Late August 1990
The portkey to London was set for eleven o'clock. Zuberi had come all the way to Nairobi to send her off at the Kenyan Ministry of Magic. The hot air weighed heavily on her, warmer than in the vast savannah and filled with the roaring noise of the city. More than unfamiliar after almost three months in the quiet, deserted countryside. Muggle cars hooted everywhere, and the sharp smell of roasted corn mixed with the bitter stench of hot tar burned in her nose, making her stomach turn. She tightened her grip on her bag.
Zuberi moved ahead, navigating the narrow alley where traders displayed their goods beneath bright, fluttering canopies. Betty followed close, barely aware of her surroundings. Her mind circled the same thought—this was the first time she would make the journey home alone—which made her stomach twist even more.
The entrance to the Kenyan Ministry of Magic was intentionally easy to miss.; hidden between a café and an auto parts shop, and shielded by wards to keep Muggles away. Zuberi placed his fingers on an engraved symbol, speaking softly in Swahili. The wall shimmered, then a narrow passage opened. They slipped inside, and as soon as the passageway had closed completely behind them, the smell and noise disappeared.
A cool breeze washed over Betty as they stepped inside. Compared to the pressing heat outside, it was almost freezing. The reception hall was dimly lit, the amber light softly reflecting on the polished stone floor. Tall columns rose to a vaulted ceiling. Murals traced the magic woven into East African Magical history—witches and wizards mastering the elements, flames dancing on bare palms, air shaped into strong, deliberate currents, water drawn into circular streams and protective veils, and earth lifted beneath their feet, shaped into solid formsFlames that burn steadily in open palms, air that is shaped into strong, targeted currents, water that is drawn into circular streams and protective veils, and earth that is lifted beneath their feet and shaped into solid forms beneath their feet.
Zuberi's gaze lingered on one of the mosaics in the middle of the room leading to the travel hall, then he turned halfway towards Betty and looked at her.
"This is where we part, mtoto wangu," he said. "You know what to do."
She nodded, pressing her lips together. In the morning, she had gone over the journey in her head several times and checked repeatedly to make sure she had her ticket with her. And still, she felt like something pressed against her lunges.
His hand rested briefly on her shoulder.
"Next summer", he said quietly. "I am looking forward to hearing your stories from Hogwarts."
Betty nodded again. She waved goodbye and moved toward the round hall. The golden lines on the floor divided it into four directions. In the northwest corner, a small group waited beneath a glowing sign:
Cairo—11:05 a.m.
A wizard in rusty red robes eyed her briefly, then signalled her to come forward. Betty took out her rolled ticket, and he scanned it with a long curved rod. A soft tone, the edge glowing green, allowed her to pass. He nodded and gestured to the waiting group. The waiting group consisted of two older witches with faintly jingling bracelets, a trader holding a satchel, and a young woman shifting nervously from one foot to the other. At their feet lay the port key—an old spear with a brass tip, its handle covered in ancient hieroglyphs. When it was activated the tip faintly glowed.
Betty's fingers closed around the wooden handle. The light above flared, her stomach tightened, and she felt the familiar sharp pull behind her navel. The world shifted, sharply spun her around and then steadied again.
Cairo's arrival hall was bright, almost dazzling after Nairobi's dimness, and the air was dry, but pleasantly cool. Sunlight poured through large windows, casting patterns of blue and gold across stone tiles.
Carefully, Betty stepped down from the hexagonal platform. Her knees still trembled slightly. She could still feel the jump's effects on her balance and tightened her grip on her bag until the feeling passed. She had travelled by portkeys as long as she could remember and yet she hadn't got used to it—especially long jumps like these. At least she didn't fall anymore.
She looked around at the hall.
Travellers moved through it, some rushing towards the exits, others into the waiting hall nearby. Above the platform, golden letters rotated to display the departure times:
Kampala—11:19, Accra—11:46, Ankara—11:57, Kabul—12:11
At the bottom:
Marseille—14:09.
Next to each of them, golden sand slowly dripped from an hourglass, signalling travellers the remaining waiting time. Three more hours until the jump to Marseille. She exhaled slowly. Waiting has always been harder for her when she was alone.
