Sander did not normally receive gifts, however, once in a while his teenage groupies as Les called them (because apparently being a young pastry chef was the fad, and teenage girls would obsess over anything), sent him these little trinkets attached to puerile love declarations. So, when one hyperactive pygmy owl demanded entrance to his tiny kitchen window and dropped a small box wrapped in a sickening pink paper with a heart pattern, he was pretty sure this was just another of those occasions. Upon further inspection and discovering the heavily perfume scented note, he was certain that this was exactly one of those cases. 'OMG. UR cakes rock and UR such a grumpy hottie. XOXO, a fan' the note read in a flourished girly writing, complete with heart dotted i's. What was it with teenagers these days and their hatred of vowels and passion for acronyms?

Once the note was angrily wrapped in a ball, satisfyingly thrown in the trash bin, and Sander got his share of I want to watch the world burn, he could focus his attention on the little package. He viciously ripped the paper and sent it following the note in the trash bin. Apparently the little box held a rather simple silver ring with a black band down the middle. "Huh" Sander found himself saying. Because it was exactly his style: rather straight to the point, no tacky stones, minimalistic and yet sort of elegant. He picked it up, turning in the light to admire it with squinted eyes. He shrugged and put the ring on his finger.

While Sander might not be the greatest wizard of all times, Sander knew magic when he felt it, and the second the ring was cozily settled on his finger he felt magic. Frozen in place, Sander slowly furrowed his brows, attempting to seek deep inside himself and see if there was anything. And just as he was about to brush it off as paranoia, he suddenly felt a breeze of air hit his legs. His naked legs, as he found when he looked down. His perfectly smooth, delicate legs. His feminine legs. And just as he bent down to pick up the jeans crumpled at his feet, he felt a weight or more like two points of weight working hand in hand with gravitation and that's when he froze, eyes glued to an unfocused point and suddenly picked up his jeans around him and straightened up.

The wall cupboards were suddenly way higher than they normally were, he could feel hair all the way down to the small of his back and he didn't dare to actually feel his chest. "What the—" And he was sure those were the exact same words he had wanted to say, so he turned around, panic all over his face, wanting to see what girl had entered his sanctuary without his approval. "Who is—" and holy mother of God, he stopped, halfway turned to the entry, and by this point he had to accept that was his voice. His high pitched, female voice. So he took one trembling hand to his chest and—yes! Jesus bloody Christ, yes they were there. He left out a small whimper and started feeling the rest of his body. Yes, there was a small waist, slightly broader hips and no—those weren't there.

In three small steps he was in front of the stainless steels fridge he kept just for reassurance, because stasis charms could be unreliable. And what was looking at him from the reflection was—well, himself... or herself. She—He was shorter by a good couple of inches, his hair was longer and curled at the tips, his face was still his, just more delicate, more feminine. He swallowed around a tight knot in his throat and dared to look lower. Okay, that was perfectly fine. His breasts—his breasts?! How was this even a possibility in his own brain? But, yes, his chest was nicely proportioned. He tightened the shirt that was now hanging loosely on his body at the back. He had a nice small waist, and girlish hips: not too broad, not too small. He dared to turn around and let his pants drop under his bottom. Well, that was nice...

He continued to ogle himself for a couple more minutes, before finally coming to turns with the fact that he was now, apparently, a woman. A rather attractive one at that and he shuddered at thinking that his sisters would turn up like this. He'd have a hard time keeping hormone-riddled creepers off them. He turned his attention to his ring and gave a long sigh. Of course, he wasn't able to take it off. Not by hand, not by magic, not with the kitchen cleaver—which in, retrospect was just a bad idea altogether.

He took a deep breath and opened the revolving doors with the hand that was not holding his jeans around his hips. He noticed his signature walk-like-you-own-the-place walk was severely impended by the boats that were now his shoes. He felt like a newborn calf attempting his first steps. Once he was out in the client area of Alohomocha, he put his best frown on—which wasn't all that good with his new face and stared at his coworkers. "So..." he said eloquently. "Does anyone have a belt?" he asked with a completely irritated face. "Also, does anybody have any experience with cursed rings?" he asked the rest of the cafe now. He turned to look at CeeCee with the fury of Hell in his eyes. "Having boobs was not what I had in mind when I woke up this morning" he muttered.

In the weeks since she'd discovered the elegant coffee shop, Raizel had nearly become a regular.  Here in London, and especially in Diagon Alley, it was the closest she could get to the cafes that dotted the streets back home.  It certainly helped that Alohomocha was within wand-waving distance of Gringotts Bank; the location made it far too easy to stop in for a fancy drink and a pastry when she was doing her best to delay going in to work.

Today, she'd brought her work with her:  a large file full of numbers to cross check and runic combinations to verify in preparation for her Thursday rounds.  Raizel had ordered a steaming hot drink -- she always tipped extra if the barista managed to draw something pretty in the foam, like a dragon or a hippogriff -- and then commandeered a table all to herself.

