"If I were half as useful as a fungus, I'd be happy to hear it," Morgan said absently, still taking down notes; he'd forget some minor detail otherwise, and he didn't want to make Miles entirely regret this meeting.
His pencil was moving faster than his brain, 1998? was down on the paper before he could parse what Miles was saying. The timing was right for the unspecified trouble to have to do with the war, but the war was long over; what could Miles possibly be worried about? He'd been a child when he'd left, surely there was nothing he could have done personally, so that meant -- Morgan tapped the pencil against his cheek for a moment, thinking. Instead of voicing what was on his mind, he said, "It seems odd to me that you would be receiving a letter now, if Uncle Michael died years ago. The goblins at Gringotts are prompt about that sort of thing. But are you still planning to stay here? Or will you be going back to..." He realized he had no idea where Miles had spent the last bloody decade, and waved his pencil around in the air vaguely. "Wherever you were living."