“Annnnnnd so there we have it,” Dedalus started at a quiet purr without introduction or preamble, his hands full of one cup of lukewarm tea (nothing to be done about it, less he wanted to insult with his wand) and half a dozen pale biscuits. “The latest in hospital waiting room presentation. Do you see that poise?”
Of course Alice did. Alice saw absolutely everything. Especially a witch wearing a pure-blood half-mourning two eons out of style for her age. Dedalus clicked his tongue, bowing his head conspiratorially against Alice’s ear, “How much would you like to bet she’s borrowed that from her mother-in-law.” Probably not a good bet, all considered--but a bet was a great way to ignore the tightness in his chest. Or maybe a wager was a better way to put it. Alice had been a Rosier, after all.
“She’ll be in fits when her husband dies, simply tragic.” Dedalus spoke ever more quickly, waving a biscuit around before depositing it into Alice’s hand. “All up until his younger brother turns out to be...so, well...”
He wasn’t sure if it came from his lungs, but Dedalus felt a little like the over stiff wooden doll his mother had given him as a child. Even as he gestured, weaving a ridiculous story of another waiting room patients obvious murderous intentions (poison, don’t you think?)--everything hurt, stiffened, left his mouth just slightly to blunt at the ends. “But how are you, dearest, darling of Saint Mungos?”