inkhorn: affectedly or ostentatiously learned.
Another day, another class. Professor McGonagall held her strict composure until the class had ended completely. There was little to clean up today, as she had let the students rest with notes. Not that they thought it any great favor. Oh, no, notes were boring and dull. She never tried overly hard to please these teenagers. They would only be pleased if they wanted to be.
Hooch would be around soon. She often was after this class, as she had no class to teach. Her well-known steps were soon heard approaching the classroom.
"Hello dear," Minerva greeted as the woman stepped through the doorway. "How was your first-year flying class?"
The woman laughed and shrugged one shoulder lightly. "As much an experience as ever. Sometimes I wish I had your inkhorn teaching style."
"Oh no, no you don't," the Transfigurations professor began with a slight smirk. "One thing you don't want is a group of bored children on broomsticks."
"Oh come now, you don't bore your students," Hooch reassured as she walked to lounge on her lover's desk. Minerva was not convinced but smiled slightly as she rested with her hands on the side of her desk, looking at the bright-eyed woman.
"As much as you don't amaze yours."
"Good. Then your students aren't bored." Hooch's eyes sparkled as she walked to the woman and picked her up around the hips before spinning her around. "One of these days we're both going to admit that we're good teachers. That you don't bore your students terribly—or at least they learn a lot—and I'm at least interesting to mine, also teaching them a lot."
Minerva laughed from low in her stomach and kissed the light-haired woman on the forehead. "Yes, someday we will."
"Any cleaning up to do today?"
"Just a spilled inkhorn," she answered with a slow smile. "In the words of the younger generations, 'no biggie.'"
She got a full-bellied laugh in response as Hooch put her gently black onto the floor. "Inkhorn, inkhorn. Your learning and teaching is inkhorn, and your tools of the trade are the same. You're the closest witch here to an octopus."
"Well, that is fine by me as long, but don't dare call me Inky again," Min retorted as she took out her wand and pointed it at the tipped inkhorn in the corner of the room.
"Or what?"
The ink, rather than being cleaned out, rushed to the very tips of Hooch's hair. She caught onto this and offered a puzzled expression, eyebrow raised.
"You'll be Mrs. Inky," the wanded woman finished with a slight grin. The rest of the ink was quickly cleaned while the inkhorn found itself right-side up again. She would leave it there.
Hooch carried an impish grin. "That doesn't sound like such a bad thing to be. Let's work on this ink production…"
For the second time in two days, McGonagall prayed that no student would find her snogging her love.