Ester fancied herself rather better at reading people by the general aura they gave off, rather than by knowing facts about them – because her mind was like a sieve through which none of the most mundane ingredients of anyone’s life ever sifted. So she hadn’t known or remembered that about his wife, a former quidditch player; and she was not sure if she was surprised or if that made perfect sense.

What didn’t surprise her was the injustice of it, though: of course she had made the sacrifice, retired first, presumably at the point of having children; and of course Arthur was free to run amok. Ester couldn’t fathom whether Mrs. Pettigrew could be a happy wife. (She couldn’t fathom it of most women, though most seemed steadfastly unaware of their own discontent.)

“I was married once, did you know?” Ester said conversationally. “Though I retired from that a few years ago.” (Well – more than a few, but the message still stood. That there was a way out, if one wanted there to be: for Art or his sensible wife, maybe. Whoever was the braver.)

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