Young, impulsive, beautiful, and wealthy--Charlotte St. James was a witch who hadn't found what she wanted out of life yet, but always knew what she wanted for herself; today she wanted a massage.

After receiving the witch's owl, Delilah scheduled some time to spend a bit of her day with the girl. It was a the best plan in order to give any patient or client the proper attention in case any needs or nasty health issues needed to be catered to, but judging by Charlotte's letter the issue was hardly urgent--at least in that sense; the girl was completely capable of having a personal crisis.

Delilah arrived dressed in cropped yoga pants, a tight tank top, and sandals, (having no qualms with letting her clothes hug her curves in case she would be moving around a lot) and her braided bangs were twisted and fastened behind her head in a secure french braid, to keep her hair tame and as immobile as possible. Dwèt was perched on her shoulder of course, drumming its fingers as Charlotte decided on what she wanted while Delilah gave the girl a quick physical. After a few suggestions and the impatient tapping of the disembodied silver hand, they had decided on a yoga massage.

Dwèt happily crawled up onto a wall and affixed itself to the surface as a door handle, as Delilah pushed the door open and ushered the St. James sister into one of her MetisShot shops; a dark room with a large light mat on the floor, a  bath in the corner, and a changing room to the side with a magical wall of glass.

Delilah crossed her legs and seated herself on the mat cross-legged and perfectly poised as sat her black purse in her lap and began to pull out bottles of oils while Dwèt crawled into her bag and removed her little brown and orange stylized saucers and a hazelnut. Delilah was of course going to use the saucers, but not in the same way the silver hand was;  Dwèt flipped the saucers over, hiding the hazelnut beneath one of them and then moved them around and switched their places with each other, before it gestured for Charlotte to guess where the hazel nut went.

"Are you in 'di mood for somet'ing specific?' Delilah asked in her heavy lilt as she dangled the oils between her slim fingers, "I can make a new oil for you or use an older recipe," She looked from the bottles to Charlotte and then quirked a dark eyebrow, "D'you want your base t' be devil snare, mandrake, or umbrella flower seed oil?"

A pleasant potion in the form of massage oil was a sound self-prescription. If Charlotte was stressed, it just so happened she was also privileged of certain, self-accruing means which allowed her to pamper herself. Or, more specifically, to be pampered. There were fewer people more capable of alleviating Charlotte’s woeful inflictions than the healer and business woman Delilah Foley, and fewer people the St. James woman trusted to do just that. She could afford to be choosey, and that she was. Luxury spa services were analogous to therapy for the high-maintenance brunette. She knew a cousin or two who would agree, and so they also doubled as family reunions.

Today, Charlotte had strolled in alone (with an appointment, of course), greeted Delilah, described her mood, energy levels, and physical state, and agreed that the yoga massage sounded like exactly what she needed. The stress of furniture-shopping, impending (official) cohabitation, social engagements, and dabbling in business was sizable.

Scantily clothed for the treatment, which would no doubt involve stretching, relaxation, and natural (magically-reinforced) ingredients, Charlotte settled into the mat. Spas, it seemed, were her element. Or one of them, along with the prospect of someone kneading her muscles.

Her eyes moved to the hand as it moved about, stealth as anything she had seen in Diagon’s menagerie of creatures. (Of course, this was no creature, but some impressive magic.) She took its cue with a slightly curious brow, and reached with a carefully-manicured hand for a saucer.

“Planning the new house has been a nightmare,” she confessed. Charlotte was hardly bashful in current company (or most company, though she had enough grace and plenty of acting talent to pull it off when she wished). “I feel as if I built it myself.” They had bought it. The furniture shopping was going terribly. The prospects of domestic bliss.... “Devil’s snare,” she said, before turning over the saucer.

As Charlotte turned the saucer over to only an empty spot on the mat Dwèt flattened against the mat and patted it happily, before it began to move the saucers around again while Charlotte still held one between her dainty fingers.

"Ah for 'di snare you really 'ave must built it yourself," Delilah's thick lips twitched into her soft smile as she reached over to grab one of the saucers, but Dwèt pushed her hand towards another one, and Delilah obediently picked it up--empty--before she moved her hand to grab another saucer, but Dwèt was quick to pass her two more empty ones, once it realized Delilah was taking more than one familiar with her routine for mixing oils and balms. However, the hand was not terribly familiar with playing its own games with the saucers.

