A/N So sorry about missing last week! This next group of chapters just insisted on being written in a really weird order, but I'm back on track now, you'll be pleased to hear.

Thanks so much to my wonderful beta Ink Stained Quill for taking a mammoth document of idea-splurge and introducing it to the marvellous concept of structure! You're the best!

Thanks to all my readers and commenters, you're amazing! Also guest commenter Ravenclaw, Elf of Gondor, your comments are so encouraging and always make me smile, so thank you. And I do hope you're not suffering too many brace-related woes!

Quick key to Quenya terms, names and nicknames used in a flashback in this chapter, since they always confuse me:

Makalaurë- Maglor

Nelyo (Nelyafinwë)- Maedhros

Carnistir- Caranthir

Turco (Turcafinwë)- Celegorm

Findë (Findekáno)- Fingon

Atto- father

Ammë- mother

Meetings, Past and Present

The onward march of time, once again, felt strange to Maglor as he settled into his new life in Newt's case. Centuries had faded unregistered in his memory, yet the past week had been more eventful than all of them put together. Time had transformed from a sticky syrup of slowly eroding cliffs and the gradual growth of forests, to a fast-flowing stream of new experiences. He wondered if this was how all humans felt time pass, and how in Middle-Earth they coped with its startling intensity.

On that particular morning, Newt was a whirlwind of activity, even more so than usual. The mess that had accumulated around the house was neatly cleared away, the overflowing papers on the desk in his cabin gathered into a tidy pile, and he stopped several times in front of the mirror in the living room, straightened his bow tie and attempted to tame his hair, which consistently sprung back up, no matter how much he tried to flatten it.

This was all explained when Newt showed Maglor the strangest picture he'd ever seen. Familiarity with the illustrated books in the study meant he wasn't too startled when the figures moved, but he couldn't get over the accuracy of it, how all the details seemed to be transposed exactly from real life, apart from being all in black and white. It showed Newt holding hands with a dark-eyed woman with a short brown hair, both covered in the blossoms which swirled gently down from the trees surrounding them. Their clothes were more elaborate than anything he'd seen so far: the woman looking stunning in a newfangled white garment of leggings joined to a shoulder-less top piece; Newt in a tailored jacket with a golden flower on the lapel; and even Pickett on Newt's shoulder proudly wearing a black ribbon tied in imitation of a bow tie.

"My wife, Tina," Newt explained, indicating the woman. "She's coming home today."

The couple in the picture ran forwards together, both laughing and looking at each other far more than at where they were going, until they stumbled into each other, the woman let herself fall against Newt and he embraced her. He looked between picture-Newt and real Newt. Both were wearing exactly the same expression, softened at the edges, full of love, affection and delight. The image and Newt's response to it prompted him to recall the time when he'd worn that expression himself, in another spring forest glade in a world now lost to him...

The festival of Yavanna was simultaneously the best to play at and the worst.

The best, because the woodland theme was so rich and full of potential – Makalaurë had produced some of his best work using natural world as inspiration – and because it offered the opportunity to play outdoors in a stunningly beautiful forest hall.

The worst, because despite the idyllic setting, the acoustic was tough to work with, not to mention having to adjust every time the wind changed. Winding the obligatory decorative vines around his harp so they didn't interfere with the strings was a long and fiddly task, and the gorgeous falling petals, so adored by the celebrating elves, were determined to get stuck in his harp-strings. He always seemed to end up fending them off during his most complicated passages, and there was simply no way to do that whilst maintaining any dignity whatsoever.

Nevertheless, he always played the festival. It was an honour to be invited, and it was one of those things he secretly enjoyed moaning about. Usually in his public appearances, if not transported by the music, he was glancing across the merrymakers, jealously hoarding all those moments when an elf in conversation with his father would gesture towards him, and Fëanor's satisfied little nod and smile would fill him with the heady elation of having made his father proud.

This year, however, it was different. Because when he glanced across the crowd, his eyes might flicker to his father, but like a compass finding its true North, they always returned to her.

The glade was filled with elves, bonded couples swaying slowly in each other's arms, circles of friends pulling each other round with glee, but she, she danced alone. Eyes closed to the visual splendour around her, she leapt and twirled and twisted, moving fluidly through her figures like molten silver as the blossoms caught in her garlanded hair. Timing impeccable, each movement was a thing of utter precision, though she made it look effortless. She traced the rise and fall of each cadence with her body, the play of the different musical themes delineated in each neatly placed foot or snap of the wrist. For Makalaurë, it was like watching everything he loved about music made visible, and he was mesmerised.

