Not a terrible idea? Not? Oh! That, more than anything, nearly made Jemima topple over in surprise. Having been a decidedly average student in her whole Hogwarts career, hated quite fervently after the diary incident, and hardly the standout amongst her own family, not terrible was about as generous an assessment as any of her ideas ever got.
There was a pleasant bubbling feeling in her chest as she slid down off the counter and her companion actively considered the ceiling; there was a funny temptation to smile, but Jemima was certain that, in context of the burning hallway and the hurricane, smiling now would only make her look insane.
But maybe they weren’t going to die? She watched, holding her breath, as he enlarged a chair, shrinking backwards as it grew to a giant’s size and finally burst into the ceiling. Instinctively, she clasped at the man’s arm to hold him back beside her, just in case the tiles began to rain down upon them, or some deluge of water or something from above –
After a little debris and dust, however, Jemima ducked her gaze back up to it. Well, the chair had broken through. She couldn’t see what was above them, but it didn’t seem open to the elements, and the opening was certainly big enough to fit through. The chair had been a good idea, too: the frame of it had become very ladder-like, all rungs and footholds. Nothing for it, then, was there? She didn’t want to stand around and look terrified again and insist that he went first – and knowing him (as she had for all the length of these hellish last few moments, ha), Mr. Ford Greengrass would probably try for gallantry or propriety and insist ladies first anyway. Well, poor him: pulling off her dancing shoes, and sucking in a breath for some bravery, Jemima began to clamber up the chair-ladder in her stockinged feet.
Privately, maybe she was a little glad that he was somewhere below to catch her if she fell – but as she neared the ceiling crevice, Jemima glanced downwards again in worry, not about to let him fall behind and have to watch him burn up somewhere beneath her, either. “You are coming, aren’t you?”
There was a pleasant bubbling feeling in her chest as she slid down off the counter and her companion actively considered the ceiling; there was a funny temptation to smile, but Jemima was certain that, in context of the burning hallway and the hurricane, smiling now would only make her look insane.
But maybe they weren’t going to die? She watched, holding her breath, as he enlarged a chair, shrinking backwards as it grew to a giant’s size and finally burst into the ceiling. Instinctively, she clasped at the man’s arm to hold him back beside her, just in case the tiles began to rain down upon them, or some deluge of water or something from above –
After a little debris and dust, however, Jemima ducked her gaze back up to it. Well, the chair had broken through. She couldn’t see what was above them, but it didn’t seem open to the elements, and the opening was certainly big enough to fit through. The chair had been a good idea, too: the frame of it had become very ladder-like, all rungs and footholds. Nothing for it, then, was there? She didn’t want to stand around and look terrified again and insist that he went first – and knowing him (as she had for all the length of these hellish last few moments, ha), Mr. Ford Greengrass would probably try for gallantry or propriety and insist ladies first anyway. Well, poor him: pulling off her dancing shoes, and sucking in a breath for some bravery, Jemima began to clamber up the chair-ladder in her stockinged feet.
Privately, maybe she was a little glad that he was somewhere below to catch her if she fell – but as she neared the ceiling crevice, Jemima glanced downwards again in worry, not about to let him fall behind and have to watch him burn up somewhere beneath her, either. “You are coming, aren’t you?”
