Gazing at the package of socks in his hand, he wondered if the prices were correct. An entire Galleon, just for these? They were plain white, cotton socks. Hardly silk or cashmere. And yet, by purchasing them, he would find himself with hardly enough money to grab a drink at the pub. Considering how hard life had become recently, he really needed that drink. Vincent, being an Avery, had never needed to do his own shopping before. At least, not for something as trivial as a pair of socks. Had they always cost so much? Had he really never noticed? Now that he was… whatever he was… he had to do these things for himself. Had he really fallen so low that he was reduced to wearing poor man’s socks? He turned the package over in his hand, and–
—- Wait, was someone walking up towards him? Ugh.
Vincent cast a wary look in their direction, which gave way to a deep frown once he realized that it was Rita Skeeter herself. He’d never liked her, not really, but he was especially unhappy to see her right now, especially with these terrible socks in his hand. He tossed them down back against the shelf, turning to face Rita with crossed arms. The last thing he needed was for her to talk about him in her silly Gossip Column, but from he gathered, saying so out loud would likely result in his immediate publication. He didn’t smile as he looked at her. “Do you need something, Rita? I’m busy.”
Was it so easy to stumble into the snake pit? Had she become so invisible that those around her seemingly waltzed right into the devils lair? She, herself, sitting upon throne eagerly awaiting her next victim. Victim, the thought of that word had made her laugh. It was harmless, for the most part. Lives had already begun ruination as she merely gave those the push they’d needed to ensure mutual destruction. She thrived on chaos, on the evident and ever looming heart break that others endured. Call it what you will, but Rita Skeeter had a knack for setting the world around her on fire, only to remain unscathed herself. Glint of mischief mirrored in her gaze as her sights set upon the Avery boy. How fickle his luck had been, how absolutely damning his fortune. “A busy bee indeed.” Her tone radiated nothing but sap, a sickeningly sweet demeanour as her fingers uncoiled and managed to brush off a speck of dirt from the mans shoulder. She’d shed every boundary if only to make those around her uncomfortable, she found it made them more honest.
“Hmm, a pity –– “ Gaze narrowing at the surroundings in which Vincent had found himself in. No cashmere nor silk, merely cotton and wool. “How does it feel to be a walking tragedy, Vincent? Has your family made arrangements for a funeral yet, perhaps carved your name from all heir looms even.” Her voice was never harsh, nor shrill. Merely layered on with a coating of sugar in which she’d used as a buffer, every insult feeling as sharp as a knife yet sang as sweet as a lullaby.
Outstretched hand reaches past Vincent Avery, fallen hero, the man the myth the legend, gripping cheapened fabric as she continues. Slight turn up of the nose as delicate digits studied coarse socks. “What a silly thing, wouldn’t you say? How on earth could these be comfortable after you’ve been fed from silver spoons and silk all your life.” There’s an air of pity that laces her words, evident in the way she contorts her features. Bringing socks towards his chest, she presses them there before continuing. “If you’re in need of a sickle or two, I do suggest you come down to the Winged Horse races, perhaps place whatever you’ve got left on one of my personal favorites. I can guarantee you’d be able to buy as much ––– “ Disgust evident as nose scrunches before catching herself. “ –– wool as you’d please. But for now, might I just suggest you and I take a gander at something much more your taste, if only to reminisce. Who knows, if you’re lucky enough I might just pull a string or three. No one likes a riches to rags story, love. It’s simply unbecoming.”
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