She opened eyes, a lighter, clearer grey than his own, shining silver in Telperion's light, and saw him looking. He wondered if he'd intruded and offended her, and nodded to her in deference, but the nod and smile she sent him, genuine and open and all the way to her eyes, set his mind at ease. She whirled away and continued to dance as she had before, impervious to all but the music, uncaring of her audience yetknowing he was watching. This dance was all her own, and that just made it all the more astonishing that she had tacitly permitted him to witness it.

His hands had been moving without his conscious thought, so the flurry of complicated rhythmic runs in the next passage took him a little by surprise, entranced as he was by the lone dancer. He tore his eyes away from her and back to his harp, knowing he needed to concentrate for this section, but he was too late to stop his finger slipping in his inattention and striking the wrong string. Everything heightened in a moment of pure adrenalin, he took control just in time and recovered it smoothly into a flashy section of improvisation, even managing to bat away a few stray petals in the process. He exhaled slowly as he safely transitioned back into the music he'd originally planned. His recovery had been quick enough that those who didn't know the composition wouldn't notice, as the applause for his showy improvisation attested. Having navigated himself back into calmer waters, and a simpler section he could repeat, he risked a glance up. His father was glaring daggers at him, but for the first time in his life, seeing that expression didn't cause the soul-deep fear of disappointing his father to consume his entire world.

Because he looked immediately back to her, and she was laughing.

At him.

None but his family had heard the composition. He had no idea how she'd noticed, but her expression made it clear that she knew exactly what had happened.

And she loved it.

She threw her head back, chestnut curls cascading down her back, and laughed. Not a giggle, not a politely moderated titter like some of the more reserved maidens would sometimes use, but a full-bodied, unashamed, unapologetic laugh, and dear Varda, he could compose an entire symphony based on those few joyous notes alone. There was no malice in it, just amusement and mischievous delight that invited him to join her in the merriment at his own expense. He couldn't deny that invitation, so he allowed his smile to grow wider despite his embarrassment, realising that it was, after all, quite funny.

The rest of that night's festivities tested his self-control like never before. He limited his glances out over the crowd, trying to concentrate on the music, let it lift him and suffuse his entire being so that nothing existed but song. This, though, deepened their unspoken bond: he'd blink himself back into the physical reality surrounding him after taking himself and his listeners on a rapturous journey through his imagination, then he'd catch her eye and realise she was going through something similar, bringing herself back from the dreams she'd found through her dance. They both knew, in those fleeting glances, the extraordinary kinship two people can find in acknowledging the power of something much larger than themselves.

He finished on an old favourite, the first he'd ever played at this festival, and hearing the assembled voices raised in praise to Yavanna along with his own made his heart soar. But for the first time, the swarms of elves coming to congratulate him afterwards, many mentioning the complexity of the section he'd improvised, frustrated him rather than flattered him. He politely thanked them, craning over their heads as he tried to catch a flash of chestnut curl or moss-green dress. Finally, the crowds cleared and he was crushed.

She was gone.

He tried to pull himself together. She would be at another festival, he could find her then and attempt to tell her- what? That he thought they might be soulmates? That he'd never met anyone else among the Noldor who understood music as she did? That he thought her talent was sublime and he wanted to sit at her feet and listen to her talk about her art? That would be a recipe for scaring her off, true though it all undoubtedly was. His brothers and father were suspiciously absent. He'd expected to be getting the 'sons-of-Fëanor-do-not-play-wrong-notes-in-public' speech by now. Sighing, he began to pack up his harp, reflecting mournfully that at least he could use this experience to compose some angst-ridden ballads about heartbreak.

"I distracted you," a female voice declared behind him. She sounded rather pleased about it.

He whirled around and there she was, standing tall and proud, flushed with excitement, hair askew and covered in blossoms. For a terrifying moment, he opened his mouth and the words wouldn't come. Come on, he willed himself silently, the heroes of the Great Journey romances would always know what to say. You didn't learn them all just to falter now.

In hindsight, thinking of all the old songs from the first generation of elvendom might not have been the best idea. Because before he could think twice or filter it, he was saying,

"Indeed you did, fair maiden, and I would fain be distracted again."