Once it settled its palm back on the mat as pivoted its fingers around the one saucer that was left and then it began to grumpily tap a finger against the mat as the silver hand acknowledged its folly.

Delilah arched an eyebrow up at Dwèt and then closed her dark eyes and shook her head, "Is it physical stress or mental stress dear?" Delilah returned a relaxed gaze to Charlotte before her eyes quickly and critically roamed Charlotte's body and analyzed it for any signs of fatigue, stress, or bruising, even if Charlotte may have been acting more of a manager than a laborer in her "house-building" role.

As she placed the saucers in front of her and poured the oil of devil snare into one of them, Delilah's dark eyes returned to meet the other witch's, "Sharing a home does require a few sacrifices as well, and breaking and making boundaries," especially when two traditions and cultures might clash between wizards of different blood purities, of course, it could be said of Charlotte St. James that she had a culture all her own.

Delilah then filled the other two saucers only with some oil, and then carefully poured ten drops of each into the snare oil, "But putting a home together does take a toll on 'di feet and back at times," the witch then took the saucer between her fingers and gently moved it back and forth as the liquids spun and twisted together in the saucer, "and sometimes 'di obsession takes somet'ing from your sleep schedule."

Charlotte was perplexed by the hand, but made no mention of this. She gave it only the briefest look of something as it carried on with its game-- her own saucer quite empty. She set it upon the mat and grabbed her hair, twisting it into an elegant bun that would keep it out of the way during the treatment.

Her eyes flickered back to Delilah, and she nodded, a small, clever socialite’s smile reflecting the other witch’s expression. “I should pay myself construction fees.” Not that they had actually chosen to build over buy, let alone that Charlotte had actually pulled off her designer dresses for work robes and a helmet. But they may as well have been building from scratch, with the number of renovations and design wars waged under the roof of the pretty, rich architecture. It was not a mansion or another penthouse, but it was certainly a sizable investment of galleons that made both she and Felix happy. (It was the only thing they had agreed upon, and nothing else since, or so it seemed.)

She looked forward to the devil’s snare. There was nothing like an herbological cure from hell to keep her body pretty and nimble.

Her eyes returned to the hand, and, admittedly, Charlotte was momentarily distracted by its mischief before she registered Delilah’s next question. She stretched her neck gracefully, head lifted, and looked at the witch again. “It’s... both,” she decided carefully. Though being honest with the healer was much easier than being with one’s friends half the time, being too honest about her fairytale whirlwind romance with her formerly favorite catnip (and the now almost-nightmare that was attempting to play house) was a bit much for Charlotte to swallow. While sober and without Delilah’s coaxing hands, anyway.

Sacrifice. It was. What a perfectly succinct summary. “We did it before, and it was no problem,” she admitted. “Well, we weren’t technically living together. But he stayed over with me almost every night...” The implication was there, spoken with expert modesty. If Lia had reservations about letting men stay over before marriage, Charlotte made it sound utterly normal. It was the mutual decisions regarding their new living space-- as opposed to Felix being dropped into Charlotte’s haven most conveniently-- and the pooling of resources (and the consequential cutting back on spending Charlotte’s own) that was the problem. Felix wanted things to be equal, to help take care of her, to provide, to have a say. Which were all wonderful things, except that Charlotte had a bank account full of a another’s man money and a head full of pristine, snowy furniture, orchids and purple pansies, bleached wood floors, and fragile, feminine decor. (And they could not very well forget antique framed mirrors, old lace hued silk pillows, and coffee afghans.) Was she being selfish? Charlotte? Never! She simply knew what she wanted: a lover who did not play with toys outside of the bedroom, unless they involved Charlotte and his (handsome mahogany!) desk. She sighed. Yes, she was a woman who knew what she wanted, which was apparently a crime. “I wouldn’t take his toys away from him, but can’t he at least get a nice wood with lumos backlighting installations and balance them with brandy decanters?” Was it so much to ask that his personal space involve Charlotte’s touch? (Like it usually did.)

