He found himself trying to blink (to no effect) as they stopped, a spike of anxiety about not knowing where they were or how far they had gone, but thankfully she explained their progress. He had to – just trust her, he reminded himself, and although his brain was having trouble implementing that, there was something soothing about the movements of her thumb against his arm. Something repetitive, mindless, to concentrate on, instead of all the things he couldn’t see.
From the angle of her voice and the comfortable grasp, he could guess she was tall. They were still in the lift – he had heard the doors close but not open. “I sponsor a quidditch team,” he said, and it sounded like an especially stupid and useless a profession today. It didn’t feel like – an actual career, like this was. He didn’t want to talk about quidditch. He was sick of talking about quidditch. “How long have you been a mediwitch?”
From the angle of her voice and the comfortable grasp, he could guess she was tall. They were still in the lift – he had heard the doors close but not open. “I sponsor a quidditch team,” he said, and it sounded like an especially stupid and useless a profession today. It didn’t feel like – an actual career, like this was. He didn’t want to talk about quidditch. He was sick of talking about quidditch. “How long have you been a mediwitch?”
