He was being more helpful and less trouble than she'd expected. It was a pleasant surprise, and certainly the next person who found themselves hexed with some sort of uncontrollable bleeding curse would thank him. The were doing good work, she and Dennis.
Orla did not wish to think of any time past the present, and certainly not centuries ahead. Growing old was one thing she was not particularly enthralled with. She would take the wisdom of years over the physical evidence any day. "Centuries," she scoffed. "And just who will be around for you to badger in the dead of night then? Certainly no one brewing fake blood." If only because she was, for the moment, keeping this recipe to herself. Perhaps in the old days she'd have been excited to have it and her research published, but no one did that anymore. There were no resources for it, so she would keep it close to her chest so that no one could steal the creation and claim it for their own.
Orla waved her hand in front of her face, trying to clear some of the fumes so that she could have some proper air to breathe. "Perhaps I'll invite you for the next batch. Though, you know, Umbridge is having us watched like hawks. T'was a risk even owling you tonight. She'll not complain if I save lives, of course, but still, I'd not want to have her after you."
No, it would be a bit cruel set Umbridge after her only real... friend? Acquaintance? Occasional guinea pig? Someone she simply happened to almost get along with. Either way, they'd both be better off with him alive.
Orla needed to know if she was brewing correctly, after all.