"Miss Whitby,"the auror rolled, testing out the name. Except for the slight pursing of her lips - that told Locke his message wasn't missed - she didn't play along as he'd been hoping for. But she also didn't seem like she was trying to push him away. Which was fine. Locklyn didn't mind a challenge. And she hadn't corrected his use of miss which meant she was fair game. (Though that wasn't to say some married women who disliked the attention he tended to try and avoid them just for simplicity's sake.)

"I appear to be on the receiving end of someone's nasty little greenhouse experiments. There was what I believe to be a... fire spitting... onion?" He knew it sounded crazy but he wasn't sure what else to say. The plant-creature thing had been taken to be looked over by the committees but not without leaving a handful of burns across his chest and arms. "At least that is what it looked like. Who knows what it really was or what spellwork it had on it. And it utterly wrecked my favorite waistcoat," Locke pouted.