Bathilda had returned from the London seminar an hour late. She was surprised that so many researchers considered her work commendable. After her speech, they stopped her to ask a disproportionate number of questions and, at the end, even asked her to sign copies of her book, History of Magic. It seemed incredible to her that they had brought them specifically for her to sign.

To get home, he had to use a portkey, the Floo, and finally his broom. All the commotion had left his hair a platinum-blonde mess, and his clothes looked like rags.

She was dead tired; all she wanted was a bed. But, delight of delights, her nephew had made sure dinner was ready for her, food infinitely better than she knew how to make, but after all, even she knew it wouldn't take long.

And now Gellert was combing her platinum blonde hair in front of the living room mirror. Bathilda felt a little uncomfortable. A little.

First dinner, and now hair.

Her nephew saw her struggling while trying to comb her hair and offered to help. The proposal was a bit unusual, but he justified it by saying he was used to combing his mother's hair; it was an activity that relaxed him.

Did he relax? Let him do it for as long as he wants, so Bathilda let him do it right away. If she had known, she would have let him do her hair from day one.