SCENE: A cafe in Mile End, London. Formica tables. Plastic chairs. Cigarette stains. A general air of menace. The full english.
Vincent Crabbe slouches his bulk sideways in the too-small chair. He's on the door. Hood's pulled over the worst of his face. The doorbell makes a pathetic tinkle.
"Wand." Crabbe's got his own out, plain as day. They don't care about the Muggles at this point in the enterprise.
"For fuck's sake, it's me, you fucking twat."
Crabbe doesn't move his wand from Blaise's ribs or his gaze from the curry and chips on the nearest table. "Wand."
The paranoia is warranted: Cosine Sinistra's Floo had up-to-date encryption and yet she was still recovering from a suicide house-elf blast in her front room. Blaise hands over his wand.
"Other one, innit."
Vincent's always been a terrier.
Pansy gets the same treatment, even though she's come with her Dad. Blaise looks at Draco and raises his eyebrows at that. If Terry Parkinson's here, it's the big time. Action plans. Terry doesn't sit with them, of course. He heads for the counter and stands with his arms crossed, broad back to them all in his cashmere coat, directing the Croatian girl behind the counter on just how he likes his tea.
Draco's lining up the salt and pepper with the HP sauce. His hands are shaking when he begins to speak. Blaise would be charitable and put it down to being shitscared for his life, but he thinks it's likely the drugs.
Theodore's become such a bad influence.
They're there most of the morning. Muggles come in, go out. They all fall silent--not that anyone would notice--when Vince stops a freckly boy with the recognisable sniff of Hufflepuff. Vince takes his wand (new) and Pansy breaks it on the back of her chair. Her father nods slightly and she grins.
"... yes, yes, wands out, knives out, no liquids in my carry-on--ladies, hello," Theodore solicits a couple of Muggle girls through the doorway, "shall I take my shoes off? Am I a threat? Are we on orange?" He's so wired he doesn't notice the clatter of Mr Parkinson's cup meeting saucer. Beams around the finger he's biting, over at the table, wink, wink, wink while Vincent checks all four--five--items that Theodore passes him. Blinks at Draco until Draco smiles at him. Pansy looks at Blaise, horrified.
Blaise puts an arm around Draco's shoulder, resolute.
Cheese and onion toasted sandwiches seem to do for everyone. Theodore crashes; his fingers drumming the mintgreen tabletop grown slower, erratic. Vincent stands and walks around, watches the freckly boy disappear into the toilet. Draco finishes his story, bleeding at the corners of his fingernails. Blaise's hands are cramped from encrypting notes on the fly, but they're done.
Pansy shifts slightly, undoes a button on her cardigan, peers out the window of the cafe. "It's Milly," she yawns. In the rain, there's a figure running across the road to the door. She gets closer: she's speaking to them.
"What's she saying?" Draco frowns. His hands have stopped shaking.
The freckly boy comes back out of the toilet. He looks nervously at them all like they're seventh years and he's been given an important message.
He points a wand at Draco.
The green is quite beautiful.