The sage wisdom of the healer was a welcome lullaby to Charlotte’s ears. Sympathy was always lovely, but it sounded delicious now, and medicinally sound. If she did a bit of soul-searching, Charlotte St. James might discover that she didn’t care which sort of shelves Felix wanted for his quidditch figurines. It was the idea of being a couple, a team, a ‘one,’ that made her nervous, outwardly confident as she seemed. She did not want anyone thinking-- least of her all, herself-- that she had been tamed. Except didn’t she? She was proud, at the same time, to have what she wanted, and to let the world know. And she did care deeply for Felix, so much so that it, too, frightened her at times. Men had been trying since she was still under the Trace, and her parents had practically warred to be their baby daughter’s favorite.

“Yes, my back...” She chose her words carefully, the savvy pause visible in her lips. “It's not as agreeable as it usually is.”

Watching Delilah mix and blend the oils made Charlotte feel sleepy, in a golden way. She knew, however, that she would be spending and building energy with today’s massage. “How long did you say you've been with your husband?”

When Charlotte gave an answer about her stress, Delilah arched an eyebrow, noting the hesitation of her words. She supposed she could pry a proper answer out on her own, but that wasn't really necessary. As long as she stay tuned into Charlotte's emotions, Delilah was sure she didn't need any information revealed to her; it was more important that she be aware of Charlotte's needs. Besides, a massage could do wonders for extracting information--relaxation was a powerful tool.

Once Charlotte went onto explain her and Felix's time spent together, Delilah's mouth pressed into a smirk, "Living in 'di same house and being in 'di same one are two totally different t'ings, dear," the witch finished spinning the mixture of oils in her saucer and then tapped its bottom a few times. It immediately started to float, and then the healer did the same to her other semi-filled saucers, "Sit on your knees, now."

The tall Jamaican rolled onto her own knees, shoo-ing Dwèt and its game away with a flick of her hand before she dipped her fingertips into the massage oil. The silver hand cleaned up its mess and deposited it into Delilah's ebony purse as Delilah began to rub her thumbs into Charlotte's shoulders. She then firmly tightened her fingers around the witch's arms and firmly dragged dragged her fingers down to the witch's hands and grasped them as she rubbed her thumbs into Charlotte's palms.

"Twenty years, about." Delilah finally answered as she pushed herself up from the floor and pulled Charlotte's arms above her head. As the devil's snare was absorbed into her skin and, gradually, into her muscles it was important to stretch and move her body to work with the magical oils, "We've had our fair share of furniture fights," possibly more literal fights than metaphorical ones, but Charlotte didn't need to know that. Tough love ran in the family, "But when you marry an artificer he has a tendency to make or turn everyt'ing into what he wants--always a losing battle." Delilah took a few steps back and pulled Charlotte's arms onto the mat in front of her, also pulling the girl into a kneeling position. The healer then began to slowly massage her shoulders and arms a she worked her way back down to the girl's hands.

"But we had kids 'fore we wed, so 'dey usually came  first," a humorous tune lingered in her lilt, "Childproofing."

Delilah finally got down to one of Charlotte's hands and focused on the wrist, knuckles, and palms--a reflexology technique for tapping into the back, "When we moved to Ireland we built our own house to suit our needs," with Delilah's ebony purse in tow, Dwèt tip-toed next to Delilah obediently waiting for anything else she might need a hand with, (while possibly being rather jealous of Charlotte), "It helped that Torquil has a few clients and colleagues in architecture business..." Delilah then focused on the upper palms as she clicked her tongue against her teeth, "Hmn, your hands a little stiff."

"Living in 'di same house and being in 'di same one are two totally different t'ings, dear,"

Wasn’t that the truth? Charlotte pouted as she reflected upon this. It wasn’t like she didn’t know it... it just helped to hear it from a non-judgmental source of sound wisdom. With magic fingers.

Charlotte obliged, sitting on her knees with such innate obedience that any man in her life might have been dumbfounded, mystified, or both. Those men did not have Delilah Foley’s hands, and they were not dispensing such sage advice while relieving her pent up stress. (Generally speaking, they added to it.)

The tingle of the devil’s snare oil hit her shoulders and rooted its way into her muscles under Delilah’s firm grasp. The prickle trailed down her arms. With renewed concentration, it made her palms tingle and burn triumphantly as Delilah put pressure into them. Charlotte’s lips parted, and she sighed at the sweet soreness. The desire to move, bend, stretch away dormant ache was redoubled.

As her arms were pulled upward, she stretched them deliberately.

