"This is my fiance, Miss Anya Jenkins."
McGonagall choked on her tea.
Dumbledore bowed over Anya's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Jenkins. I'm Albus Dumbledore, headmaster here." He drew her over to sit down beside him.
"You have an interesting collection of ghosts here."
"Have they been giving you any trouble?"
"Oh no! I had a nice conversation with the spectre in the bathroom - Myrtle - poor girl. How did she die?"
"Ah. Petrification's not that bad a death, if you die of it. Self-aware petrification, on the other hand..."
Snape smiled. Straightforward, tactless, bloodthirsty, and all mine.