“So. How are exams going.”

Studying was easier than thinking, so Andromeda settled a textbook in front of herself. Nothing mattered but the N.E.W.T.s — a nice, solid goal, visible in front of her, the reward for her work imaginable in crisp ink and parchment. But she could feel someone’s gaze on hers. She sighed. “Yes?” 

“I know there’s exams coming up but we had to celebrate somehow.” John set the chilled twelve-pack of Blackfang down on Frank’s table with a thud. “Lime? Raspberry? Watermelon?”

“Okay. I’ve got a notepad, to write things down. I’ve got water, in case we get dehydrated. I’ve got snacks, in case we get hungry. I’ve got a hat and sun lotion in case it’s too hot. We’re ready. To go flat-hunting.”

“Do you know how to skip stones?”

There was still so much of the liqueur chocolate left. “Hey! It’s my birthday, have a sweet,” Andromeda called.

When Clem’s dad had been arrested, Benjy had owled right away, because it had been easy to offer comfort. But what comfort or reassurance could he give when her mother had been murdered? Wotsits were worthless at a time like this. He found himself angry on Clem’s behalf, angry on behalf of everyone who’d lost a family member to the Death Eaters. Benjy didn’t much enjoy being angry, even when it was the righteous sort of anger. And more importantly, his anger was not useful, or productive, or helpful to a grieving friend. So he hadn’t reached out yet, supposing she was already overwhelmed by friends and family.

“This week’s horoscope is dreadfully bleak.” Andromeda suppressed a laugh, tossing the Witch Weekly copy aside. “Who writes these?” The question was rhetorical and not aimed at anyone in particular, but she locked eyes with Frank Longbottom, and gave him a small smile.