Ernest actually did know a bit about the questions she was asking, since he had just concluded an inquiry into that precise subject after one of his Unspeakables caused the irrevocable transfiguration of Mr. Pickering the Lift Operator into a chicken. The miscellaneous administrative types at the Ministry placed a good deal of value on the lift operators, it would seem — more so, at any rate, than Ernest would have done in their positions. The paperwork involved had been positively dreary. He had no particular desire to get into any of that again for a good long while — much less with his as-yet unschooled and unlearned daughter. Instead of answering, then, he made a noncommittal sort of noise that conveyed something along the lines of what a brilliant question, dear Flora, but one you will unfortunately have to investigate for yourself.

She seemed determined to do just that, and what was more, she planned to write to him about her progress. It had never occurred to him that his daughter leaving for Hogwarts would mean that she would write him — Merriweather never did, that he knew of, unless the letters were mercifully intercepted and answered by Rufina on his behalf. He may have lived with her for her entire life, and was occasionally subjected to stories about her silly childhood antics, but he had never felt the need to pay attention. It was impossible to pretend to be listening over letter, however; he'd have to read them and compose some sort of response. The idea filled him with a vague sense of dread. They could be, at best, a tedious waste of his time, and at worst — well, what was worse than being a waste of time?

"Delightful," he said thinly, because there was nothing else to say to an eleven year old girl. "See that you do."