Twenty years? Charlotte had been five then. She let out another groan of pain-slash-pleasure. It seemed fitting, somehow. “Felix is one of my longer relationships,” she confessed. Or most serious, anyway. And it hadn’t been a year-- though they’d known each other since they were school children. “Two decades? You must have a will of iron,” she grinned. Something Charlotte could get behind. She was nothing if not strong-willed (albeit, also prone to restlessness, boredom, impatience, not quite knowing the finer details of what she wanted out of life.) “If it doesn’t take me two years to get this house done with all the fussing he’s doing...” She trailed off.

The word marry prickled at her ears as sure as the devil’s snare was tingling through her muscles. Also of note, she supposed, was losing battle. Charlotte was afraid hesitant about marriage, and did not lose fights. It shocked her to hear Delilah say as much, and yet-- wasn’t it the sort of thing one always complained about? Charlotte, too. Oh, he won’t listen to me, said with a roll of the eyes and a telling smile, or Oh, my elves are useless this week. Maybe she was just being polite. Charlotte could not imagine Delilah Foley in a marriage unless she was in charge of it (and the furniture). But then... maybe two decades something to people. Charlotte wasn’t sure she was ready for that something to happen.

As the woman massaged her shoulders, Charlotte loosened her neck a bit, feeling like a lithe doll and someone whose strength was being rejuvenated, simultaneously. It was why she paid a pretty knut for these services.

Children. Charlotte knew her body would have bigger problems than sore muscles if children were in her near future. Oh, her perfect waist. “How many?” She asked, attempting to mask the thought. “Children do you have,” she clarified. She didn’t mind children-- in fact, she was quite fond of some of them, and loved her nephew and cousins to bits-- but Charlotte was not ready for them. Her attention span extended to herself. And, because she was generous, her boyfriend. Few people, including Charlotte herself, looked at Charlotte and thought she needs babies right now. (Though she would hex anyone who might suggest she couldn’t do it, or wouldn’t some day be a great mother.)

She supposed building from scratch had its benefits. Charlotte was exhausted from furnishing and decorating the house they’d bought, with little renovations here and there, (to the point that buy and build were interchangeable). Delilah was making it sound downright appealing, childproofing and all... but with the way she was working Charlotte’s muscles, she could convince the young woman to start making horcruxes, and Charlotte would think it was a splendid idea. “Mmm, my hands are exceptionally busy lately.”

Delilah paid close attention to Charlotte's body, every muscle twitch or odd moment she favored shifting her weight to one part of the body over the other as Delilah began to massage her thumbs around and into Charlotte's other hand, "Will has nothing to do wit' it, dear." The witch's dark-skinned hands then grasped Charlotte's wrists and rubbed and stretched them, "Is all about understanding what you want, what you need, and what he wants, and what he needs--" The healer dipped her fingers in the oil again as she worked her way up the socialite's slender arms and back up to her shoulders, "and how to deal wit' it."

After firmly dragging her hands down Charlotte's back, Delilah rolled to the witch's side and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her up into a cat pose as her lilting voice casually responded to the question of children, "Five. First four were boys, last was a girl." She massaged Charlotte's sides between her fingers and thumbs, letting the devil's snare ease away any ideas that her stomach might have to undergo such a trial anytime soon. It was an answer most young witches reacted hesitantly too, and she hardly thought Charlotte was any different, as much as she'd like to hide the idea.

"Di youngest two are still in school--Ravenclaw and Slytherin. The older ones were Gryffindor," the mischievous smile crawling across the woman's face could be heard in her milky tone, "If you weren't taken, you could get away with dating them."

Delilah then stood up and held Charlotte's torso as she pushed and gently pulled her down on her stomach, stretching her back in the process. “Though, I was always ready for children though--my family ingrained everyone wit’ values and skills 'dat made... unexpected situations easier to deal wit'," Delilah's fingers were dipped into the oil again as she worked her thumb between Charlotte's shoulder blades and around her spine, "And if you aren't already skilled at it, kids make a woman a master at multitasking.”

A smile peered between Delilah's lips again as she moved from Charlotte's back, to her waist, and then firmly dragged her fingers down the girl's legs, as she did with her arms, until Delilah was massaging Charlotte's dainty feet, “But every family's got ‘dem people who can take t’ings in their stride, and people who aren’t entirely read for it,” Delilah worked her thumbs into the insteps of the feet, over the balls of the foot, and then towards the outer edge of them, “Th’ difference between a dragon and an erumpet.”

