance.

And oh, he was an Auror, wasn't it? How she hated Aurors.

"Very well, if you say so," Porphyria continued briskly, matter-of-fact once more, digging around in her outer pockets with sudden purpose. Her hands enclosed around her day notebook, a little jet black journal that she carried around day-to-day, because she was not one to let a tidy phrase escape when it floated past. She opened to a new page, manoeuvred between her pocket quill and compact little jar of ink, and poised herself to draft her own suicide note. (He'd ruined the freezing-to-death approach, so she would have to consider alternatives. Starvation was far too slow. Perhaps she would have to slit her wrists.) "How much detail do you expect will be sufficient?" She inquired, lifting her eyes to him once more.

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