A high archway led on to the exit towards Cairo's city, sealed by a shimmering magical veil, that searched for unregistered or forbidden items. Betty's eyes caught the trader from Nairobi frozen beneath it, when an official approached him, speaking in Arabic in a low voice. She caught only few words—carpet, permit, export forbidden. The man unrolled a richly patterned carpet, and the official's voice tightened. Apparently flying carpets were only legal under strict conditions here, and the man was led away, arguing with the official.
She followed the signs to the travellers' waiting room and the noise dropped immediately. Dark stone lined the floor and colourful cushions and mosaic tables stood everywhere; water flowed quietly out of a brass spout. Betty went over and let the cold liquid flow over her arms.
She turned, having a look around to search an empty spot. Once she found one in an empty corner, she approached and sank onto a cushion, drawing her knees close to her. Above the arch, hourglasses marked the passing time. Her gaze remained fixed on the hourglass, which indicated the time remaining until her departure for Marseille. The yellow-gold sand trickled through it far too slowly, and Betty had the feeling that the more closely she looked, the slower the grains trickled through the narrow opening. She could have sworn she could count the grains of sand. She sighed.
She had waited here many times before, as a child clinging to her mother's robes. Then, the noise had been easier to bear. Now, the noise and the moving shadows unsettled her, she felt the restlessness growing inside her, so she pulled a book from her bag. Reading helped her focus and distracted her from the surroundings around her.
After a while an older woman appeared, dressed in violet robes with golden embroidery, a wooden tray, full of Arabic pastries and tea, floating beside her.
"Shai? Ba'lawah?" she asked kindly.
"Aywa min fadlik," Betty replied, nodding. "Shkran."
She rummaged in her bag and gave the woman a few coins, who then placed a glass of spiced tea on the table in front of Betty, Steam scented with cinnamon and cloves rising from it, and some syrup-soaked pastries, which tasted sweet and wonderfully nutty, and the familiar taste calmed her a bit.
When it was finally time a group travelling to Marseille gathered towards the platform. Betty threw her book into her bag and got up, following them. The portkey was a copper plate, stamped with the French Ministry's seal—a unicorn entwined with a hawthorn wreath. An assistant passed it wordlessly from a cushioned box to one of the travellers, and just in time the plate lit up, all travellers reached for it. Immediately after she touched the portkey, she felt the familiar pull again.
Marseille greeted her with cooler air that smell faintly salty. The arrival hall lay beneath the old town, walls painted with faded motifs of mythical sea creatures like siren, hippocampi and nereids.
"Prochain départ dans dix minutes," said the official, checking Betty's ticket and pointing to a corridor. "Salle trois."
"Merci beaucoup," Betty replied.
The woman nodded curtly, but not unkindly.
Betty walked up to the next waiting room, where travellers gathered already around a braided leather belt—the last portkey. When it was time for it to be activated, it glowed again.
One last jump, one last pull—and eventually she appeared at the British Ministry.
The Department of Magical Transportation stood before her, with its cream-coloured ceilings, dark wood panelling and the quiet, familiar hum of witches and wizards working in the rooms. Two aurors greeted the arrivals while a feather floated above, recording names. Betty shivered as cold air brushed her skin.
She raised her ticket and stepped forward. The auror barely glanced at it before the green light confirmed her.
"Welcome back," he muttered.
She nodded, adjusted her bag and walked down the polished corridor. She had finally arrived. And all on her own for the very first time.
Betty looked up just in time to see her mother entering the department, accompanied by Bartemius Crouch, Lucinda's boss, head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, where her mother held the position as the head of the sub-department for International Agreements and Treaties.
Lucinda's chin was, as always, slightly raised, her face expressionless, almost frightening, and her long elegant sage robes emphasised her authority, as she spoke urgently to Mr Crouch. He looked at her with a slightly sour expression, but nodded constantly. There was always something cold and calculating in the man's gaze that kept people at a distance and unsettled Betty every time she met him. Naturally, she never liked that man. His stiff posture and clipped movements, and his always alerted gaze made him seem like a man hiding something. But her mother had somehow become a close associate of him.
Lucinda often said she owed much to Mr Crouch. Without his support, she never would have reached this position, as he had recognised her talent and backed her, treating her as her own person, not as a Malfoy nor the wife of a criminal. That meant a great deal to her—although she didn't trust him blindly.
After the imprisonment of Betty's father and Lucinda's husband, she distanced herself from his crimes and took back her maiden name. Betty didn't know very much about him. His name rarely came up, not even during family visits with Andromeda and Ted Tonks. Andromeda was her father's cousin, but to Betty, she and her husband Ted had become like close family.
