Having become rather blotchy and red from laughing with her friend Marcy, Ama had nipped into the restroom to powder her nose. But she was swift about it, partly because she didn't want to leave Marcy sitting there solo (especially with Ama's slice of lemon cake tempting her so beautifully), but also because she didn't care much about her appearance. At least not in any conventional way. Her dress today was a lovely, flowing thing, slightly unsuited to a lady of her age, sporting several shades of yellow. Ama cared about that more than she cared about blotches.

So she briefly checked said dress in the mirror, patting down a slight crease, before she turned to leave... only to find the restroom's other occupant standing by the closed door and looking round at her.

Ama remembered that face from the wedding notice in the Prophet. She recalled looking away as quickly as possible and reading no more than a few words, but it was too late; those features were seared into her memory. She'd recognise the new Mrs Zabini anywhere.

"Mrs Zabini", Ama greeted her courteously, her tone a far cry from the merry trill it had been not ten minutes ago. On auto-pilot, the witch — adept in wandless magic — raised her hand at the apparently locked door. "Alohomora".

It budged not.