RP: Coffee and coffee with a side of coffee
Characters: Draco Malfoy and whoever wanders by
Location: Three Broomsticks
Date: August 25
Status: Open
Summary: Draco sucks it up and hits the 3B for lunch.
Completion: Complete
About noon, well before he normally preferred to get up, someone was pounding on his bedroom door. If it was Millie, Draco decided as he dragged his head up from the pillow, he'd have to be sure and send her family a very nice condolence card after he murdered her. He'd been having a lovely dream involving a particular favorite witch, a levitation charm, and a thoroughly unorthodox use of a scarf, and he would quite like to get back to it. But first, to stop the hammering on his door.
He rolled out of bed, clambered up from the floor, and stomped to the door, yanking it open. No one there. Then something hit him in the knee and he looked down. The cottage's house-elf, tiny fist raised to knock again, looked up at him, mortified that it had accidentally struck a wizard. Draco suspected there would be ironed green fingers in the cottage later that day, and if it didn't think of that on its own, he thought he could probably figure out where the iron was. "What do you want?"
"The kitchen is out of coffee mugs."
Draco glanced over his shoulder and into his room, counting the mugs scattered on his desk, bedside table, and windowsill. One, two, three, fourteen. All right, maybe he should retrieve them once in a while. He rubbed his forehead, made a face at the elf, told it to wait a minute, and slammed the door. Forty, fifty minutes later, the door opened again and he stepped out, properly showered, shaved, and dressed to leave the house. He gestured vaguely back into his room, muttering, "Don't touch anything but the mugs, or it's the chimney for you," and skulked out of the house, trying to ignore how bright the sun was.
Dammit, he was hungry. And he needed coffee. And he did live in Hogsmeade and there was a pub nearby, but....
Draco had a cigarette while he stared at the entrance to the Broomsticks. Maybe. It wasn't as though Rosmerta would remember, was it? Sort of the point of the Imperius. And maybe she wasn't on shift. And really, after all, it hadn't been his fault, he'd just been desperate and trying to save his family and that was that. Wasn't it? He flicked the end of his cigarette into the street and straightened his shoulders, tugging his left sleeve down to his hand unconsciously. He was a Malfoy and a Black, and no little pub made him nervous. Absolutely not.
Before he could change his mind, he walked in.
Location: Three Broomsticks
Date: August 25
Status: Open
Summary: Draco sucks it up and hits the 3B for lunch.
Completion: Complete
About noon, well before he normally preferred to get up, someone was pounding on his bedroom door. If it was Millie, Draco decided as he dragged his head up from the pillow, he'd have to be sure and send her family a very nice condolence card after he murdered her. He'd been having a lovely dream involving a particular favorite witch, a levitation charm, and a thoroughly unorthodox use of a scarf, and he would quite like to get back to it. But first, to stop the hammering on his door.
He rolled out of bed, clambered up from the floor, and stomped to the door, yanking it open. No one there. Then something hit him in the knee and he looked down. The cottage's house-elf, tiny fist raised to knock again, looked up at him, mortified that it had accidentally struck a wizard. Draco suspected there would be ironed green fingers in the cottage later that day, and if it didn't think of that on its own, he thought he could probably figure out where the iron was. "What do you want?"
"The kitchen is out of coffee mugs."
Draco glanced over his shoulder and into his room, counting the mugs scattered on his desk, bedside table, and windowsill. One, two, three, fourteen. All right, maybe he should retrieve them once in a while. He rubbed his forehead, made a face at the elf, told it to wait a minute, and slammed the door. Forty, fifty minutes later, the door opened again and he stepped out, properly showered, shaved, and dressed to leave the house. He gestured vaguely back into his room, muttering, "Don't touch anything but the mugs, or it's the chimney for you," and skulked out of the house, trying to ignore how bright the sun was.
Dammit, he was hungry. And he needed coffee. And he did live in Hogsmeade and there was a pub nearby, but....
Draco had a cigarette while he stared at the entrance to the Broomsticks. Maybe. It wasn't as though Rosmerta would remember, was it? Sort of the point of the Imperius. And maybe she wasn't on shift. And really, after all, it hadn't been his fault, he'd just been desperate and trying to save his family and that was that. Wasn't it? He flicked the end of his cigarette into the street and straightened his shoulders, tugging his left sleeve down to his hand unconsciously. He was a Malfoy and a Black, and no little pub made him nervous. Absolutely not.
Before he could change his mind, he walked in.