The file was nothing but drudgery.  That was how most of her work felt, since the goblins had ordered her back to London half a year ago.  Raizel heaved a sigh as she turned the page, her fingers pressed to her forehead, elbow leaned on the table.  There were nice things about being in one place, certainly: although she would never admit out loud, she'd come to like the feeling of having a routine, of having people that she didn't mind seeing and who seemed to like to see her.  But there were still times, particularly when she was in the middle of what felt like yet another unending and pointless assignment from the Bank, when she felt like she'd quite willingly give up another finger for a little excitement.

But now, behind the bar, there was some action.  Raizel's eyes shot up -- any distraction from her work was a welcome one -- and she frowned as she surveyed the young woman who'd just strode out into the main room.  She looked sloppily dressed, with pants that were far too big for her, but working in the back room of a coffee shop, that could hardly be considered an area of concern.  And though her features seemed vaguely familiar, Raizel assumed that she must be one of the regular employees that she'd seen about.

Judging by her expression, though -- which was irritated in a vaguely awkward sort of way, as if the girl had just smelled something foul and was intent on twisting her mouth in the strangest way possible -- she was not very happy, though.  And before long, she'd opened her mouth to explain why.  Belts -- Raizel did not really care about belts very much.  But the second part of the girl's question immediately caught her interest.

"Cursed rings?" she asked, her voice rising eagerly.  It took a beat before she realized that this was probably a strange thing to be excited about; clearing her throat, the Cursebreaker attempted to school her features.

"I know a little," she said, giving a casual shrug.  Without hesitation, she flipped her file folder shut; she'd happily put off her work for the bank as long as she could, even if it meant doing a favor pro bono.  "What is the problem with the cursed ring, Miss...?"

Finally over her initial shock, CeeCee hastily set down the sandwich she’d been making and rushed over to the pair– to Sander– the feeling rapidly giving way to incredulous glee. This was just so… “Sander!” she cried, a stupidly wide grin breaking out on her face, and she tugged at Sander’s sleeve  to turn, keen on getting a better look-

And then she positively groaned in a mix of jealousy and delight, the sound just this shy of workplace-inappropriate; at one of the tables a customer jolted, nearly dropping his tea, ears flushing bright red. “Unfair,” she moaned, eyeing Sander’s new, aha, assets with womanly envy. They were really quite lovely. “Your tits are totally bigger than mine!”

And then, quite abruptly, she turned to Raizel, humor evident into big green eyes even as she tried to affect a more solemn stare. (It really didn’t work.) “Do you?” she asked, waving the Cursebreaker over. “As much as this is hilarious—sorry Sander,” CeeCee offered him– her– a quick, insincere grin, before looking back at Raizel, “we need this fixed, or his face alone will curdle all the milk.”

Sander was just about to flippantly correct the girl -who he'd observed repeatedly these past few weeks, being almost a regular - on her absurd use of the wrong honorific, when, of course CeeCee dropped everything for the opportunity to be... well, CeeCee. He huffed, almost choking on his own breath, not used with the way this face worked and turned to glare at her. He hoped to God the transformation hadn't broken his glare or he'd throw the fit of the fucking century. He turned around, awkwardly tripping on his own feet, with nostrils flaring and squinted eyes. Once he was face to face with the ever Queen of Obnoxious he noticed her eyes checking out his new... extremities. Was this how women felt when they were being checked out? Well, that sucked. He was feeling offended for the entire female sex.

Sander's face turned catatonic and for whatever the hell reason his hands flew to cover his... tits. "I want to bury my head in cement and forget you ever—ever mentioned my tits in a conversation" he dead-panned in a lifeless voice, staring right through her, before realizing that with his hands over his breasts there was nothing holding his pants around his hips, and just as he jerked in a panic to grab them... aaaaand off they were. He raised his eyes looking in a panic at both women, grateful for his lack of height, but mortified nonetheless.

He quickly bent down and pulled his pants back, feeling his entire face combust spontaneously as he straightened his back, looking anywhere but at any actual human being. He took a step closer to the blond, hoping to put as much distance between himself and CeeCee as possible, because shit she would never, ever let this one go. He was sure of it. Months from now he'd wake up screaming, sweating all over his bed after a nightmare of bonding with CeeCee over all things... female. He ignored CeeCee's everything and turned to look at the girl with a pleading, serious look in his eyes. "Can you get rid of this?" he asked while gesticulating at himself with one hand. "Normally, I'm two heads taller, lack tits" at this he turned to glare at Shitty Sandwich Lady, pursing his lips "and have extra weight between my legs. Also hair" he paused, cringing "on my legs. I mean—" he said aggravated, but stopped suddenly before digging an even deeper hole of complete awkwardness for himself.