Whenever her father's name came up, it was always by accident. Ted sometimes spoke of him with unexpected warmth. He would talk about memories of the young man, who had rebelled and left home at sixteen to live with James Potter. Betty listened without asking questions. She sensed the pain beneath them, but early on she had learnt to read between the lines, to catch tone and what went unsaid, instead of asking question. It would just cause more pain.
Betty was still watching Lucinda talking to her boss, when she quickly shifted her gaze, spotting Betty in the crowd. For a brief moment, Lucinda's usual composed exterior cracked—her mouth slightly twitched, and brief hint of joy flickered across her face before she ended her conversation with Mr Crouch. He gave a short, greeting nod in Betty's direction, then he excused himself from Lucinda and disappeared into the corridor leading to the other departments.
She walked towards Betty, and pulled her into a firm hug. Her mother felt warm and grounding, and Betty let herself fully sink it. Lucinda held her a moment longer than expected before gently letting her go, and she let her light green eyes sweep over Betty's face.
"You've grown. Taller. And there's something different about you."
But Betty had indeed grown; her forehead now reached her mother's nose.
"You always say that," Betty shrugged, glancing around briefly. "It's odd to be back."
After almost three months in Kenya, walking barefoot outside in the warm sun, it felt strange to be back in the cold of London. But Betty couldn't deny the other feeling slowly stirring inside her—relief and excitement.
"It's been a long summer," Lucinda said softly.
She gestured slightly and began walking beside her. As they passed desks and filing cabinets, a few staff looked up, offering polite smiles before returning to their work. Betty's eyes caught familiar faces and others she didn't recognise.
Lucinda's voice lowered. "We can go over everything later. Or tomorrow, if you want. No rush."
"Later," Betty said quickly.
Lucinda nodded. "How was the journey?" She asked as they moved along the corridor.
"Long," Betty answered, shrugging. "I'm glad it's over."
Lucinda said nothing, her pace steady but slower, as if to give Betty time to adjust.
"The Hogwarts letter arrived three days ago," Lucinda said softly. "I didn't open it. It's yours."
Betty's eyebrows lifted. Her heart started pounding. The doubts that had plagued her in Kenya were replaced by excitement and nervousness.
"We'll go to Diagon Alley on Friday," Lucinda continued. "I took the day off. I want to see how you manage the wand fitting."
Betty's voice lowered. "And if none of them fits?"
Lucinda stopped and looked her in the eye. "Then we keep looking. But I doubt that will happen."
Her tone was calm but her eyes showed quiet certainty. Betty said nothing. Her hand tightened around the handle of her bag.
"The train leaves Sunday. Eleven o'clock, platform nine and three-quarters. We'll leave early. I'll be with you all the way to the barrier."
"You don't have to—"
"I do," Lucinda interrupted gently but firmly. "I want to. I know you've grown independent, but this is my moment to see you off. Let me have it."
Finally, they reached the hall with the Floo fireplaces. Lucinda handed Betty a pinch of powder, and she tossed it into the fire, which immediately flared up in a bright green.
"Dearborn Hollow," she said clearly before stepping in.
The world spun fast then slowed, before stumbling into the familiar living room. Lucinda followed. Although she would miss Kenya and Zuberi, she was finally home.
The kitchen door creaked open. Mimi was there, quick despite her age. Her dark, big eyes lit up at the sight of Betty.
"Miss Betty, good to have you home! So long you've been away, yes?" She bowed slightly. "All ready for Mistress Lucinda to cook. Fresh ingredients, all clean, just as Mistress Lucinda likes it."
Betty smiled faintly. She knew how much her mother enjoyed cooking, like brewing potions. Mimi always helped prepare everything.
Dropping her bag, Betty said, "Hello, Mimi."
Lucinda slipped off her coat and shoes, moving toward the kitchen.
"Thank you, Mimi," she said.
Mimi bowed again, voice soft. "Miss Lucinda is so clever and hardworking. Mimi is happy to help."
She disappeared behind the kitchen door. Betty stayed still a moment, taking in the room. Everything was as she remembered. Even the half-empty jug of lavender on the windowsill remained, but replaced with fresh ones.
"Do you want the letter now?" Lucinda asked, coming out of the kitchen.
