She is, of course, incredibly nosy and is careful to note the headlines of the articles as well as the name of the book before he offers the pen. He might catch a suggestion of interest and curiosity, more in the articles than the novel- though she certainly approves of anyone who carries books around just in case. "Of course," she agrees, smiling up at him and taking the pen. "Or things might be too easy for you. Thank you."

She starts writing in a neat, legible hand- though her shorthand is somewhat less clear. PC- transf. ∴ follows GL, LoT; more a form of incomplete human transf. or conj.? And so on in that vein for a few lines. Oddly, however, once she's written a few words, they start sinking into the paper and vanishing. They're visible to her, but no one else. The notebook's enchanted. You learn these things after you spend seven years (not consecutive) trying to stop people copying your homework- and rather a lot of your life keeping secrets and getting involved in serious, often dangerous things.

She finishes off and hands him back the pen, smiling gratefully. "Thanks." It's genuine; there's nothing more dreadful than being caught without a writing implement at times like these, she finds. Her eyes slip towards the articles again, curiosity returning.