Who: Theodore Nott and Lorcan D'Eath What: An injured Theodore's in need of a caffeine fix. Yep, filling that prompt :) Where: The Cafe & Lounge When: Monday afternoon, nearing evening. Rating: The way things are headed, I'm going to say Mature.
Well, maybe not kill. But perhaps he'll fling a Crucio in her direction. In any case, let's backtrack a little.
Theodore was intending to take the French books he was working on translating/learning the language with him to the cafe, early in the morning and staying there most of the day. But he'd no sooner put the books in his satchel, which was feather-light thanks to some careful charming, then he'd walked out the door, busying himself with lighting a cigarette. In the process of doing the latter, he hadn't been looking where he was going, and the edge of his foot caught a small pothole in the middle of the road.
"FUCK!" he hissed loudly, falling over instantly, the unlit cigarette flying from his hands. That wasn't in his thoughts at the moment, as he felt a familiar shooting pain in his ankle. He gently manoevred his leg to inspect the damage, gently pulling up the leg of his jeans. Yep, he'd broken it. Well, wasn't that perfect.
He waved his wand and bandages sprang from nowhere, wrapping tightly around the leg. He pressed his wand gently to the ankle, and felt the strange pins and needles-numbing sensation that accompanied the magic that would take several hours, to fix the broken bone.
He managed to drag himself to the doorway again, and used the door to get to his feet. Putting his satchel on his shoulder again, he lit the cigarette, and glared at the pothole. Brilliant job at groundskeeping, Lestrange, he thought coldly, before slowly making his way to the lounge.
It took a little over twice the time to limp to the lounge, and he sat down quickly in his favourite spot well away from the window, a freshly lit cigarette still dangling from his lips, a strong coffee on the way, and some cinammon cakes as well, as thanks to all that excitement, he hadn't been able to have a proper lunch.
He picked up one of the books in the satchel, ignoring the numb throbbing of his ankle, and took out his notebook and began taking small notes in his barely legible but still neat as anything handwriting. The thought of his injury soon left his mind as he buried himself in his work.