Betty nodded. "Yes."
Lucinda stepped into the study, returning with a thick cream envelope. Without a word, Lucinda handed it over to her.
Betty turned the letter slowly. The Hogwarts seal was solid, the wax clean. It felt real. More real than anything she had imagined. Written in dark green ink, old-fashioned and neat:
Miss Elizabeth Jamie Black
Dearborn Hollow
Wimbledon Common
London
"I'll give you a moment," Lucinda said quietly, heading back to the kitchen to fill the kettle.
Betty sat down on one of the old armchairs and broke the seal. The parchment rustled as she pulled out the first page. Term begins Monday, third of September, arrival on the Hogwarts Express the day before. Her fingers paused at the words:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The school supplies list followed: wand, books, robes, cauldron, ingredients, telescope, choice of pet. Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks.
Her eyes lingered on the options of pets: owl, cat, or toad.
"I thought you might want your own owl. If you like, we can visit Eeylops when we're in town."
Betty looked up. "I'm not sure yet."
Lucinda nodded.
"All right," she said softly. "Friday will be a long day."
* * *
On Friday at eleven o'clock, Betty stood in front of the fireplace in the living room. Her wavy hair was tied back into a loose plait at the nape of her neck, falling down to her shoulder with a few strands already loose and falling into her face. She blinked irritably and pulled one behind her ears. She was wearing baggy shorts and a loose T-shirt printed with the name of a Muggleborn band that her cousin liked. Worn-out clothes that once belonged to her older cousin, who liked Muggle fashion and occasionally mixed it with other, more wizard-like robes, and particuarly like it to irritate older witches. Her scuffed trainers squeaked softly on the wooden floor as she turned.
Lucinda stepped behind her, glanced briefly and raised an eyebrow in appraisal. "Will you ever wear your hair neatly?"
Betty rolled her eyes. "It's tied back."
Lucinda said nothing more, which probably meant she considered the discussion to be pointless. She was, as always, flawlessly dressed in a flowing lavender linen robe. A pale grey wool travelling cloak draped over her shoulders, and her light blonde hair was flawlessly pinned up.
"You go first," she said, handing Betty a pinch of floo powder.
Betty nodded, took some powder, stepped into the fireplace, and tossed it onto the fire. When the flames turned bright green, she said, "Diagon Alley."
She stepped into the flames, and her world began swirling around. She stumbled out of the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, coughing dryly as ashes dusted her cheeks and the collar of her T-shirt.
Almost immediately, Lucinda stepped gracefully out of the fireplace. She too had traces of ashes on her face, but before anyone could say anything, she flicked her wand with a precise motion and the dirt vanished from both of them.
Lucinda nodded approvingly. "See? No need to fuss." As if Betty cared.
Betty looked around the room curiously. The room was almost empty only an elderly wizard couple were having breakfast in the corner and behind the bar, Tom, the old innkeeper, was polishing a glass with his usual expressionless face.
When he saw them, his eyes brightened.
"Mrs Malfoy. And young Miss Black. You've grown quite a bit since I last saw you."
Lucinda gave a brief nod. "Good morning, Tom."
"Off to get school supplies then?" He grinned as if he'd already guessed.
"Good morning," muttered Betty, nodding and then followed her mother.
Lucinda placed a few sickles on the counter for the passage, then they went through the narrow back yard to the brick wall. Lucinda pulled out her wand and quickly tapped the familiar stones—three at the base, two on the left—and with a low rumble, the entrance to Diagon Alley opened.
The alley was already crowded. Children with parents, witches and wizards carrying long shopping lists. The familiar sight of Eeylops, Flourish and Blotts, Madam Malkin's and the Apothecary was overwhelmingly close.
Lucinda stepped beside her. "First wand, then robes. After that, we'll see if we find an owl."
Betty nodded. Lucinda briefly laid a hand on Betty's shoulde, leading her through the alley. They left the busy street behind as they reached the narrow shop with the faded golden lettering:
Ollivanders—Wands since 382 B.C.
Aas soon as Betty stepped inside, it felt like the air changed. The shop was narrow, the walls stretching to the ceiling, and everywhere narrow, simple boxes piled up. The room smelled of wood, and a feeling of something she couldn't name. Something alive.
