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Galatea and Viola take breakfast and the news
Who: Galatea Merrythought and Viola Fawcett
What: A leisurely breakfast with the Daily Prophet. And its gossip column.
When: Sunday 15th September, breakfast
Where: Breakfast in the Great Hall
Warnings: What are you suggesting? These are forthright ladies, but they are also well-bred and -raised, thank you very much.
As Galatea swept into breakfast this morning - a gaggle of second-years squeaking away from her sensibly-shod strides - she was feeling quite... content. Things were going quite well, she thought, and even smiled benevolently at those second-years as they went their various ways. Her classes were proceeding well, with very few students expressing any dissatisfaction (to her, at least) at the alterations she was making to the (frankly outdated) curriculum. And the first meeting of the duelling club had gone quite well, she thought.
It had been worth sticking around in this inclement and strange place after all.
Ascending to the high table, Galatea gave stately nods - and the occasional small smile - to that smattering of her colleagues who were present at this hour at breakfast. It was her favourite meal, and had been for many years, not least because the strict hierarchies of seating, serving and conversation with which the British seemed delighted to weigh down their occasions were refreshingly absent from breakfast. Accordingly, Galatea helped herself to kedgeree, cold ham and toast, before seating herself at a place where the waiting teacup obligingly filled itself with tea.
"Good morning," she noted to her neighbour, as she reached for the nearest newspaper - the weekend Prophet, it appeared.
What: A leisurely breakfast with the Daily Prophet. And its gossip column.
When: Sunday 15th September, breakfast
Where: Breakfast in the Great Hall
Warnings: What are you suggesting? These are forthright ladies, but they are also well-bred and -raised, thank you very much.
As Galatea swept into breakfast this morning - a gaggle of second-years squeaking away from her sensibly-shod strides - she was feeling quite... content. Things were going quite well, she thought, and even smiled benevolently at those second-years as they went their various ways. Her classes were proceeding well, with very few students expressing any dissatisfaction (to her, at least) at the alterations she was making to the (frankly outdated) curriculum. And the first meeting of the duelling club had gone quite well, she thought.
It had been worth sticking around in this inclement and strange place after all.
Ascending to the high table, Galatea gave stately nods - and the occasional small smile - to that smattering of her colleagues who were present at this hour at breakfast. It was her favourite meal, and had been for many years, not least because the strict hierarchies of seating, serving and conversation with which the British seemed delighted to weigh down their occasions were refreshingly absent from breakfast. Accordingly, Galatea helped herself to kedgeree, cold ham and toast, before seating herself at a place where the waiting teacup obligingly filled itself with tea.
"Good morning," she noted to her neighbour, as she reached for the nearest newspaper - the weekend Prophet, it appeared.