“I don’t think I ever said that,” Nick mused, casting his mind back to everything either of them had blurted out already. “You just called me a woodrat.”
“But –” because she seemed ready to fret about it, and he would rather enjoy being magnanimous than feel forever guilty for being an outright bastard here, “rest easy, Miss Sandow. If you have to stay, you can have the bedroom.” He would take the couch; frankly, he and the couch were already bosom friends. He spent more than enough nights drunkenly passing out on it.
He could not stand to be too sincere to her, though, so Nick played off the proposed peace treaty with his next card and a joke. “That is, as long as you don’t terrorise any more of my shoes.”
“Well,” Nick deadpanned, gratified that she understood her presence was a burden on him, and was not too much of a priss to take the couch – he wouldn’t let her, she could have the bed and would hopefully go straight to sleep and not go moseying around in his things – “let’s still both hope it doesn’t come to that.” They could just... stay up until the Floo fixed itself.
(It was a little bit of a shame his hospitality had not instead been put-upon by some beautiful debutante who had a dowry the size of Africa and would somehow be improbably charmed by meeting him, but some things were too far-fetched even for an opium dream, never mind reality.)
“So why an Auror, then?” he asked. To no particular end, this time – he was merely wondering.
Nick had grown up in the magical world (well, as separate as London could ever be from the muggle city it was enveloped in), but he understood that desire. She was poor (however well being an Auror paid); he understood the desire to drive one’s own destiny, without being trapped by other people’s whims. None of this meant that he had to like her, obviously. “A bit,” he mimicked, huffing a laugh at her.
She was fussing with her cards – he made a motion with his hand to say play one already. (And his next question was also primarily out of interest, in case their ancestors were from the same part of the world, but maybe a little friendly interrogation would help distract her and thus help him win, after all?) “Did you grow up here?”
“London,” Nick answered, too distracted by the card she’d put down throwing his next play off to so much as make a face about it (to be continually annoyed about her company; the way he always did when he was reminded about his prior life, growing up as part of Flourish & Blotts). “My mother’s side is from Bombay. Mumbai,” he added, in Marathi – just on the off chance she happened to speak it too. She might be from Herefordshire, but he had to imagine her family were from a similar part of the world.
(He was – less looking for commonalities, and more for other things to be competitive about. Naturally.)
She did not have any snide remarks to make about her Nepal, which Nick was both relieved and disappointed by – though nor, of course, did he, since he had never been there either, and it was not one of the (countless) languages in his arsenal. He suspected she too had lived here all her life, far from their ancestors and histories, much the same as he had. Not that they were anything alike.
“Ooh, bad play,” he said instead, shaking his head at her card as if to say you’ll regret that soon enough.
She was probably going to win, but he wasn’t ready to concede yet.