"You will meet our daughter eventually," Dell said. This was the third dinner arrangement that was supposed to have included the elusive Hermione Wilkins. She worked at a bank, doing something that seemed to involve long hours and quite a bit of travel. He'd been given her mobile number the same day they'd given him a spare key (just in case); he had half a mind to call her and arrange their dodging between them. It had been abundantly plain that the Wilkinses wanted to set them up, and equally clear that the daughter wanted as little to do with it as he did.
"I'm sure I will."
"You'll get along swimmingly. She almost went into Chemistry, like you."
"You hadn't told me that." Chemistry was the closest to thing to Potions he could use to explain his skill set. He could've said he was an herbalist, but that tended to make Muggles think he spent a lot of time rolling up blends of would-be narcotics scoured from the woods.
"Yes. She was in quite an advanced program, but… Well. Her mentor was murdered. In front of her." Dell looked uncomfortable, and Severus couldn't blame him. "She went into banking after that. We've been hoping she'd… make a few new friends."
"Friends, hm?"
"Friends are a good thing," Dell said, holding up an admonitory finger. It was a strange thing to see; he hadn't had a finger wagged at him since… Dumbledore.
"You sound like your wife," Severus said, trying to cover his own pause.
"What do you mean by that?"
"She's been hinting that she doesn't see me with enough people."
"She picks people, and then she worries about them. It's how I ended up married to her," Dell said, smiling cheerfully. He'd obviously accepted his fate.
Severus wished, for one strange moment, that the Wilkenses had been his parents. He'd have had a much different life. They were good, decent people. They didn't see their daughter much—and they knew for a fact that she was dodging them—but it didn't matter in the least.