Dickhead should offend him but it doesn't. It's so like Della, he thinks as satisfaction dawns on him and he fights the urge to stop himself from grinning widely. The foul words she strikes from her mouth - so loud, so bold; just like her. And the outburst was all he needed; all he wanted. For all her attempts to contain herself, Robert knows she's still a lion. And there she roars, spitting words at him as if it'll only provoke him.
He doesn't.
(He's learned from his father that words were words. He swallows them. Not easily, but he does. And dickhead's nothing compared to what he's heard before)
What does is the burn from the coffee, droplets of the liquid heavy on leg of his trousers, staining the wooden floor, spilling small bits and pieces of ceramic on the floor between them. Shards of the mug; broken and honed. And what provokes him even more is the smug look on her face; the arched eyebrow, the delight in her voice when she tells him to pick up the mess.
As if Robert would be willing to do as she tells him. What is Della worth? Not this, of course. Not the pleasure to know that he'll pick up after the mess that she's made herself. He owes her nothing, especially everything he's done. How grateful. He bites tongue, sucking in his breath before he spoke.
"Get out," he spits, whipping his wand out to dry his trousers. "I want you gone by tomorrow." He walks passed her. "And clean up after yourself. My elf serves only me."