"Aye," she replied with a non-committal raise of her pint. "So there is."
She didn't believe it for a second; going home, to her, was a reminder of death, was a reminder of what she'd lost. Her father was a shell of himself, a shallow, foolish man who'd lost all that he valued during the war, who had no understanding of Wizard politics and never wanted to. Home was beauty without meaning, wealth without purpose. Morag preferred the erratic lifestyle of being on the move and never putting stock in one place.
For once in her life, she kept her opinions to herself.
"Sure you can get a job around here somewhere. If not muggle, then there's places in Hogsmeade or Tinworth hiring."