Morag's extraction from the Ministry had taken a bit longer than she realised. Last minute paperwork, and she was shoving half a bagel in her mouth at once (ladylike) before scribbling down summary notes so quickly that it was lucky their office secretary had an OWL in Divination as it would have taken a Seer to read her handwriting.
Then she was stripping in the locker-room, and pulling on a spare set of clothes that she wasn't entirely sure was clean. Oh well. She'd have a cigarette on her way and he wouldn't even notice. Probably.
When she made it to the pub, ten minutes late, she smelled of strong cigarettes and the oddly complementary pale floral of whatever perfume was at the bottom of her bag. She recognised his hair before the rest of him and clambered atop an adjacent stool without so much as an hello.
"Pint of bitter and a half a'whiskey, thanks," she nodded to the barkeep.
"Let's go out back where we can smoke." Not the most charming of greetings, but Morag didn't like being gracious. "We can take turns going back to the bar for rounds."