Private— @Prat Pass
Follow on from here.

The door swung open as harshly as the one she had originally left in. Yet another heated argument with her father had her blood boiling. Her eyes which were normally emotionless, managed to hold a pinch of coldness and rage as she stared aimless around the room before her. Despite the shelves of potions in front of her, her mind was blurred and elsewhere. She couldn’t focus or think straight. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her breathing was heavier than normal. "Fuck sake.." She grumbled under her breath while now moving her way between the few people on the same aisle as her— shoving them without hesitation. She didn’t care. They were in her way after all. "Move. Move. Shift it!" She snapped between her shoves and squeezes.

Soon enough, she stopped in front of the shelf she needed. A few dirty stares were given to her by a mixed of students and adults that took the brunt of her force, but she paid no attention to them. She simply didn’t care. In fact, she would probably have appreciated one of them to approach her. It would have given her a reason to let loose and swing a punch right in their mug.

Her bony fingers tapped against the empty bottles on the shelves, testing their durability— not that it mattered, if you were the likes of her father who enjoyed smashing them on the ground like a firecracker. Picking up a few bottles, she turned to have a wander through the back of the store now, just for the sake of noising, and if it meant spending less time around the father, why the hell not.

──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

POTAGE'S CAULDRON SHOP

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Prat hadn't come to Potage's cauldron shop with much expectations. Certainly not for a potentially public scene in an establishment. His intention was plain enough in it's origin. To observe, document and if fortune favoured him, trace one of his maternal family's ancestral products now shelved and filled in modern packaging. His mother’s side of the family, The Bloodroses, had built an empire not on flashy spells or their grand titles, but on something far more enduring and profitable: ingredients.

From rare blossoms blooming only under lunar eclipses to serpent oils harvested in the deserts of Morocco, the family had spent generations mastering the alchemy of commerce. Their name was discreetly stamped on labels across finished and unfinished products all across the world alike. A quiet mark of quality whispered among potion masters and beauty moguls. And they had made quite generational fortune doing it.

He wasn’t here as a buyer, even if he posed as one, but as a curious heir of the family, inspecting whether what was going to soon have his name was being bastardized or upheld.

The dusty shelf at the far end held containers that matched the seal Prat was in search of, an embossed crimson sigil of a rose folded over a blade. Prat reached for one, the glass cool beneath his fingers as he examined the label in silence. The details and quality matched. Built to store an anti-scarring balm.

Sadly, he didn’t get much time to admire it.

The sound came first, something between a huff and a slam, as the door was flung open behind him. The second came the shove. Not a brush, not even a nudge. A full, deliberate shoulder check that collided with him, hard enough that the shelf behind his elbow rattled and he nearly lost his footing in the shop. A smaller flask teetered behind him and he only managed to barely catch it with his free hand.

A sharp exhale left him as he steadied himself, bracing one arm on the shelf. He turned his head towards his assailant, catching only a glimpse of dark hair disappearing toward the back.

He muttered under his breath. "Brilliant."

Then something tickled his nose, but the boy chose to ignore it nonetheless.

If he had looked down at his satchel, he'd have managed to notice one of the glass vials he’d packed earlier, was cracked along the bottom. A faint vapor slipped through the seam, almost imperceptible, but the scent was there. He slung the satchel over his shoulder once again before walking toward the back of the store.

His steps were measured, more from habit than mood, but the lines around his jaw had sharpened.

There she was.

The same woman who’d barreled through the shop like a rampaging bull. She didn’t look apologetic. and he could smell the tension off her very existence.

That, and something else, probably the potion leaking if he cared to smell.

"Hey," Prat called, voice sharp enough to carry, loud enough to cause a scene if you were paying attention. His arms folded, bottle still tucked in his satchel. "Can you not see?"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. He took another breath. The vapor hadn’t settled yet. Figures.

"Next time, if you body-check someone, try apologizing afterwards," he added.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

XXXXXXOOC Note: I'm leaving it to you to pick between muffling draught or drowsiness draught