Five days had passed since Minerva visited Miss Llewellyn and her mother that Sunday morning. As she read the letter—with the Welsh witch's neat, cursive handwriting a striking dark blue on the crisp white paper in the sunlight filling her office—the memories of her cuttingly perceptive comments and questions during their discussion brought a slight, fleeting smile to her thin lips.
It was after she caught Mrs Llewellyn trying to hide a smile did she realise the easily fascinated yet assertive Muggle-born—first-generation was what the girl had insisted—was indeed asking about the Wizarding World's political climate, their political developments and in such depth to boot.
Yet despite her delight in remembering more as she re-read the letter, the Transfiguration Professor eventually let out a deep, tired sigh.
Her meeting tonight with Albus would no doubt be a much longer one.
(And she was already so exhausted.)