12 November, 1892 — Hogsmeade High Street
Things that he knew about Miss Saffron Whitby:
Her mouth opened wider than the average person when she laughed. She didn't laugh often enough, in his estimation. That was something he would endeavor to fix, when they were together. He would give her plenty of reasons to laugh. So far he had only heard it twice: once when he'd found an excuse to be in the Ministry Atrium, loitering by the welcome witches' desk while a message was delivered to someone and he waited on the response. She had walked behind him, side by side with another woman who was probably a secretary in one of the departments. The other woman had made a joke he didn't understand, a reference to someone who they must have both worked with in some capacity, and Saffron had laughed. He'd seen her out of the corner of his eye as she moved towards the lift. The second occasion was when he saw her in front of her family's print shop, trying to lure her cat down from the eaves. The cat slipped and ended up splayed out across the roof in an awkward but clearly harmless pose, and she had laughed and chided it.
The cat's name was Clio. This was another thing he knew about Miss Saffron Whitby. He assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she had named the cat, and assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she'd chosen the name with some intentionality. He wondered if she was interested in history, but had no way (yet, at least) of finding out what sorts of books she read. If she made regular trips to the library or the bookstore then he had yet to pin down her routine for it; so far he'd only been able to reliably catch glimpses of her at the Ministry in the just-before or just-after working hours, and at the printshop in the evenings. It was tricky to find something that worked around his constant shift changes at the hospital, and even trickier to keep thinking up excuses to get himself into the Ministry atrium. At least the print shop was right there on High Street; he could come up with any excuse at all to be within sight of Whitby & Co.
Saffron Whitby hated Quidditch, or maybe hated crowds. It was the first thing he had known about her, so it almost felt like cheating to include it in the list. He'd seen her face scrunch when the crowd roared and thought it was probably more to do with crowds than the sport itself, but he suspected she also wasn't thrilled by the concept of bludgers. He'd gone to three more Quidditch games since he'd first seen her at one, hoping she might be there for work, but he'd give it up forever once they were together if that would make her happier. He was starting to look into houses in Bartonburg, somewhere close to her family, but he had also thought of a place in the country — somewhere quiet, surrounded by scraggly hills and copses of trees and sunrises where the only sound was birds. He was still thinking it through. He didn't know which she would want, yet, but he would. He planned to know everything about her by the time he married her.
She was a Ravenclaw. She would have looked lovely in bronze. She hardly ever wore anything other than Ministry robes when he saw her, but when they were together he would ensure she had nice things to wear. She hadn't come from a life as easy as his, but he could fix that for her. He could take care of her.
He wanted to know her favorite things. These were sorely lacking from what he'd been able to piece together about her so far: her favorite food, favorite flower, favorite color, all a black box for him. He wasn't sure how to get that information — he had been pondering whether there was any feasible way whatsoever to catch a glimpse of them all around dinnertime, but the residence was on the second story of the print shop and he didn't think it would be particularly subtle to levitate outside the window. The problem of how to learn her favorite things was at the top of his mind while he wandered this afternoon — a day off for him, and allegedly one for her too, though knowing her she might fill her week-end with errands for the print shop — but as he rounded the corner of High Street he saw that she was already outside. She was facing away from him but he would have recognized the set of her shoulders immediately, in any context.
She was going somewhere. He was about to find out where.
Her mouth opened wider than the average person when she laughed. She didn't laugh often enough, in his estimation. That was something he would endeavor to fix, when they were together. He would give her plenty of reasons to laugh. So far he had only heard it twice: once when he'd found an excuse to be in the Ministry Atrium, loitering by the welcome witches' desk while a message was delivered to someone and he waited on the response. She had walked behind him, side by side with another woman who was probably a secretary in one of the departments. The other woman had made a joke he didn't understand, a reference to someone who they must have both worked with in some capacity, and Saffron had laughed. He'd seen her out of the corner of his eye as she moved towards the lift. The second occasion was when he saw her in front of her family's print shop, trying to lure her cat down from the eaves. The cat slipped and ended up splayed out across the roof in an awkward but clearly harmless pose, and she had laughed and chided it.
The cat's name was Clio. This was another thing he knew about Miss Saffron Whitby. He assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she had named the cat, and assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she'd chosen the name with some intentionality. He wondered if she was interested in history, but had no way (yet, at least) of finding out what sorts of books she read. If she made regular trips to the library or the bookstore then he had yet to pin down her routine for it; so far he'd only been able to reliably catch glimpses of her at the Ministry in the just-before or just-after working hours, and at the printshop in the evenings. It was tricky to find something that worked around his constant shift changes at the hospital, and even trickier to keep thinking up excuses to get himself into the Ministry atrium. At least the print shop was right there on High Street; he could come up with any excuse at all to be within sight of Whitby & Co.
Saffron Whitby hated Quidditch, or maybe hated crowds. It was the first thing he had known about her, so it almost felt like cheating to include it in the list. He'd seen her face scrunch when the crowd roared and thought it was probably more to do with crowds than the sport itself, but he suspected she also wasn't thrilled by the concept of bludgers. He'd gone to three more Quidditch games since he'd first seen her at one, hoping she might be there for work, but he'd give it up forever once they were together if that would make her happier. He was starting to look into houses in Bartonburg, somewhere close to her family, but he had also thought of a place in the country — somewhere quiet, surrounded by scraggly hills and copses of trees and sunrises where the only sound was birds. He was still thinking it through. He didn't know which she would want, yet, but he would. He planned to know everything about her by the time he married her.
She was a Ravenclaw. She would have looked lovely in bronze. She hardly ever wore anything other than Ministry robes when he saw her, but when they were together he would ensure she had nice things to wear. She hadn't come from a life as easy as his, but he could fix that for her. He could take care of her.
He wanted to know her favorite things. These were sorely lacking from what he'd been able to piece together about her so far: her favorite food, favorite flower, favorite color, all a black box for him. He wasn't sure how to get that information — he had been pondering whether there was any feasible way whatsoever to catch a glimpse of them all around dinnertime, but the residence was on the second story of the print shop and he didn't think it would be particularly subtle to levitate outside the window. The problem of how to learn her favorite things was at the top of his mind while he wandered this afternoon — a day off for him, and allegedly one for her too, though knowing her she might fill her week-end with errands for the print shop — but as he rounded the corner of High Street he saw that she was already outside. She was facing away from him but he would have recognized the set of her shoulders immediately, in any context.
She was going somewhere. He was about to find out where.
![[Image: sdJxdAP.png]](https://i.imgur.com/sdJxdAP.png)