Porphyria didn’t know him well enough to be sure whether he was always so guarded with people, or she had made him wary by their first interaction. She didn’t mind it, of course – she liked his deadpan looks and the opportunity to debate well enough.

“What makes it so intimate a detail?” she probed, in protest; animagi were all on some Ministry list, so it was hardly inherently private. Maybe one’s form would feel like something too personal to tell, if it gave something away about their character (or was merely an embarrassing shape), or one only used their ability to transform for odd or untoward purposes.

She could not protest to his comment of near-strangers, because she had not yet bothered to learn his name. (He didn’t know hers, actually, but at least he thought he did.)

“You’re a skeptic, then?” A cynic, a non-believer. In this prize he saw something evidently too good to be true. Porphyria might agree with that, if she were honest. But she didn’t have quite the same preservation when it came to strange, powerful, dubiously charmed or cursed objects – and she liked to needle people too much not to prod at him again. “So you would be scared to use it, if it were yours? Too much risk for you?” She cocked her head at him like he was an interesting specimen. She had never cared for that degree of caution. It might be logical, but it was also dull.

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