Porphyria was smiling as she poured them each a drink and slid a glass over to Amelia. Amelia’s laughter did not last long, however, before she grew - chagrined, almost. Phyri steeled herself for whatever was coming, sure that this was bound to induce her fury in one way or another. Not least if it had something to do with men, or indeed with heartache.
Or with that bloody magazine. Phyri scoffed at the very sight of Witch Weekly, prepared to suffer to take it seriously for Amelia’s sake and offer her sympathies if need be, but not about to pretend that old rag had ever written a decent article in its existence. And even worse, the headline read Matchmaking Mayhem. This could not be good.
Porphyria picked it up and gingerly leafed through, trying to keep her expression neutral as she read, sensing that something in this had made Amelia feel vulnerable, somehow. Ah. His face had been one of those on the cover. She should have guessed Barnabas Skeeter would be the root of all problems.
“Good god,” Phyri exclaimed, when she had digested the situation. “Poor bloody Connolly.” Up and married - and making out with - Barnabas Skeeter, of all people. Hastily remembering that Amelia had, er, a similar history with him and, whatever she felt about him now (Phyri genuinely wasn’t sure what Amelia thought of him now), might not entirely appreciate that response. So she added, with a frown, “Or poor Skeeter, in fact. I’d not be surprised if Connolly’s more than capable of murdering him herself.” (She had respect for only one auror in the world, and that was, obviously, Maeve Connolly.) She pulled a quizzical grimace at Amelia, trying to gauge how she really felt about this, since they were in private, and could afford to be honest here. “Whoever matched them must have really been mad.”
Or with that bloody magazine. Phyri scoffed at the very sight of Witch Weekly, prepared to suffer to take it seriously for Amelia’s sake and offer her sympathies if need be, but not about to pretend that old rag had ever written a decent article in its existence. And even worse, the headline read Matchmaking Mayhem. This could not be good.
Porphyria picked it up and gingerly leafed through, trying to keep her expression neutral as she read, sensing that something in this had made Amelia feel vulnerable, somehow. Ah. His face had been one of those on the cover. She should have guessed Barnabas Skeeter would be the root of all problems.
“Good god,” Phyri exclaimed, when she had digested the situation. “Poor bloody Connolly.” Up and married - and making out with - Barnabas Skeeter, of all people. Hastily remembering that Amelia had, er, a similar history with him and, whatever she felt about him now (Phyri genuinely wasn’t sure what Amelia thought of him now), might not entirely appreciate that response. So she added, with a frown, “Or poor Skeeter, in fact. I’d not be surprised if Connolly’s more than capable of murdering him herself.” (She had respect for only one auror in the world, and that was, obviously, Maeve Connolly.) She pulled a quizzical grimace at Amelia, trying to gauge how she really felt about this, since they were in private, and could afford to be honest here. “Whoever matched them must have really been mad.”
a sublime set by Lady! <3