After a good 20 hours of sleep, Snape rises early and makes his sore but satisfied way into the Prince Estate to visit the kitchen. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he completely famished, and nibbles on a muffin while prodding eggs and ham in the skillet. Idly, he wonders where Nathaniel is, and makes enough breakfast for several people. Riddle sits on the counter, overseeing his efforts, and Arienrhod curls up on his foot.
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These small comforts, however, cannot block out reality. The wound in his side, still newly-healed, aches with certain motions, and this grim reminder of the long days before returning to Mayfair sober him quickly.
Brooding on thoughts of the war, Snape inhales his breakfast, swings through the basement to inspect his potions, and is back in the library not long after.
She had told herself she wouldn't count the hours--that this sort of waiting by the window was the provenance of bad romance-novel heroines, and none of hers--but she had lied. Three days now he'd been gone, and her imagination was running wild. Would he be able to convince the bastards that nothing had changed? Would they smell her on him, and close in for blood?
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Christ, woman, stop being lurid.
She stops pacing, with an effort, and scoops up Pointy, whom she'd brought over from the flat after going back to make sure that nothing was on fire or transfigured into anything else or broken. The bone-golem makes a chittering noise of irritation, but allows his ribs to be tickled, and after a while scrambles up to sit on her shoulder and dig in with his tiny claws.
She hasn't seen Madeline for a while, or Nathaniel. The lady-of-the-manor bit is not a role she's got much practice in, and she still feels like an interloper in this austere and rather dusty house. Nonetheless, she finds herself looking out over the grounds with some pride.
He'll come back safe. He has to.
She scritches Pointy behind where his ears would be, and smiles a very little.