A Case Of Mistaken Identity

[manwithstyle]

Though Albus was hardly fond of the kitchen, he could concede that it was preferable to any alternatives that would require him to attend to the preparation of his own food. He sat alone at the table, a half-eaten piece of toast before him, sipping unobtrusively at his tea. Save the occasional resident in search of a beverage, it was a remarkably quiet afternoon and he found himself enjoying the rare solitude, fully aware that it could not possibly last.

It never did, after all.

Comments

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

"Whatever you are, out." She said each word clearly, her anger plain. She would appeal to the gods, if they could hear her here, forcing him away. She would not stand for this.

[manwithstyle]

There were many things wrong with the woman's request, though Albus. First of which included her usage of 'what' as he would insist quite adamantly that he was a 'whom'. The second, however, was plainer in its offense: he had been there first and therefore had much more of a claim upon the kitchen than her.

"No," he replied calmly, "I think not."

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

She had promised herself she would not lose her anger so easily again. This place was different, and her position here was tenuous. Yet she was off-kilter, this insolent, disconcerting young man so like her son, the thief of his face. Atia struck him, a solid blow across his cheek with the flat of her hand.

[manwithstyle]

Albus's head snapped backwards, his cheek already turning scarlet from the force of the hit. He stared at her, bewildered for all of moment before his expression darkened. He stood in one smooth and deliberate motion, the chair overturning noisily to the floor, and repaid the blow with equal force.

"Do not touch me, you Muggle cow."

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

The slap was an utter surprise, her cheek burning from it. Her hand touched the skin, flaming red she was sure, even as she looked back at him. "You dare to strike me?"

[manwithstyle]

He would not show weakness in front of this woman and so he made no move to address the pain in his face. "Need I remind you that you struck first?" said Albus, sarcasm all too evident. "Surely your memory is not so short-lived! Though, I do beg your forgiveness if that is, in fact, the case."

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

She ignored his argument, it was her way when things did not fit in how she chose to see them. "You will be best to stay out of my way."

[manwithstyle]

Albus mentally rolled his eyes. "Oh, am I meant to fear you?" he asked, feigning sincerity.

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

She knew when she was being mocked, and she did not care. "You underestimate the ways of women, of those you think not as important or as great as you. I know your type."

Not her son, no matter what face he wore. Not her son, not her son, not her son. She told herself this over and over. "You will regret it one day."

[manwithstyle]

"Your gender is of little importance to me," said Albus and, for much as this was true, he said so dismissively, "and you've found yourself mistaken once again. I find your presumptuousness offensive."

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

"You seem the type to find your own breath offensive, though you are arelittle better than the pig-whore that birthed you," She spat the insult at him, cold and calculated.

[manwithstyle]

Albus had no particular attachment to his mother beyond the fact that he'd wished she hadn't died and so her words had very little impact.

"...hmm? Oh, yes, the 'pig-whore'. A very colourful phrase, I must say. Well done!" He clapped politely though, given its context, it was anything but. "Now, I am perfectly capable of trading dazzlingly witty repartee for several more hours but, frankly, I can think of a whole host of things I would rather be doing."

[bitchofthejulii.livejournal.com]

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging hard into her palms. "You will see," she promised, whirling to stride out of the kitchen, her head high and shoulders back. She would not let him get the best of her.

[manwithstyle]

Albus made a rather disinterested sound as she left. He stepped around the mess of the broken glass to pick up his overturned chair before he once again sat down and returned to his tea.

It was cold.

Sighing, he put the cup back on the table. This, he thought, even as he massaged his cheek, was the most distressing event of the afternoon.