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[clumsy_auror]

"And that," Nymphadora says cheerfully to her son, pointing to the Soho storefront they're passing, "is called a fetish shop. But you won't be needing to know that for a long, long while, will you? Of course not. And if you do, don't tell me about it. Deal?"

Anthony gurgles his agreement, kicking a little from where he hangs on his mother's chest. He seems to be enjoying the late afternoon sunshine from beneath the brim of his green bucket hat.

"Ah! Here we are, then. This is Aziraphael's shop. Isn't it lovely? Fell Books, it's called." The witch opens the door, and the bell jangles merrily. "Hello?"

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[clumsy_auror]

She watches the angel as he speaks, and remembers that he's just that -- an angel -- and shivers in spite of herself.

Holy though angels may be, they're powerful.

Not for the first time, Nymphadora finds herself glad that Aziraphael and Crowley are, whether by chance or design, on the side of her and her family.

The alternative isn't a pleasant thing to ponder.

"Yeah, I suppose we will. But... keep me posted, yeah? I mean, as much as you can. I might be able to help you, somehow."

Anthony goes quiet, responding to the grown-ups' more somber tones, and looks between the two with wide blue eyes that are the exact shade of his father's.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"As soon as I have anything in the least bit concrete, my dear, you'll be the - well, probably second to know."

He looks faintly abashed, but not very, hooking his finger through the plastic keyring and tugging on it gently.

[clumsy_auror]

Lightly, "Okay."

Anthony tugs back, and belly-laughs at the tug-of-war game.

She grins for a moment, and then sighs, slipping into her thoughts once more.

She wants to trust that this'll work out, but it's difficult.

So many things could happen.