Savior of the…
Chapter 2
Tea; a noun
The boy did a decent fish impersonation. Wide eyes, gap jaw, sickly pallor. It was his most charitable thought at the moment, and since charity was the theme of the day he stilled any and all other descriptors that ached to be followed up on. Turning about, least continued viewing break his will power and he actually indulgence in calling stupidity what it was, he made more of a show of pulling his trench coat on than was necessary.
All the better to avoid seeing the brat. Unfortunately looking away didn't really work when the subject of said ignoring wasn't content to remain so.
"You're a wizard."
Said wizard tucked his want into the deep pocket, after a idle moment contemplating his options he tucked his wallet inside as well. Patting both, habit to assure that the secure was secure; he set long hands to a trail of buttons. Bottom to top, a peculiar inverse from the norm. Still, the route was familiar, the threadbare state of his black boat and that loose button halfway up attested to it.
"You're a wizard wearing Muggle clothes."
Scandalized was a rather feminine word... about the edges mind… still the littlest Malfoy (with the largest of mouths) projected it so well. Thus he indulged in a smile, one never seen. A deep breath after indulgence, another, and he smoothed his coat with scarred hands even as his face followed suit without a touch.
The silence that followed was blessed, he savored it, loitered truth be told… Wasn't sloth a sin? If so his indulgence was promptly punished.
"You know the ministry's trying to pass a law-" and listened to the quiet die, just like that, a scowl twisted his features, "to make Muggle trash illegal."
"They'll need a multitude of Scorgify's and Vanishings to pass such a thing."
"Huh?"
Pulling his gloves from the pocket where-the-want-was-not (also know as the oversized right pocket) he pulled one on that the other. They were gifts, from long ago. Once glossy and bright they'd lost shine and newness but never his affection. Never mind the thread that tickled his right wrist and all its allusions of a greater decay. As for the left, its acid born proforations about the palm, they were almost… endearing.
"My father works for the ministry you know." Ah, the brat had regrouped, wonderful. Knowing where the speech was headed (redundant anyone?) he grunted, ran a hand over leather and skin and wished he was a little more amoral.
Than killing curses wouldn't be beyond him.
Really the child was small, slam enough to be stuffed into a trash bin after a spot of killing. He had a multitude of poisons, some of them contact, he could just nip right on down and…
"You know, you are a wizard right? Smart wizards listen to the ministry."
"Which your father is a member of, yes, I know you've said it twice already." He tucked his hands in the smaller pockets, one on each side. They ran parallel to the seams of his coats sides, almost touching the stitching that held it all together. Too vigorous an action would split the seams. "Despite how poorly you allude to it though, I won't be listening to some snot nosed, arrogant brat who hasn't even gotten his Hogwarts letter. And as head of house of Slytherin I'm not entitled to listen to you once you get your letter anyway. You will be listening to me."
Ah, silence once again, wonderful blessed quiet. But tears this time, crocodilian in variety though. They'd sprung too soon, too quick, and there was no reddening of the brat's nose that had been part and partial to a real fit.
The one he'd had to listen to an hour or so ago. When Lucius had left, leaving his son behind to a confirmed murderer.
"Now," He drawled, voice soft, lethal. "As we've already established I am not a nice man. And I'm unfair and cruel but I'm going to break the trend and be reasonable towards you and explain something. You have two choices. Either you go upstairs to the room I've designated as yours and change into the clothes I've left for you, or I drag you up there, petrify you, and leave you there until I return."
Silence, shocked, another fish impersonation was given. It took effort not to laugh, not to snigger. Still he managed, somehow.
"But they're Muggle."
And ratty, old, dated, holey. The blanks were filled in so nicely but the boy's tone. He smirked, reached for his wand and once it was free tapped it against his chin.
"Do you have a preferred petrification spell, we could go classic, but it leaves one so horridly numb after." He let his eyes light up, showing some mirth. "Perhaps, maybe a stinging hex could be combined to assist with circulation…"
"Ah! I'm going I'm going!"
So the brat went. Racing up the stairs without a further word, but not without further sound. Really, for something so small, the Malfoy could be bloody heavy footed.
Alone, for now, he indulged a sigh.
"Like father like son" had never seemed more of an indication of damnation than it did now.
