A Woman Is Like a Tea Bag PV Oofie

When the knock at the door had come, Olphie was in the midst of trying on her latest purchases and painting her nails. Only the most sophisticated inviduals could multitask in such a way, seeing how clothing fit while not geting nail polish stains on the outfit, lest she decide to return it. And Olphie, of course, was the most sophisticated.

When the knock at the door came, Olphie was wearing quite the feathery frock, her nails drying a deep red color. She had worn it for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to decide if the white complimented her well, but right before the knock came, she had decided that she absolutely would not be caught in any feathers that were not neon pink. It was homage to her patronous, the fabulous flamingo; white-feathered birds were so last year. 

When the knock came, she gasped with surprise, frantically trying to rid herself of the fashion faux pas. Instead, she faced tragedy. Only the most sophisticated individuals could try on clothes and paint their nails, and it seemed that, though she was usually the most sophisticated, she now was a bloodied bird. "One minute!" The witch yelled, though in that moment, she was so flustered that she had forgotten the benefits of being a witch. Quickly, she tried to wipe the polish off with her hands, but instead, it looked like the bird she was embodying had been harmed more than once. 

Five minutes after the knock, Olphie gave up, distraught but aware that she could not let the silence linger further. If the girl wanted tea, she would get tea - and though she may have other intentions for the meeting, Olphie would ensure that the focus of their conversation was the importance of keeping a secret. This lesson was because she feared the repercussions of this fashion faux pas, the bird fresh for slaughter, and what it could imply for her reputation. 

They would get there, but first thing was first: she had to open the door. With a fake, albeit genuine-looking smile, the Flying Professor pulled open the door and asked boisterously, "Miss Garter? Why yes, of course I remember! Come in, come in."

With a beckon of her arm, she guided the girl to her massive tea collection, possessing any flavor the girl could even imagine. As the girl made her selection, she went to flick her wand, only to remember that this whole disaster could have been solved much more simply if she had remembered it moments before. Alas, however, it was too late now, though she cursed herself as she let the water boil, prepared her own black tea, and sat down in one of her two armchairs, putting an extremely fluffy white blanket over her feathers as a means to disguise the stains that resembled blood. She was flustered, but she would only slightly appear this way, as she continued along as though no fashion crime had been committed and said, "And what pleasure do I owe this to, Miss Grater?"

The girl took a step back from the door at the sound of a somewhat startled professor. Disturbing had never been her intention, and so she bit her lip wondering if she had, in fact, come at a bad time. To be fair, in the weeks following the Masked Ball, bad times had basically become her reality from the memories of blood on the floor to the giants who gave her chase in nighttime dreams. It was unlikely she could recognize what a "bad time" was for others.

The time moved slowly, and she was about to give up when the door swung open to reveal a feathery-looking Olphie Bercegeay—feathery and pink. Ruthie had to blink quite visibly upon taking in her professor's appearance. She didn't want to judge a Quidditch star, but this...this was a lot. All this pomp and circumstance over her appearance stood in direct opposition to the eleven year old who barely ran a comb through her hair in the mornings. But she'd combed her hair today, and washed her face too. Even her robes were clean. Such was the price of making an effort.

Quietly, she stepped inside, following the professor's beckoning for her to come inside. She smiled in gratitude. After all, her teacher didn't have to invite her in for tea. It wasn't in the job description, she was fairly certain. Following the professor's arm, she found herself in front of a large, looming tea collection, bigger than anything she had ever seen. "Wow," she let out without thinking, "I don't know where to begin. We just have black tea at home." It was, as was not untypical of her speech, a true statement. The fisherman's daughter was unaccustomed to luxury, or even choice. Hogwarts had made that clear.

She stared for what must have been a few minutes before setting on something called Harvest Moon Red Chai. Not knowing what any of that meant in the tea world, she picked it because it seemed to tickle her nose as she held up a small jar of loose-leaf tea. The vanilla bean smell was quite potent as well as a hint of citrus, not that the eleven year old would be able to describe it in the manner of an esteemed tea connoisseur. Filling the steeper with the leaves, she hung it from a dainty cup as colorful as the woman to whom it belonged.

Moving over to the table with the cup in hand, she replied, "You said you were available for tea that night on the boats. I know it was a long time ago. But I just thought—" The pause was not intentional. It was rather a result of a pre-teen being unsure how to discuss anything real, troubling, or true. Adjusting herself in the chair, she renewed her attempt: "I just thought being a professor, you have had experiences, real experiences. You know, like the Ball." That word held a particular emphasis as she spoke. "And I just wondered how you dealt with it?" she asked, looking down at the cup and then up at the professor's face.

As the moments passed and she could no longer revoke these words in favor of asking for a Quidditch autograph (which she would still readily take), realized the professor was still incorrectly addressing her. If they were going to have this kind of difficult conversation, she might as well get it straight. "My surname is Greer, professor, with a double 'E'. It means 'vigilant,'" she correct her host, her highland accent strong and thick. It was not intended to be condescending in any way, but rather just an attempt to get them both on the same page before what was probably going to be a messy conversation.

Still, she was glad to be in the presence of an adult confidant. How good an adult confidant would remain to be seen.

For @Olphie Bercegeay