Morag seemed utterly at home in the pub, surrounded by muggles, and she was obviously known as the barkeep raised his chin to her in greeting. For him, that was practically an enthusiastic wave.
"There's a couple seats open at the bar," she said gratefully, weaving her way through the tables to drag herself onto a stool. "I hate climbing over middle-aged men to get a pint." One such middle aged man turned towards her and she flashed him a wicked grin. Morag looked tired, worn out, but still, beneath it all, was a near inexhaustible flame that flickered as brightly as it did before any of these stupid wars.
"Pint of heavy," she called out to the barkeep, and as he waved her off, like he knew how to do his damned job thank you, she dug around in her jeans for her muggle money. "What'll you have Lavender?"