WHO @blanchexxprimpernelle​ & @nvmalfoy​ WHEN 12 June 2003. WHERE The Augurey Club.
The sunglasses were a poor disguise. Perched upon the bridge of his nose and designed to keep the world out or another world in, they had done little in the way of providing a shield either way — he felt scrubbed raw and exposed, every nerve awake and inflamed. Bash could hear the whispers floating around the patio, could taste the distinct lack of champagne in his mimosa (clearly Rolf had gotten to them here, too) and with each passing moment the urge to drive the stem of that crystal glass into the nearest overly-deferential neck was becoming a more viable option. And yet.
He took a sip of orange juice and soda water (a monstrosity), nose wrinkling and teeth bared in a smile that had turned half-feral as his head turned in anticipation of the click of heels upon the tiles of the patio. “You’re late,” he offered, raising his half-full glass of not-mimosa into the air in the hopes it might be swept away and replaced with one less disappointing. Time was slippery at the moment, skittering away between his fingers whenever he tried to pluck at the strings of it. “You missed the shift-change for the pool boys.”
