"You can," he retorts, "but she'll know you're taking dictation. Pomona's been familiar with my writing style since '74."
He flicks him an entertained look and begins to strip the velvet off some antler prongs (he tells himself it's most effective for children just before the hart is driven to shed it, but it's also possible that he gets satisfaction from dead stag bits) with casually meticulous attention.
"Oh?" he inquires, an eyebrow arched innocently. "Did I say I'd tell you what I'm going to do?"
Slanting a considering glance at him, "Even after the Quiddich incident, I seem to have difficulty seeing you as someone inclined to purge a grudge with brute force."
Semester, yes, theoretically. Expectation of death in the family is already over. Sorry for delay again; this time I lost track of the link. #*_*#