Finally, Delilah moved her hand to focus on only one foot, targeting the back and torso with reflexology again, “A relationship would never thrive ‘less one was ‘di former—which do you imagine yourself being?”

Wanting and needing. Right now Charlotte wanted and needed... Delilah's kneading. Which, simply put, was divine. Her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed out a sigh of relief and the good sort of pain that came specific to deep massaging. Was what she wanted the same thing Felix want? Was she ignoring his needs? If she paid more attention to them-- she thought she was doing a great job!-- would they clash wonderfully with her own? Would she forfeit them? But that wasn't what Delilah was saying. She was telling Charlotte to pay attention to both. Which was problematic, even when conceding to being an 'us.'

Five children sounded daunting, and, yet... Charlotte smiled. "I have four older brothers, too." She knew what it was like, to be the baby of the family. Which in and of itself was a special position, but when one was also the only girl... Charlotte would have said more, only, Delilah was not her daughter-- whether she could relate to being the baby of the family was unknown, and something told Charlotte that Delilah had a different approach to parenting than Charlotte's parents.

A Ravenclaw and a Slytherin was the best outcome in Charlotte's mind (excepting, perhaps, two Slytherins). She wondered briefly if the other three had been the same before Delilah enlightened her. Three Gryffindors-- what a handful. But still, there was merit in boldness... and fun, too. If Charlotte had children, they would invariably end up in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, she decided.

Dating a Gryffndor was never a problem, of course. She smiled between sighs. “Your sons are in the quidditch league, no?” Charlotte was not a quidditch expert, but she knew a player or two...

Charlotte, unlike Deliah, had not been raised to take care of children-- or anyone but herself. Mostly, people had taken care of her... and given her the resources to convince them to take care of her (not that she was not appreciate-- but she was a little... self-involved... at times, which, in her opinion, was the sign of a healthy self-esteem.) "I'm a great multitasker," she promised. Parent-level great? Hmmm. "I do love children--" In small doses. Liked them, anyway. Some she sincerely adored. "My nephew Julian is brilliant. I've always loved being his favorite aunt." Which, perhaps was part of the problem. You couldn't be a favorite mother. You were a mother. Full time. And sending the child home to whine to his or her parents... wasn't an option when you were the parent. "And recently I've been minding my friend Anna's child. Difficult divorce," she said, in that knowing fashion, sympathy in her voice. For Anna, anyway. Bristol Collins...

Delilah eased the sudden, annoying pain in Charlotte's muscles. She allowed herself to be pulled onto her stomach.

Charlotte was decidedly not ready (to give up certain freedoms), but she was not an erumpet. Dragon all the way. And hadn't she been called as much? Still, she was careful. Most of the time. She said nothing on the subject of not being ready, but was decidedly quiet. Which spoke for itself. And then she changed her mind, because she didn't want the silence to speak for her. "I'm a dragon." There was no question in her tone this time, despite being in the depths of both relaxation and Serious Subject Matter.

The Devil's Snare did it's work marvelously on Charlotte, and as Delilah's fingers ran dry, Dwet brought over another saucer of the mixture for her to wet her fingers with again as she worked her way up to the younger witch's ankle.

After the Quidditch query, Delilah answered with a subdued but rich amusement, "One is." A soft smile touched Delilah's lips as she then worked her thumbs up Charlotte's calves and around her knee joint. "Another is in his own freelance business, works wit' Torquil some days--he's still young you know. Doesn't quite know what he wants, but isn't afraid to go after somet'ing."

The older witch then worked her hands down the side of Charlotte's calves and joints, before she stopped and maneuvered herself to pull on one of Charlotte's feet, "'Di other is off enjoying a life of dragons and dangerous menagerie of creatures."

Then Delilah pulled the witch's foot back, and slowly and gradually bent the witch's cream-colored legs at her knee, "Now,"  Delilah's words came out slowly and precise, still with a touch of her Jamaican lilt, "inhale deeply," the witch paid attention to the resistance in Charlotte's legs as she pulled the foot back more, "and exhale."

"Sounds like you're 'dat 'fun' aunt, and a dragon?" Delilah's thumbs then creeped around Charlotte's ankle, pushing and rubbing it before her fingers began to rotate it,  "What kind?"