Morgan pictured a calendar in his head and wrote down an approximate date, his pencil skittering across the paper as he involuntarily jerked from being kicked. When the waitress came, he ordered a water, waited until she left to resume scribbling. "The Ministry requires that purebloods are more closely monitored, yes. You said you received a letter from Gringotts? Not the Ministry, or one of our relatives?" He glanced up, a faint line creasing the space between his eyebrows. "Am I the first person you've come into contact with," completely ignoring that it had been the other way around, "since you've gotten here? I thought, surely Granddad Bletchley would know something -- particularly if there's an inheritance involved...?" And he assumed that Miles would get a warmer welcome, being a pureblood; the real sort of pureblood, not the recently-created from Ministry mandates sort.