What a bloody spectacular world. Turning his back on the stairwell, (once hidden, now not, once a bookshelf had been rolled away that was) he stared at the flames. They flickered, were stereotypical in their red and orange hue. Nothing spectacular really.
They were, by far and large, the better sight. The alternative (living and speaking and so bleeding familiar even in its ignorance born audacity) wasn't worth considering. But here he was, considering…
Thinking of things needed, grates and food and the like.
He had no food, went to the Leaky Caldron once a day for a bite noonish. One meal, one day, was all he really needed. He kept bread and some wilted vegetables on hand for when hunger occasionally reared it's head. But the vegetables were beyond wilted, a fetching pre sludge brown actually, well those that he'd recognized. The purple mound in its paper bag wasn't something to be considered. His faithful loaf of bread –two end slices, mold plucked off before the boy spied it- had been burned whilst toasting. Thus he was utterly and completely without food.
Something the little big mouth had to point out.
Furthermore the brat had the audacity to refuse the charred bricklets Snape had offered as sustenance. He'd insisted it was toast, as a teacher he'd know best, as an adult surely…
But clearly Lucius' little viper wasn't that gullible. He'd missed his window of opportunity. And his noble sacrifice of nibbling on one of the ashy things to prove it was "good" hadn't worked. At present his semi-working taste buds were rallying a protest of sorts. He actually wanted a drink of water. Since it was after lunch part of him insisted that he shouldn't, using water was a break in frugality, Sickles didn't grow on trees.
Hell he only bathed after a potions accident.
But the boy, all glossy and clean, surely wouldn't want to abide by that. The brat cringed at each dust bunny as if it were the Dark Lord reborn, grime was criticized with a grimace, and baths were going to be a norm for now if that haughty expression was anything to go by. For the brat anyway. As for him, he'd just have to endure and be endured.
Nothing new with that.
Nothing new at all.
Still, all assurances to the contrary his feet carried him to the kitchen. And for the first time in almost seven years, he broke with routine.
"Accio."
A hand, no foolish want waving required, just a flick of his hand and the cabinet popped open and a cup floated out. Snapping up the glass, streaks and all, he took it to the sink and fussed with nobs he only sort of remembered. A few rattles, a hiccup and clang and the water gushed out. Clear, clean, steaming.
Whatever. Temperature hardly mattered. Filling, full, swilled, he tossed the now empty cup into the sink and turned off the water after something of a struggle.
Damned rust, he'd have to do something about it. Perhaps a mild acid from the lab…
An exchange of sorts had taken place. his tongue was burning, his throat aching and tight. But that ashy taste was gone.
And those things about the edges of his vision. All black and swirling and masked in white (such the ash had summoned) eased back a bit in the face of the unfamiliar.
He recalled tea. An abstract thought really, no taste recalled, it was just a noun. Tea; the noun, a thing, something one drinks. He hadn't indulged in the stuff so long he scarcely recalled its taste. Actually, he didn't. But despite not remembering he mentally added it to a list of "things to buy while they were out" and wondered what the hell was getting into him.
"I'm ready to go! Do all Muggles dress this stupid?"
Well, whatever was getting into him he didn't know. But he did know what was getting on his nerves. His last nerve.
"My childhood clothes are not stupid you ingrate!" Snape growled out, storming out of the kitchen and where the brat could see him. Shame coats didn't snap quite as nicely as robes. Still ,the boy paled nicely enough. Dropping his volume, exchanging it for silkiness, he looked the child up and down. "Your boots, Mr. Malfoy, I leant you a pair."
A huff, though pale the boy had the audacity to tip his head back. Snape spied a dirty nose but didn't comment. It'd only protract things.
"They pinch my toes." The brat whined.
"Dragon hide is not the norm in Muggle society Mr. Malfoy, now either turn around and go put them on or we'll take the second option right here right now."
No running this time, only stomping, not pleased with that development the elder wizard snapped out a stinging hex. A yalp and hop told him it'd hit. Whipping back, looking back, the boy stared at him with wide wet eyes and a reddening nose.
"Spare me, Mr. Malfoy, and hurry up. You've five minutes or I'm coming up."
When the fool boy looked at him, all wide eyes and stupid, he just had to snarl.
"You don't want me coming up."
The boy was back to running, never mind the wince that preceded it, speed was speed and that's all Snape wanted.