exhales a plume of smoke, leaning against a wrought-iron lamppost I’m telling you, the carburetor was fucked. Completely.

sketching idly in a small, leather-bound book, a cigarette dangling from his lip Your diagnostic skills are profound, Theo. It’s a wonder they let you touch the bikes.

He pays them to let him touch the bikes. grins, nudging Pansy Parkinson with his elbow Right, Pans?

swats his arm away, but doesn’t move from where her shoulder brushes his Don’t be crude. And don’t lump me in with your vehicular incompetence. I have standards.

watching the exchange with an amused, detached expression The only thing incompetent here is this conversation. My father’s solicitor could find more intellectual stimulation in a teaspoon.

rolls his eyes, but a faint smile touches his lips Piss off, Malfoy. At least I can do something with my hands besides sign cheques.

So when does she get in? Your mum said the flight was this morning.

Should’ve been hours ago. Mum’s probably forcing her into some new designer disaster at the townhouse. Making up for lost time.

Still can’t believe she’s been in Italy this whole time. What’s she even studying over there?

without looking up from his sketch The art of being dramatically absent.

flicks his cigarette butt into the gutter Shut it, Riddle.

Well, fuck me.