Roger rolled his eyes, which she could not see. "You're not afraid of a name, Morag. You're smarter than that. What the Minister and the Ministry is doing now proves there is nothing left to worry about from him or his followers now. We have that under control. Your detainee makes my argument for me. They're killing each other." If anyone had reason to fear the Dark Lord or his followers, it would be Roger. He'd been encased deep inside Azkaban for the duration of the war. He knew how criminal.. how sinister they were. And he sure as hell wasn't going to cower before them at this point. No fucking way.
His body leaned forward as hers did. Until his forehead rested on the curve of her back. Too thin, too tired. And she needed a bath. And he was still trying to convince himself he didn't love her. He didn't. How could he love something that didn't love him back. Not that Morag Macdougal was a thing. But he wished to claim her as just that. An impossible task. Not that he wasn't able, but possibly because she wasn't even some tangible thing to be had. He'd tried, and failed, often enough.
"Fine, love," he started, agreeable if it only made her feel better. "It matters." Roger cleared his throat and used his free hand to scratch lightly between her shoulder blades. "Do you want to try and talk to her again?"