0600 hours. Residential area. Chelsea, London.


Oh, rum raisins.

Rascal stood outside of a red brick building in Sloane Gardens with a bag in one hand and a scarf wrapped up to his red, runny nose. He had one foot on the back-step leading down to the street and an earnest and childlike curve to the arc of his eyebrow.

"Rum rum rum..." muttered the lanky wizard, tilting back to squint past the rim of his hat at the archaic structure. "Rum raisins and roman cathedrals," his cheeks ballooned with air and a sigh whistled out. Right, then. He glanced down at his watch, pursing his lips together conspicuously.

Ten past- how perfectly sublime. Rascal reached out and extended one very bony finger, an inch away from the doorbell. "Please be nice to me Mister Chime," a simper affected his pinkish lips. Then he pressed the switch with flourish before languidly arranging himself, bony angles and all, against the outside door frame.

The entrance to Cameron Rosier's residence opened with all the menace of a creaking door (though none of its sound). O'haunted homes! O'Villainous lairs! What portents lay bey-- Rascal found himself directing a beady gaze closer to the floor than expected.

"Hullo there Puck," he smiled charitably at the minuscule house elf. "Is uncle still in his 'jammies, then?"

He was still sleeping. Or if one could call that sleep...he was somewhere between an exhausting nightmare in which he was stuck in a basement of an abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley and between trying to ignore the annoying chirping of birds outside. He stubbornly covered his head with the duvet, wishing he had more time to sleep and the ability to relax. There was nothing to look forward to - except for the breakfast. Burying his face in the pillow, Rosier thought of getting up, even though it was too early even for his standards. But he just couldn't bring himself to fully wake up, he felt useless and broken. And not to mention the room was undoubtedly cold...even his bed was cold. Frowning against the pillow, he wished Dolly were here this morning, even though she would never be up this early.

Hidden under the covers, he could only hear faint voices coming from downstairs. Was that Puck singing to himself again? But he could hear an unfamiliar voice now - definitely not the high-pitched sound of a house elf. For crying out loud... he thought furiously, throwing the covers on the side and getting out of bed. The pain in his back was unbearable! Putting on his slippers, he tried to figure out who would dare invite himself into his house at silly o'clock in the morning. Only the Minister of Magic would have that privilege. And on that note, Rosier hoped nothing serious happened now. He grabbed his velvet bathrobe, but it didn't make him more presentable. He was pale and sullen, wearing an old t-shirt and boxers with purple stars - with a posh-looking bathrobe hanging sloppily down his broad shoulders.

He couldn't even see properly yet but he didn't think of getting his glasses - instead, he tucked a cigarette into his mouth. Somewhat limping, Rosier descended down the staircase. First he noticed his house elf and then a man...a very odd fellow.

"Master Rosier, Sir! Master Sir..." the elf exclaimed in excitement, looking from one Rosier to the other, apparently confused how to address whom. Cameron Rosier put his hand up, hoping that will shut the elf up.

"Rascal?" he croaked, his voice completely gone. What was his nephew doing here? In his house...at this time? "You do realize it's six in the morning, right?"

Dearest Uncle, ciggies before costume! Rascal's obligingly polite expression broke into a tickled grin as he spotted the outcast Rosier descending the stairwell in all his groggy glory. Puck was alight with either excitement or confusion (perhaps both!) but the house elf was no longer necessary to bother with.

Here was his flesh and blood, after all. A better sight than all the rum raisins or roman cathedrals in the worlds. "Rascal?" rasped those tobacco-romanced windpipes. "You do realize it's six in the morning, right?"

Did he realize. Of course he realized! Merlin's striped scallywags! That was the whole point.

"Precisely ten past six, nuncle..." Rascal sauntered to the bottom of the stairs with a hand in his pocket. "I rather like your jammies. Much more creative than mine." He wiggled his eyebrows at the older wizard and then laughed, a solitary sound in the large house.

There was no method to avoid the awkwardness of this social convention except, the author knew, to be perfectly ignorant of it. He turned to gesture at his bag, which measured up to the height of Puck's wonderfully befuddled head.

"I've come to stay, you see?" Or perhaps Uncle Cam couldn't see, not without his spectacles, so Rascal explicated neatly. "Can't be avoided, tragically. Water slides take an awfully long time to be installed and my flat is a tiny place~"

Listening to his mentally challenged nephew, Rosier wished he were still dreaming because this scene would fit perfectly into one of his nightmares. Unfortunately, this was reality. The Head of DoMLE stared helplessly into the eccentric fellow as he announced he will be staying here. Here? In his home? This was worse than that time he burnt the entire garden down. Rosier could only stare, praying the cloud of cigarette smoke miraculously chokes him to death. Glancing at Rascal's luggage with disapproval, Rosier then turned his attention to Puck the House elf. "Get us some breakfast," he barked rudely at the tiny creature and the elf stormed in the direction of the kitchen with the speed of light.

Finally, he focused on his nephew. He was practically the only Rosier he had any contact with. Not because Rascal actually deserved it (because he didn't...), but because of his condition. According to St. Mungo's, Rascal had mental issues and Cameron felt obliged to be there for him...sometimes. But this was too much! How could the man just decide to move into his house? It was too early for this and his back was killing him! Why did this have to happen now?

"Let's go to the living room, Rascal." He made no comments about the 'water slide' Rascal mentioned, hoping it was just some strange sense of humor. He walked ahead to the spacious living quarters, a beautiful neo-classical room with high ceilings and dark wood walls. Fumbling through bathrobe pockets, Rosier nervously looked for the second cigarette. Giving his nephew a cautious glance, he sat down on the sofa, slightly cringing at the pain in his back.

"So, tell me, what's going on? You simply decided to live here with me?" He wasn't sure if that's something worth laughing or crying. He lit the cigarette, stern eyes still fixed on his nephew. "Do you think that's going to work out?"

He wasn't hexing or cursing Rascal out of the home so that was as good a start as any.

Poor Puck, however. That would have to be remedied; what did house elves like? Chocolates? Whatever it was, any creature who subsisted in the wake of Uncle Cam's mood swings needed rewards of sorts, or a medal. The author left his bags in the hall and followed after the elder wizard, head tilting back to observe the vastness of the 'living room'.

He knew giants who didn't need ceilings so high. But how perfect for abseil practice! All he'd have to do is install a pair of fixtures at the top, bring over the appropriate roping equ-

Rascal fell back into seating position on one of the couches, almost by accident, and finally looked down at the man sat opposite. Poor nuncle looked stressed. Rather like his confundled elf, only... quieter. "So, tell me, what's going on?" Words, at last! "You simply decided to live here with me?Do you think that's going to work out?"

Such talent for recapitulation. Rascal leaned back on the sofa, hands clasped together and an unaffected grin pulling across his boyish features. He watched the other wizard with a playful but vaguely cautious glimmer in his eye.

"Flesh and blood, nuncle. I won't be in the way." Which was a lie and the both of them knew it; social courtesies were terribly confusing. "They won't even allow me in while the water slide is being built, something or another about architectural hazards~" Not to mention the self-proclaimed walking hazard that he happened to be.

With an abrupt, sly gesture, Rascal reached into his pocket and retrieved a tiny container- the size and shape of a matchbox. He leaned forward and tossed it on to the gilded coffee table between them.

"Housewarming gift, by the way. Wouldn't open it unless you're in a bathtub with two Grindylows," he explained without really explaining before rapidly changing subjects again. "Is it only you and Puck, then?"