Work Text:
Yoongi is eating some non-magical sweets he previously never would have thought about accepting before, but something in him had allowed it to happen. They had been stored away for a few days since his new friend had started to bribe his friendship with these particular white puffs, and if Yoongi was completely honest with himself, it was working.
His fingers go back to his typewriter and the white residue smeared on the keys makes him pause. He feels like being very dramatic about how shitty that is and ignoring the fact that he can whip up a charm to clean it up in .2 seconds.
Give me a break.
He can’t believe his father set him up with this task, like keeping up with all his Death Eater bullshit wasn’t taxing enough. He inhales some three puffballs into his mouth,chews as much as he can, albeit slowly, and tries to lose himself in the gluttonous activity before his morals catch up with his fingers. Except now they’re all white with sugar, and when Yoongi tries to wipe them on the table he suddenly draws his hand away as if shocked.
Father’s precious furniture!
Amongst the lunacy of his father’s involvement with the Death Eaters, he has to put up with being extra careful not to so much as dirty anything in the Mansion. Apparently he had gone through a lot to finally get his inheritance. He wondered if his grandfather had been reluctant to give his only son that much power because he had considerably more brains than he did, and by that he meant he didn’t get bloody involved with the Death Eaters. What kind of suicide sentence was that? The few times he actually saw those elusive wizards with dark cloaks, he nearly peed himself as a nine-year old. And the next thing he knew, his mother was gone. He guessed he would never know, because his grandparents had died long before he was born.
The general rule was that if you had the audacity to touch anything fragile, you made sure no marks were left, and if you were to break it, you would certainly die a most painful death. He does not doubt his father would subject him to the Cruciatus Curse over some crushed dark, ancient vase from Borgin and Burkes. He always seemed more fond of them than of his own son.
Yoongi stands from his chair immediately as he heard footsteps . Since Jollie the elf was the maid of the mansion, Yoongi and his father had no business going in the kitchen when they could simply call for her to do whatever simple task they needed doing. Yoongi didn’t use Jollie’s services nearly as much as his father, however.
Good Merlin, his father really did have a sixth sense when it came to these things. He swishes his wand back just enough to be able to push a charm through that would clean up his mess. When the magic swiftly wipes away the white powder from the wooden table, his father walks in, Yoongi’s wand still held in a spell-casting position.
“Why so serious, it’s just your father.” he says, making his way halfway across the kitchen when he glances at Yoongi’s typewriter and suddenly stops.
Exactly.
“Remember that is due by tomorrow.”
Yoongi sighs in relief too quickly.
“And what is this!” Sungil Min snatches the paper package of muggle sweets from the table, slowly crushing it with his bare hand.
“Never seen this one before. Piss-poor excuse for wizard’s sweets.”
Yoongi cringes.
He had received those donuts from his muggle-born friend, Namjoon Kirke, not that he would ever tell his father that. He had befriended Namjoon under a willow tree he frequented last summer. The vast lands the Min family owned surrounding the mansion stretched far into the country and bordered a few other of the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s lands, such as the Weasleys and one particular branch of the Kims. He had never expected to have been forgiven so easily for how he had treated Namjoon their first year in Hogwarts, but somehow the Ravenclaw had it in him to shrug off their misunderstandings and make himself vulnerable in the face of an established asshat, and with some muggle sweets . It had only been a month, and yet their friendship had progressed quickly, much to his anxiety over his father’s watchful eye.
Sungil looks at Yoongi, then takes a donut and pops it in his mouth.
“No magic, this.” he says, chewing. He notices the white powder in his fingers and gasps.
“Blasphemous.” He takes out his wand and cleans the residue with one swift swish.
“Rid yourself of these at once. I wouldn’t want more work for Jollie here to have to clean up. You’re no longer a child, Yoongi. Respect this house as it is your own.”
---
Yoongi, regretfully, can hear his father’s cries from the drawing room.
“Yoongi, what did I tell you?”
He sighed as the voice of torment echoed through the vast walls and traveled the air to get a hold of his neck. “That is mahogany.” he said quietly, so that only he could hear.
“Yoongi!”
Oh Merlin’s beard, let it go, father.
“That is mahogany!” He yelled back. Honestly, what was it this time? Had his typewriter leaked and stained the bloody furniture?
“Yoongi, don’t yell at me.”
I was not about to go down all those flights of stairs just to say that, father, I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry, father.” He yells again, and picks up his typewriter to move into his room so he can finish his father’s stupid article in peace.
He can hear his father talking to himself, about Yoongi’s disrespectful behaviour, badly. Thankfully, he cannot make out what he is actually saying, but hardly anything he hasn’t heard before.
His footsteps are light so as his father can’t somehow come up with something to criticize him about, like how he stomps too much for this centuries-old house to withstand. When he closes the door behind him, he wishes he were somewhere other than this Merlin-forsaken house, perhaps under the willow tree in his backyard with the lake soaking his feet and the road rolling out into the horizon behind him.
He wants Jimin to show him new spells he has perfected; to tell him of Quidditch strategies he has thought of for try-outs that second year and Yoongi doesn’t doubt him for a second. Jimin’s eyes sparkle when he talks about making the team, becoming a Seeker, then Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. The ambitious boy would make them Champions.
He wants Namjoon to come sit by him and perhaps wring the prejudice his father had implanted since his birth out into the fields, never to be seen again. He was good at that, the boy, a mudblood. No, a muggle-born. Namjoon was smart and accepting of everyone, even an idiot like Yoongi he had been able to tame. Was it the sweets? Yoongi will never know.
Now, though, he shall pretend to be a dutiful son to a self-made Death Eater. He shall do ridiculous things like have dinner with his father’s horribly mental friends and write articles to recruit more deranged and lost souls into their cause, his father’s cause. And when the time came, he would defect from the family altogether, before it was too late. But how would he know? That was the tricky part. There was no way of knowing when they would come for him.
When he sits on his bed, he wants to throw the typewriter of dark intentions against the wall and break it for good. He would gladly take his father's wrath. Instead, he digs his fingers inside the pack of powdered sugar and promptly inhales the rest of the sweets. At dawn, he would find Namjoon and know there was always a place for him among the sweet.