Of the pretentious, archaic things he could have said! Bad enough that his brothers occasionally teased that he spent so much time with old songs, he started to sound like one, but this was so much worse, she'd run to the other end of Valinor now-

"That is well, fair minstrel," she replied, eyes sparkling as she placed her hand atop his where it rested on his harp, "for I would fain draw your gaze anew."

"My gaze is captured by your dance," he enthused, emboldened by this, and more than anything by her eyes, telling him that this linguistic game delighted her as much as it did him, "for it is exquisite. The others, they use the music, as of course they may, but you do not. You find the spark of the music, the part of it that lives, and let it move you." He swallowed. So much for toning down the intensity, he'd already missed that boat by a long way. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever been blessed enough to see."

"I do not always dance thus," she admitted, reaching for his other hand. "I find that I may only dance as my heart yearns to when plays a minstrel, who seeks not to master the music, but to find its spark, the part of it that lives, and set it free. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever been blessed enough to hear."

"You are too kind, fair lady. I am but a student in the art and have much yet to learn."

"As am I. Much lies ahead of me, undiscovered. I would have a partner for the way of my apprenticeship in this craft."

"And I would walk it with you, if you desired it, though, that you might seems but a fair dream."

"Then awake, fair minstrel, for I desire it with all my heart."

Hands pressed together, the harp between them, they gazed at each other in breathless wonder.

"There is a great obstacle before us though, however," she said seriously, and only the mischief in her expression stopped Makalaurë's insides from freezing up completely. "I may only lose myself in my craft when you are wholly focused on yours. So together we must vanquish your great foe: distraction."

"It will be a hard task," he agreed, voice grave although he was barely keeping his joy contained. "As with all such things it will require practice and patience."

"I shall fight the foe alongside you," she replied, laughing a little now, "and I will even find it in my heart to forgive you a few defeats."

"You are too merciful, my lady," he laughed, and seized with the spirit of all the romantic heroes he'd long admired, kissed the back of her hand.

"And they told me not to expect to find love like in the old tales," she teased.

"Then they were wrong. I think sometimes that the tales hold the deepest truth of all."

"So I too have often thought, and desire greatly to talk of it further. For now, I must away, but two days hence, by yonder oak?"

"I shall think of you every moment until then, my lady."

She grinned, kissed his hand in a playful imitation of his own gesture and set off, when an urgent thought made itself known through the dazzled wonder in Makalaurë's mind.

"Wait! I do not even know your name!"

She turned back to him.

"I know yours, Makalaurë, whose voice carves gold. I am Tyelpëquermë, whose movements spin silver."

She gave a flamboyant twirl as if to prove her name, and ran off into the forest, leaving a stunned Makalaurë with about ten different love themes already begging for composition in his mind. He sat there quietly, revelling in the moment, until a familiar pair of strong arms slipped around him from behind and a deeply amused voice husky with faux-seduction murmured, "I would fain be distracted again."

He shrugged back violently.

"Nelyo, get off me! Why are you…were you spying on me? That was a private moment!"

"Ai, little brother, such an incorrigible optimist. Six siblings and you still believe in privacy. I gave up after Carnistir, I think."

"That doesn't give you the right to watch something like that!"

"Well, perhaps not, but it would have been considerably less private had our dear Atto decided to come and give you his views on that charming little improvisation, or more precisely, the need for it."

Seeing Makalaurë's blank look, he sighed.

"Turco saw what was going on – I wasn't paying attention until you changed the music. Findë liked it, by the way – and recruited me and Ammë. He and Ammë are currently running interference, and I was on lookout in case it didn't work. And," he shrugged, "couldn't help overhearing."

"Ah. Completely unavoidable, was it?"

"Entirely, I'm afraid," Nelyafinwë smirked.

"Hmmm. I might even be inclined to thank you if it weren't for the unrepentant eavesdropping. Where were you hiding? I can't believe I didn't notice you!"

"That's alright, I understand perfectly. You were a little…distracted." His grin was intolerably smug.

Makalaurë groaned and hid his face in his hands.

"I must say, though, that line would have been an absolute scorcher two generations ago." He pretended to swoon dramatically. "You would have had them queuing up!"

"Oh, shut up, she liked it, didn't she?"

