Fisk as a name did not mean much to her: she had been friendly enough with one of the girls of the family once, and she was aware of their link to the Minister of Magic, but... they were not the most predictable of the families to be found at society gatherings - and Mr. Arven Fisk, she suspected, was even less so than that.

Porphyria could only laugh when he patted her ‘steed’ as though it were a living thing. (Though it did almost seem that way now that it had been skimming the lake like a gull.) “The poor old thing,” she agreed with a grin, absently looking about for where her shoes had been tossed. (Haven’t we all, she almost wanted to say.) “You mustn’t think it was I who treated her so ill,” she added with some zeal, for she had only found it with those rowboats floating in the park inlet of the lake for general use (and obviously had been charmed by the most dilapidated of them, though perhaps she should have looked a little closer when she had gotten in). Until the unconventional landing, of course.“Someone else must have given her a rougher ride before... now.” She looked at the little rowboat a little longingly, quite as though one might adopt a stray animal. Would anyone miss it?

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