the old wooden desk is pushed against the burrow's wall. outside the trees sway in the wind and the sound of birds chattering peaks through the slightly open round window. the chair looks surprinsgly comfortable, if a little worn-in, and you sit down.

laying your hands on the desk you smooth your hands along the edge, the grains of wood uneven on the surface.

teetering at the back edge of the desk are two tall stacks of books with a note leaning on them that simply reads 'TBR'. you begin to look over them, running your fingers down each one.