On the Assembly of Muggle Furniture
“Get the fuck out of my home,” Draco seethed, as he threw what remained of a Swedish sideboard out the door and into the garden.
Tiny screws littered the marble floor where he’d been attempting to construct the damnable thing the Muggle way. He waved his wand to sweep them up, along with shards of wood from where he’d blasted it with an angry Bombarda.The exact reason his wife insisted on this shit Muggle furniture when they had their pick of beautiful, historic heirlooms from the Manor continued to elude him. Why he’d insisted he was perfectly capable of assembling it himself, thank you very much, was also beyond him.
Smashing it to bits had soothed some of his unexplainable rage. Lobbing the larger pieces up in the air for further obliteration was providing a fair bit of a peculiar brand of glee.
This is how Hermione found him when she returned home: stood in the garden, splinters and sawdust turning his white hair a dusty blonde, shouting fuck you as he shattered more bits of particle board.
“I take it didn’t go well?” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and pressing a gentle kiss between his tense shoulder blades.
“I think we may need a new sideboard,” he answered and tossed his last wooden pigeon.