The last question came out more vulnerable than he intended it to, as he ran over the conversation in his head, trying to work out if it really had gone as unexpectedly brilliantly as he thought it had.

"Are we talking about the same conversation here? Of course she liked it! You've finally found someone as nutty about old songs as you are, little brother, and I couldn't be prouder."

He smiled hesitantly as Nelyo grasped his shoulder, before his elder brother broke the fleeting moment of serious affirmation, saying,

"Better get cracking on those courting songs then, I quite fancy myself an uncle!"

The memory receded, Newt was smiling at him, and he realised that the fondness on Newt's face must have been mirrored in his own as he remembered.

"Were you married? Did you have a wife? Or a partner? Partners?" Newt asked, and that past tense brought the ending crashing back.

After Alqualondë, a road, the two of them, surrounded by raised voices and confusion as the pivotal decisions were made in the hearts of the assembled throng.

"Tyelpë, you must understand, it was never meant to be like this. It went too far, and it was appalling, but we can make it right, we don't need the Valar to do it for us. We can learn, and grow, and forge a new world that can truly be ours in the lands to the East. We must only be brave enough to take the journey, and I know you are…"

"Don't you dare speak to me of bravery!" she hissed. "You speak of courage as though it is simply taking what you want, uncaring of who you hurt. But the elf who is truly wise will see when a great wrong has been committed, and she who is truly brave will go back, admit her error and submit herself to judgement. The elf I bonded with understood that. But I don't think you're him anymore."

"What do you mean, meldonya? It's just me, it's still me…" Her words left him floundering.

"It's not, and you're a fool if you think otherwise. There's something dark in you now, something dead. I don't know who you are, but you're not the elf I bonded with. You killed fifteen people today, fifteen! And one of them was my husband. I will go no further with you!"

Tears streaming silently down her face, she slipped the ring that signified their bond, woven silver and gold, from her index finger and placed it deliberately on the ground, before turning back and running to join Finarfin's host on their saddened and disillusioned return to Valinor.

He didn't shout after her or attempt to argue, partly because he knew her well enough to know that her decision had been made, and it was irrevocable. And partly, because somewhere behind the mental walls he'd built to shield himself from what he'd done, he knew she was right.

And thus, a bond that began with music was broken in silence.

Swallowing back the painful emotions as he watched picture-Newt and Tina laugh amidst the falling blossoms, Maglor answered Newt's question.

"Yes," he said, and then, emphasising the past tense, "I did."

Even by the standard of their lives, the story was fantastical.

The sole survivor of an ancient species with superhuman strength, potentially the ancestor of house-elves, wounded in the catastrophe that destroyed them and living in solitary self-punishment for thousands of years until a run-in with smugglers forced him to accept her husband's help. Tina had come across many people in terrible situations in her role as an auror, and though it was always hard, her blend of sensible practicality and honest compassion allowed her to support them through it. She had no precedents for a situation like this, though. Hence, she was a little nervous as she entered the case; although, that didn't last for long.

As she stepped off the ladder, an excited whirlwind of silvery fur barrelled into her chest and she had to step back a little to steady herself.

"Gently, Dougal," Newt chided him, though clearly amused.

"Oh, he's alright," Tina laughed, running her fingers through his fur even as his clever fingers worked through her bob. "Yes, Dougal, I know, I missed you too."

She had, she'd missed all of them, and she hadn't realised how much. She inhaled deeply, feeling the tension pour off her in waves as the intoxicating blend of grassy and earthy scents of the case filled her lungs. She beamed at her husband.

"It's good to be home."

He drew her and the demiguise into a slightly awkward side hug, and she relaxed further.

"It really is home now you're back. Ready to meet our new friend?"

Back in the case with Newt where she felt at peace, she was. She grinned at him.

"Lead the way."

She heard him before she saw him and instantly understood Newt's multiple frustrated attempts to describe exactly what his singing sounded like. She hadn't imagined before hearing it how something so beautiful could be so painful at the same time. She squeezed her husband's hand.

"Newt," she said, tearing up slightly, amazed that a few seconds of music in an unfamiliar language could have such a profound effect on her.

"I know," he confirmed, squeezing her hand back. "He was singing something like this when I first heard him, but he only did more uplifting things during the first few days with me. The fact that he's comfortable enough here to sing like this again is a good sign, I suppose, but…"

He trailed off, and suddenly Tina knew exactly what the music reminded her of.

