Lucy's hand slid around the pint glass in front of her. She slid the Butterbeer closer toward her but didn't take a drink just yet. Instead, she rose the glass toward him in a mock salute. "I do my best, you know."
A small smile played across her face as she finally brought the glass to her lips. The warmth of the Butterbeer soothed her spirits a little bit as she sat there. She couldn't be sure though, if it was the Butterbeer or the fact that she hadn't seen Roger in so long. The rest of the girls had been a little jealous when she skived off to meet him. Some had wanted to come along.
"No, they're not," Lucy responded, briefly letting a small huff of distaste filter through her voice. "And they're making their opinions on the situation incredibly public. McGonagall is doing her best, I think. There's been a bit of a reaction. Everyone is constantly talking, whispering."
She was silent for a moment.
"Post in the morning is becoming awkward. What with the Prophet and all. And when you're expecting letters to come in the mail and they're not, well, I've seen a lot of people crying lately."