3pm.
With a break in the snow, it seemed like everyone had taken the opportunity to venture out. Ephraim and Walt were no different. They took the time to mail the rent payment and stop by the market. The shelves were lacking in variety and had huge sections of food stuffs completely like most breads. Still, they had some pot noodles, eggs, some vegetables that were on their last leg, rice, cheese and milk. The market at Diagon Alley would’ve probably been better but Ephraim had wanted the exercise. His morning jogging had ceased and he tended to be full of jittery energy that caused him to start a lot of projects but never finish any. As a result, two new inventions had been started, his ‘room’ had been somewhat rearranged, three different sections of the downstairs had started to be organized and it appeared that the fridge had exploded again for parts were strewn all over the kitchen...again.
They trudged back to the flat, walking in the same path that they had cut through the snow earlier. As they passed several buildings of flats, people were out with shovels in an attempt at clearing the paths from the snow that never seemed to end.
“China, you think the Ministry is behind this?” he asked. That question had been rolling around in his head for awhile. This snow didn’t seem to be natural in the least. He had never heard of wizards being able to affect the weather but their magical ability could accomplish so much that it was hard to tell. As they neared their flat, another person’s tracks veered from an alley way and joined into theirs. Ephraim didn’t find this odd until they got to the steps and the tracks hadn’t veered off. “Elias must be ‘ere,” he commented, sliding a glance to his mate. The prints in the snow did go up the up the stairs and past the landing.
“About time ya got ‘ome,” a voice drawled after Eph pushed the door open. The paper bag slid from Ephraim’s hands. The resounding crunch it made when it hit the concrete floor gave little doubt over the status of the carton of eggs that had been residing in it. Ephraim ignored it. Instead, he glared at the intruder who was sitting on the sofa, his legs spread out wide like he owned the place.
If Burt O’Malley had been handsome once, it was hard to tell. His skin was stretched over his face like an ill fitting mask, parts of it sagging and folding while other parts were stretched so thinly and tight that it looked like the bones might break through with any slight pressure. Dark blue eyes peered suspiciously out from under heavy eyelids. Thin black hair streaked with gray poke out from beneath a hat. A mustache rested uncomfortably above a pair of thin lips that were set in a satisfied smirk. He was quite spiderlike in form. His limbs were long and skinny but his belly was bloated by years of drink. This contrast caused his cheap clothes to fit badly on his body.
“Get out,” Ephraim ordered, his voice low and serious. His body had gone rigid and his hands were clutched in tight fists at sides. If the older man was affected at all by his youngest son’s tone or body language, he didn’t show it. Instead, he looked rather bored about the whole thing.
“Is that anyway to speak to yer old man?” he sniffed indignantly.




Ashby Grayson