"It's like when we liberated Nurmengard. Remember that awful look in the eyes of the prisoners? That feeling of a hurt so deep you'll never be able to understand it? It's like that, only hearing it."

"Yes, it's exactly like that," Newt murmured, sounding troubled. "Do you think we'll be able to help him?"

"Those survivors found healing and recovery," Tina reminded him, with more confidence than she felt. "I'm sure that he can too."

The song found its resolution and faded on the wind as they made their way into a mountainous space where a bark path led up to a pretty thatched hut with ivory-coloured walls and dark cherry wood eaves.

"That's lovely. Reminds me a lot of the ōkami dwellings we saw in Japan in '35."

"Yes, I showed Maglor the atlas and he chose it. Roof's a bit wonky though, my construction magic's always been a bit weak."

"Well, I think it's beautiful," Tina told him decisively, and was about to tell him off for talking himself down, when a figure emerged from the eggshell-blue front door and approached them.

The first thing she noticed was the grace of his movements. If he were human, she would have explained it by assuming he was a dancer, such was the lightness of his gait. He was extremely tall, and she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze as he got closer, finding herself overwhelmed by the impression of age and ancient pain in those dark grey eyes, despite being prepared for it by Newt's warnings. She was even more amazed when he bowed to her, one curiously claw-like hand touching his heart and extending elegantly outwards, but she collected herself enough to mirror the gesture. It felt strangely courtly, like she'd gone back in time a few centuries; unsurprising if Newt's theories about his age were correct.

"Hello, Maglor, I am Newt's wife, Tina," she introduced herself, speaking at a fairly slow pace since she couldn't quite believe Newt's enthusiastic praises of how far his English had come in a week.

"Hello, Tina. It is good to meet you." Tina's eyebrows nearly shot all the way up into her hair. His speaking voice was fluent, as easy on the ear as his music, and his accent was melodic, a little singsong, with a slight twang reminiscent of Italian but nevertheless easily comprehensible.

"It's good to meet you too. Thank you for helping my husband," she said sincerely; if Newt was going to dive in the North Sea in the middle of winter, she was glad that at least someone had been looking out for him. He'd tried to gloss over that part of the story, but she was a trained interrogator and he hadn't got very far with that. She supposed that was one of the drawbacks of marrying an auror, but Newt always took it in good humour when a few well-selected questions had him reluctantly confessing to his more exuberant antics. More often than not he was a mixture of amused and embarrassed at his own flimsy defences and impressed with his wife's competence. Perhaps it was because he trusted she understood his need to court danger and run wild from time to time, and that she'd never attempt to cage him. She wasn't really too concerned about the North Sea, although it exasperated her. It was when things escalated to taking on an unknown number of smugglers alone that she hoped he'd listen to her pleas to be a little more cautious.

A fine crease appeared between Maglor's brows and Tina wondered whether she'd gone too fast, but his next question revealed that the language wasn't the source of the confusion.

"When did I help Newt?" he asked, looking between them, perplexed.

"When you met," Tina elaborated. "You swam out to pull him from the sea. That was brave of you." She was aware of her husband doing a slightly ridiculous 'swimming' mime next to her to make things clearer; evidently he hadn't introduced that word yet. The confusion in Maglor's expression cleared, but he still looked troubled.

"He did not need me," Maglor dismissed his actions.

"Oh, I don't think that's true at all," she countered. "Newt doesn't always like being alone. He does a lot better when he has a friend with him. You made my husband very happy. Thank you."

It was clear that Maglor had absolutely no idea what to do with her gratitude and he looked like he wanted to argue, but Newt, possibly predicting that this could go on for some time, stepped in with an amused gleam in his eye and instructed Maglor,

"Now you say, 'you're welcome.'"

"You're welcome, Tina," he conceded. "Newt made me happy also."

"That's good to hear," she said warmly, and moved on quickly, since she could see that her husband hadn't been kidding about Maglor's self-esteem and the subject matter was making him uncomfortable. "Have you met the creatures?"

"Yes. They are very…friend-like?"

"Nearly there. Friendly," Newt chipped in and corrected him; Tina was just impressed at the creativity with which he was deploying his new vocabulary.

"Yes, they are friendly. Dougal is very friendly, and Katarina."

