Nymphadora pokes her wand at the 'blanket,' which could perhaps more aptly be called a 'medium-sized and mouse-eaten dishtowel,' and mutters another warming charm. "Bloody pirates aren't supposed to go where it's bloody cold," growls the witch. "It's against type."

'Dora's been... testy, since Singapore. She's worried about Mal, but saying so reminds her of the possibility that he might be dead. Because of her.

And that's not something she's especially eager to face.