She'd gotten the owl at work and sat right down on a crate of apples, just in for the first of the autumn pies and crumbles. It was official now, and yet Hannah wasn't wholly certain how she should feel, with a hand pressed against her stomach and the other holding the parchment with her blood tests. Quentin asked if she was alright, and Hannah nodded, folding the paper into a small, untidy square and tucking it safely into her bra as she stood, smoothed her skirt, and exchanged the clatter of the kitchen for the clatter of the dining room.
The usual rush of Diagon Alley lunchtime was dwindling down now, leaving mostly those who had the time to linger over their meals, along with a few patrons staying at the inn on holiday. Hannah smiled and nodded to a Japanese family who had come in the day before, though lack of a common tongue barred her from inquiring as to how their stay had been so far. Winston, one of two mousers who preferred to trade in table scraps when he was able, twined around her legs and Hannah picked him up before walking into her office and closing the door. It was hardly more than a glorified closet, sticking out as a divider between pub and lobby, and it was never much quieter than whatever was going on outside, but it afforded space enough for a cluttered desk, cluttered shelves, and a chair that most often was cluttered with at least two jumpers. It was also the most privacy she got while working, between Quentin in the kitchen, Rosalie and Eleanor in the dining area, and Gerold, the desk-clerk-slash-porter. Neville would come in for a late lunch soon, and so Hannah took a moment for herself, scratching Winston's chin and trying to think of ways to share her news. Their news.
It wasn't as though it was unwelcome; twenty-six was a perfectly reasonable age to have a baby - twenty-seven even, by the time it would come out - and she and Neville had been happy together for more than five years, now. She had a steady job, one that would eventually burden her with a bit more responsibility, but at one-hundred-and-nine, anyone who claimed they knew Tom was on his last legs had been fooling themselves for over a decade, and Hannah wasn't at all eager to consider herself the sole proprietor of such a longstanding, well loved establishment if it meant losing a friend. She still hadn't thought of anything good to say by the time the knock came on her door, but Hannah opened it all the same and kissed him. "Hello, darling."