silver | d.m.

04.visit

October 2004 | H I M

"Dimwit," Tiana greets him cheerily, holding her front door wide open.

Hair in a low bun, oversized with what seems to be oil spots, hands still having drops of water as if she didn't dry her hands enough.

"No, Mr. Wiggles," her dog came running as soon as the door opened but she holds him back with her foot. "Come on in, I'm a little busy."

Draco closes the door behind himself, the smell of waffles lingering in the air, which is quickly explained by the set up on the kitchen island in the open room.

Giving Mr. Wiggles a couple good scratches, he proceeds into Tiana's space. "What are you doing?"

"Oreshki," she states, opening a hot iron of sorts with a lot of steam coming out. "Since you're here, make yourself useful. Take a little dough and roll it between your palms to a small ball."

"Hold on," he quickly washes his hands before joining her side where a bowl of said dough is placed. Confused by what is even happening in the first place, he asks. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take a little bit—about walnut size and roll it between your hands," she explains further while taking the last of whatever is happening in the iron out, tossing them in another bowl.

A lot of bowl action, he notices.

Taking the amount she instructed, he follows her orders. "What is this again?"

"Oreshki," she repeats, putting some pre-rolled balls in the empty slots in the hot iron. "A russian delicacy—you're working too slow. They don't need to be perfect balls, just round them enough so they will form better in the iron."

"My bad," a smug smirk crawls itself on his face. "I only know perfect balls."

"You see a lot of them?" She smiles slyly, helping him after closing the iron.

"Very witty," he deadpans, bumping her hip with his. "This is extremely oily. Look at my hands. Is it supposed to be that oily?"

She chuckles. "Yes, it's supposed to be that oily."

"It takes everything in me to not smear it on your face right now," he admits, looking at his palm in consideration.

"I dare you," she says, not really that threatened by his statement. "But just so you know, I have fast reflexes. You'll look like a glossy fish in no time."

"Menace," he mutters, grabbing another walnut sized amount. "So you're russian or how do you come to doing this?"

"I'm part russian from my mothers side," he can detect a hint of pride. "She moved to London for studies and that's when she met my brit father. She spilled her tea on him on his way to work and... you know when people are meant to be?" It's a rhetorical question. "They were the perfect match, just like she was the perfect mother."

He eyes her carefully from the side of the eye. "...Was?"

"Oh," Tiana opens the iron, taking out the cooked shells, "she passed away when I was sixteen."

His hands still, heart sinking. "I—uhm... I'm sorry."

That certainly took a direction he had no idea they were heading.

"Thank you," the corner of her lips tugged up, appreciating his condolencens. "We used to do those here a lot growing up. I learned to do them when I was six. Most of the stuff I know and do is all what my mother taught me and what I grew up with."

She seems open around the topic. And once again, the urge to get to know her further is winning. "You helped around a lot then?"

"You didn't?" She counter-asks, as if it is the rule for kids to help around.