One thing Maeve Connolly had never done well was wait. She was always the last auror 'picked' for a stakeout due to her sheer level of impatience. It was that, the witch knew, rather than a lingering sense of camaraderie that had prompted her to speak up, though at least Skeeter was well enough—especially in comparison to his cousin.

"Sleep as long as my own mother lets me without an earful," the redhead chuckled in response. Caitriona Connolly had never loved her daughter's life choices, but choosing this particular excursion had been a huge bone of contention between them. "And then back to work, I suppose, saving damsels and hexing crooks and the like."

As she spoke, it was with her head down by her knees, the petite witch having doubled over, fingertips on the ground, to stretch out her back.