An older man with silver hair, pale eyes and an almost translucent gaze stepped silently from the half-darkness behind the counter. Ollivander stepped closer, tilting his head slightly and briefly glancing at Lucinda, who was standing just behind Betty. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet it filled the room. There was a faint trace of recognition in his gaze before he returned his attention to them.
"Miss Black."
Betty looked up, surprised. She hadn't greeted him, nor had they ever met before.
"I remember every wand I have ever sold. Including the one I made for your parents."
Lucinda stood behind Betty but said nothing, slightly lifting her head. Ollivander stood behind the counter, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Betty. A thin silver tape appeared, floating around her, measuring from shoulder to fingertip, circling her head before snapping shut and returning to his hand.
He nodded once, then turned, eyes gleaming with quiet certainty. "Let's see what combination we have here—hmm—Dragon heartstring core. Ten inches. Ebony."
He handed Betty a small box and she carefully withdrew the wand. She had barely grasped it when a sudden shot through the room, breaking a lamp above them.
Betty flinched. Ollivander's hand darted forward to take the wand back.
"No. Not that one."
It went on like that. One knocked some boxes off the shelf, another shot sparks into the air with such force that Betty staggered and barely managed to catch herself. She was slowly becoming impatient; she was still sceptical about the concept of using wands.
"What if none of them fits?"
Ollivander gave her a look both amused and serious. "Every witch finds her wand, Miss Black. Or rather—the wand finds her."
Then he fetched a box from the top shelf. He paused before opening it, his fingers lingering on the lid longer than necessary.
"Wenge wood. Eleven inches," he said slowly, climbing down the ladder. "And... Thestral tail hair."
There was a brief silence before he handed it to her.
Betty took the wand in her hand. This time, no sparks were coming out of it, but this time it didn't cause any chaos either.
Instead, everything seemed to still, as if the room were holding its breath, but then, after a while that felt like eternity, the air around her seemed to warm up, and a pleasant tingling sensation spread from her palm throughout her entire body. The wand felt heavy and effortless at the same time, and—grounding. She could tense a strange feeling of alignment—quiet, restrained, but unmistakable comforting.
Ollivander's eyes sharpened.
"Interesting, very... interesting," he murmured. "Yes... Yes, that one will do."
He studied her closely now. "Wenge is a willful wood. Powerful magic, but not as a ruler, but as someone trusted with it because they don't seek it. You didn't have an easy start in life, did you? Thestral tail hair—" he murmured, his gaze lingering briefly on Lucinda. "—is particular. It doesn't choose easily. It waits. Quietly."
He paused and continued to observe Betty, as if he were thinking carefully.
"But when it chooses," he added softly, "it does it well."
He continued to observe Betty, still, as if weighing something cautiously, and his expression made her shiver. For a split second, when she met his pale silvery eyes, she slipped unwillingly into his mind. A dark shadow, but no clear imagery, rather a dark, hallow feeling, and she pulled back immediately, holding her breath.
Betty held the wand a moment longer, her hands, slightly trembling, then looked hesitantly at her mother.
Lucinda just nodded, but Betty could see her hesitate for a moment as well.
"We'll take it."
They left Ollivanders with the narrow box in hand. Betty held it as if it contained something fragile. They joined the flow of shoppers again and headed back toward the shop fronts. After a few minutes, they stood in front of Madam Malkin's robes for all occasions. The bell above the door jingled as they entered. The air was filled with the scent of freshly ironed clothes and washing powder, a pleasant smell.
Madam Malkin was plump, with a friendly face, deep set eyes and a tape measure floating beside her that seemed to move and adjust by itself.
"Hogwarts starter kit?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Yes," said Lucinda. "Please note my daughter grows quickly."
"Of course," said Madam Malkin, and before Betty knew it, she was pulled onto a small stool in the middle of the shop.
The measuring tape darted over Betty's shoulders, back, and waist, while Madam Malkin adjusted the robes with practised ease.
"That's a bit long, but it will shrink when washed. And here—we'll sew in a second hem. If she grows in six months, it can be let out."
Betty raised her arms mechanically as the first robe was pulled over her.
Lucinda stepped forward and tugged slightly at the shoulder. "It mustn't slip when casting. She's very active."
Madam Malkin nodded. "We'll reinforce the shoulders a bit then. It's common for children who cast spells with lots of movement."
Betty said nothing, letting herself be turned, measured and marked. Only when she was back on the floor did she brush her hand over the fabric. Not unpleasant. Not tight. And it smelled new.
