lounging on a velvet cushion, inspecting a jar of luminous green paste I refuse to believe Professor Vector is a real witch. She gave me five inches on theoretical arithmancy and marked me down for being ambitious about rounding.

stretching out in forest-green silk, one eyebrow raised Mmm. And what would a real witch look like, exactly?

Not like a woman who color-codes her parchment. casts a look at the green paste Is this a mask or paint? I refuse to look like a swamp creature for your entertainment.

sat cross-legged, shaking a bottle of frosted nail lacquer It’s fifty percent aloe, fifteen percent powdered moonstone, and the rest is essence of stop being dramatic. Put it on.

uncaps the jar, makes a face at the smell This better not summon a sprite.

dryly Summon something useful. Then we sell the story to Rita Skeeter, skip NEWTs, and retire.

You wouldn’t make it to the Prophet. You’d get distracted by a butterbeer ad and buy the whole campaign.

Well.