"Katarina?" Tina mouthed at her husband – she didn't know they had a creature with that name.

"Oh, yes, Katarina's the thestral I picked up from Hogwarts after you left on your mission, the one with the wing injury. Actually," he mused, then turned to Maglor, "Tina does not know Katarina yet. She had to go and work the day when Katarina came here. Do you want to introduce her?"

"If you want," Maglor said doubtfully as he looked to Tina, as though he couldn't believe she'd really enjoy that. She smiled encouragingly.

"I'd like that very much," she assured him.

He thanked her and led her out towards the paddock where Newt hosted any injured thestrals and hippogriffs transferred into his care by the various herds around Britain. She couldn't help but notice how confident and at home Maglor seemed as he walked lightly through the case. She was certain he'd get unsettled again if she pointed it out, so she didn't, choosing instead to appreciate how much work Newt had probably already put into bringing him out of his shell. Once at the paddock, Maglor clicked his tongue softly, making Tina jump by how uncannily exact an imitation it was of her husband's own thestral call. He frowned in concern at that, and she smiled to show nothing was amiss.

"You sound a lot like my husband," she explained.

"I learn," he answered her earnestly.

"I can see that," she murmured, as she watched the haunting form of the thestral emerge from the shade of the trees at the far end of the paddock and canter towards them. Since meeting Newt, she had learned to see the beauty in these creatures most wizards avoided due to their association with death, although they still gave her the shivers. The thestral was beautiful in the same way Maglor's song was beautiful, she realised, graceful and elegant yet accompanied by a sense of a sadness so profound you wouldn't dare even attempt to plumb its depths. Perhaps that was why these two had formed such a close bond. Katarina whinnied as she saw a new person and pranced a few steps to the side, and Tina turned her head to one side, showing her deference in thestral body language.

"This is Tina. She is Newt's wife. She is a friend, she will not hurt you," Maglor reassured her, and Tina was immediately rewarded by the ticklish feeling of a huff of cold thestral breath being blown across her neck.

"Hello, Katarina," she greeted her quietly, and stroked her nose a couple of times. She could see that her husband had already done some work with her, as only a few light supports remained in place on her right wing. "I'm sorry you hurt your wing. Newt will have you flying again soon, you'll see."

Katarina butted against her hand affectionately and then sidled over to Maglor, who ran his gnarled hands over the gleaming expanse of her neck. She left out a low chuff of contentment before going quiet and stilling under Maglor's caresses.

"She likes you," Tina observed in a low voice, not wanting to spoil the moment.

"I like her," Maglor agreed, "I think maybe she… she understands."

Tina didn't need to ask what it was that Katarina understood. She thought she could guess, and she didn't want to pry before Maglor was ready to share it.

She didn't know how long she watched them communing silently, as time seemed to become irrelevant in that moment. Eventually, however, Newt came and recruited them both for the evening feed, and they fell into an easy rhythm between the three of them, as though they had been doing it for years. Tina was particularly delighted to see Laila, the occamy she couldn't help but consider hers after rescuing her in New York all those years ago. When the rest of the occamy clutch had been safely released into the wild, Laila had stubbornly refused to leave and had been a permanent resident in the suitcase ever since. For her part, Laila particularly seemed to enjoy slithering up onto Maglor's shoulders and dropping down from there onto Tina's head until she was wearing her like a crown, much to the amusement of everyone involved.

By the end of the evening, Tina was every bit as determined as Newt to help Maglor recover from whatever terrible scars he still carried from his past. Back at Maglor's hut, she announced,

"It's been great to meet you, Maglor. Now, though, I'm going to make this one some cocoa and we're going to have a long-overdue chat about the Werewolf Registry."

This clearly meant nothing to Maglor, but the effect on Newt was immediate: he shuffled his feet and his gaze fell to the floor. She squeezed his hand in reassurance that this conversation wasn't going to be as terrible as he feared.

They bade each other goodnight, and Maglor perched on a boulder to contemplate the sky. Silhouetted against the stars, he looked for all the world like a statue which had stood there for long centuries past, a relic of another age.

As they made their way out of the case, Newt broke the thoughtful silence which had descended upon them after witnessing that.

"I sort of hoped you'd forget about that conversation," he confessed, a little embarrassed. She pecked him on the cheek before replying,

"You married an auror, dear. Not a chance!"