"Besides robes, she'll need more to get through the school year," Madam Malkin said, placing both items in a paper bag. "The rest—protective gloves and school attire to be worn under the robe—you'll need those too.
Lucinda nodded. "Jumpers, please several—woollen, various thicknesses. And at least three shirts. Matching shoes, sturdy but not clunky."
Madam Malkin waved her wand softly, and a neat pile of jumpers floated silently from behind a shelf to the counter in front of Betty.
"But wool's so itchy," she murmured, pulling one sleeve between thumb and forefinger skeptically. She imagined the wool would scratch at her neck.
Lucinda took one of the jumpers and checked the label. "You wear shirts underneath, so it won't itch," she said calmly. "Besides, they'll keep you warm. There's always a cold breeze in Hogwarts."
Betty was silent and let her eyes wander over the piles, and she wondered how many layers she'd really need in winter. She would miss the warmth of Kenya.
"A hat for special occasions is required," Madam Malkin added, handing Lucinda a simple black model with a stiff brim.
"What would you like?" She turned directly to Betty, "Skirt or trousers?"
Betty shrugged slightly. She had mostly worn trousers because they made running easier. But she liked skirts too.
"Hmm, both," Betty said eventually.
"Good," said Madam Malkin briskly, waving the assistant over who brought a new pile. Two pleated skirts, two pairs of plain black trousers, several pairs of knee high socks, jumpers in dark grey and black, a pair of sturdy but plain black leather lace-up shoes, and finally a thicker black cloak with a hood.
"This one's extra warm and water resistant—for the cold season up in Scotland," Madam Malkin added.
At last, she handed Betty a narrow, still colourless, almost transparent tie.
"That'll change colour," she explained. "Colourless in the transition because no one knows where you're sorted before the hat decides."
Betty turned it over in her hands. The fabric felt smooth, almost cool. She held it up to the light shining through the cloth.
"Looks odd," she murmured.
"It will change once the hat has decided," Madam Malkin repeated patiently.
Lucinda paid and took the finished packages, sorting them smaller with a quick spell, and handed Betty a light bag, and pushed open the door. Betty stepped out into the alley again, the sun having shifted. It was already midday.
"You still need potion supplies, books and a cauldron," Lucinda said casually as they stepped back into the alley.
They bought the rest of the supplies quickly. At Potage's Cauldron Shop, they picked up a standard size‑two tin cauldron. At Flourish and Blotts, Betty lingered by the Transfiguration section, reading the back of a thick volume while Lucinda waited. The last stop was the Apothecary for buying the needed ingredients for Potions.
Betty held the list but knew most of it by heart. She had often stood beside her mother brewing, sometimes allowed to stir or prepare ingredients. She liked it best when the potion changed colour.
"That'll be your favourite subject," Lucinda said casually as they left the shop.
"Hm, I'll see," Betty said.
She was curious. Not just about potions. About everything.
Finally, they headed to the pet shop. Inside, tt was noisy. Cages stacked to the ceiling filled with screeching, hissing, or rustling creatures. Betty stopped when they reached the owl section. Snow-white, speckled, brown owls. Some asleep, others watching alertly from their cages.
She watched them for a long time. Owls were fascinating—independent, smart, and above all majestic. But they were slow too. Sending letters by owl was... romantic, maybe. But not very practical. The floo network was faster, safer, more direct.
Some wizards now used enchanted objects to communicate with each other like ink that bound themselves to a parchment. Still—owls always found you. Even if you were in a remote place.
Betty hesitated. "Do I have to have one?" she asked.
Lucinda stepped beside her. "No. You can use the school owls at Hogwarts."
Betty nodded slowly. "I want to see how often I actually want to write."
Lucinda's mouth twitched slightly, as if to disapprove. "Good. We'll leave it for now." She paused. "But I do hope I'll hear from you more often, Betty."
On the way back to the Leaky Cauldron, they stopped briefly at Scribbulus, the shop for writing supplies. Betty looked at quills in different sizes, some with colourful feathers, others plain black or white. She picked a pack of medium quill that felt pleasantly light, with ink bottles in blue and black, parchment in various sizes and a few blotters in case she made a mistake.
While she was still thinking about the ink colours, a familiar figure with short bright pink hair suddenly appeared beside her. "Wotcher, kiddo!"