The Impatient Man and His Suit

He Tries

The day quickly came to an end and while I gathered my things, Malfoy sat in his armchair reading his "Perseverance" book once again.

"Does this mean I shouldn't come tomorrow?" I questioned, lingering at the door.

Malfoy's head rose from his book and he narrowed his eyes in confusion, but quickly remembered and sighed heavily in thought before answering.

"I suppose there really is no point, is there? I shouldn't want to distract you from your thoughts and cause you any disturbance while you prepare to leave for the Ministry—"

"Well," he began unusually quickly, "They still haven't sent a confirmation letter for my appointment, but regardless, I won't be leaving till a bit later... So, I expect you'll still come."

His eyes bounced all over the room in an odd and insecure sort of way before he took another brisk breath and prepared another comment:

"We mustn't waste any time, you know."

I continued to stare at him, trying to read his unusual behavior. I didn't want to assume anything, but I most confidently predicted that he was attempting to keep me around as company. The idea gave me butterflies and excited me, but it also made me uncomfortable and unsure of my position. These were feelings that had no right to continue brewing inside of me, so I replaced them with thoughts of worry for the approaching day. Setting my hand on the doorknob and feeling eager to leave, I paused hesitantly as a second thought entered my head.

"You're still going to go—if they don't confirm the appointment, aren't you?" I blinked slowly.

"It seems so," he answered coolly, keeping his eyes on his book.

That day I left earlier than usual after having decided to skip our usual optional session of silent reading in the living room and was provided more daylight to guide my way home. From then on, I could see the lights from the fire through the front windows of my country home. Increasing my speed as I walked down a raised incline of earth and moss buried under white that plateaued to a flat area in front of the cottage, I paused at the foot of the hill, letting my bundle of books swing in my left hand and smiled warmly at the scene inside. Visible to anyone standing in front of the windows, our Christmas tree clad in brilliantly twinkling glass ornaments and floating candles could be seen sitting in the corner beside the fireplace. Spotting something underneath the emerald green skirt of the tree, I rushed inside to investigate. Immediately the smells of delicious food fumed throughout the house, reminding me of Darla's cooking. Every Christmas Eve-evening, I would be invited to her flat to have dinner with her small family, a general party of six—including me.

A little brown parcel tied by a curious string covered in beads sat just beneath the tree.

"Wensley!" I breathed excitedly. Clambering in my boots across the floor and around the kitchen doorway, I popped my head through the opening and immediately saw her standing on a chair in front of the table, working some plinth of white dough with her tiny hands. I ventured through the doorway and began to unravel my scarf, my eyes gleaming with excitement at the perpetual pastry.

"And what've we got here?" I rubbed my hands together excitedly, but after remembering Wensley's most unfortunate cooking history, I bit down on my lip doubtfully as I ran my eyes across the flour littered all over the table.

"Cinnamon-spice-apple-pie," declared Wensley as she punched the dough with her white fist.

"Oh," I responded in surprise. I had been expecting for the pastry to contain some strange blend of food, perhaps something like Venice with apples and berries, or cucumbers with pumpkin and some strange seasoning, like cumin and ground pepper. Come to think of it, Wensley's cooking much resembled that of a 16th century cookbook, filled with unthinkably disgusting combinations, like meat flavored jellies for instance.