He’d knocked again, offering her clothes while she fought her hair into some semblance of a bun. As she slipped on an old faded t-shirt, she chuckled at the sheer volume of clothing this man had. His everyday closet must be on some sort of rotation with Pansy. Yet, when she went to slip her wand into the pocket of the sweatpants he’d handed her, the wand dropped straight to the floor, clearly worn from all the years of the same activity. He easily could have thrown these out, or fixed them, but he didn’t. He also chose to give her these ones because he’d paid attention to which clothing of his she’d chosen on her own. 