Morag shook her head as she swallowed the second half of a wheel of Leicester. "Is that soft cheese?" She murmured, aware of and enjoying the attention he paid her. Morag liked being looked at -- it meant she wasn't just another boring blonde in a crowd. That they were the only two here didn't alter her enjoyment; if she'd been in his place, she probably would have been staring at the brunette in the other room rather than at herself, trying to make sense of the mousy but incredibly prim, straight-backed woman who had destroyed another human being. Peeling open the small plastic container, which seemed so out of place in a Ministry of metal and wood and marble, she dug her thumb into the cheese, licking it right off her fingerpad without a care in the world about how gauche she probably looked. Morag liked gauche. It suited her.
"You know how it is," she said, letting him move her back onto his chest so he could dig wonderfully strong thumbs into her shoulderblades. A soft moan punctuated the silence and she sighed again, wishing she could just go home with him, let him rub her down, starting with her shoulders and ending with freshly washed feet. Oh Rowena, a bath. Fuck she wanted a bath. "You just get by. Am paired with a trainee this week; didn't really want his first real interrogation to be with this lady. But she hasn't said a bloody thing. Tight lipped. Can't imagine why, when she was obviously in a rage the night before." His thumb grazed her neck, and she rolled her head, squeezing the rest of the container into her mouth with a crunch of plastic and foil.
His lips were against her hair, and in that moment, she missed him, and his easy affection. His perpetual interest and want. She missed his big hands and his stupid, solid chest. She said none of these things, of course, but peeled off the wrapper of another, soft cheese. This could have been heaven if the circumstances hadn't been so bollocksy.
"She knew what she was doing." She said firmly. "She knew. We checked the spells, and she didn't waste a single one with random spells. Bam. Bam. Bam." Her voice was cold and certain. "We prayed she was his mistress, but his letters... we talked to his ex-wife. He wouldn't leave her alone. The only person he wanted was her." And it wasn't just an ex-wife's vanity. She'd seen the owls, the journal entries. "It doesn't make sense." She finally acquiesced. "People won't talk about it because they're afraid, but it's too fucking obvious that it doesn't make sense." She said this only because she knew they were alone, well out of range of the dictaquill or any prying ears. "No purist is going to kill a pureblood. They only give a fuck about one thing, and that's blood. I don't care what his politics were."