Adelaide waved her wand at the counter that served many a purpose (eating, cooking, and storage among them). There, some several meters across the floorboards from a makeshift dining area of throw pillows and her coffee table, a sundae sat in wait, charmed to stay perfectly cold. And it now, as a glow enveloped it, it would be allowed to turn just a tinge melty, the perfect texture for feasting after one was already comfortably full.

But chocolate was a distant delight. Chopsticks pushed an avacado roll across a plate, lifted it a quarter of the way to its destiny, and then promptly dunked it into a shallow bowl of soy sauce. The fresh, spicy scents of ginger and wasabi and candles warmed the open living room with their lure. Adelaide smiled, close-lipped with cheek bunched around a bite of rice. Like someone trying not to choke while laughing. It was the sort of thing that happened all too often on girls’ nights with Coralie Malkin (especially when alcohol and sugar were in the picture).

She gave Cora a quizzical stare, just a little wicked; her eyebrows danced. But as soon as she swallowed the bite, she let out a relieved breath of a laugh, shoulders cringing forward a little, cheeks scrunching up toward almond shaped eyes, and chopsticks sinking in her grip as they shook with amusement. “Then you didn’t get much sleep on New Year’s. Even after the countdown...”

As it should be.

Adelaide’s own holiday had not been quite so eventful, miraculously, but she’d still enjoyed it. Somehow, by 1AM, she'd been curled up with her puppy and a brand new book-- one she’d toasted earlier in the day, a publishing feat for one of her clients. (And a narrow escape from helping her father with the holiday rush at the shop. The Alley had been packed for fireworks and champagne.) There had still been a hangover, though. Brunch at noon the next morning day.

The very same puppy now slinked towards them, as if his snowy coat were not a giveaway from any angle. A piece of sweet potato tempura had already been thieved, and all that remained of the dog’s half-sneaky, half-successfully-begged haul was a bit of promptly-rejected seaweed salad.

Adelaide looped an arm around his neck and hugged his scruff before he could protest. The dog squirmed against her, but at the very same time, stared up at her as if his life depended upon his being spoiled with deep fried starches. It was the sort of cuteness that allowed him to get away with way more than Ada usually let her ‘adult children’ get away with. (Alright, they managed plenty.) “No more for you. And dogs can’t do chocolate, either,” she warned, because she knew he’d be after the ice-cream as soon as they pulled out the spoons.

Cora was no stranger to a bawdy story, though nowadays they most usually ended rather hilariously.  Though she was completely enamored with her boyfriend, he was not the dashing romantic hero with suave charisma that one might generally think of when they considered a dream boyfriend.  But, he was kind and sweet and they were both creative people… she could sketch or paint and he could read or study and they didn’t even need to talk. 

So, her giggles and ridiculous story – only to be one-upped by the unfortunate incident with the healer… she shook her head.  That evening had started so well: but again, so many laughs.  “I never get any sleep,” she wrinkled her pinched nose and placed the chopsticks back on the little black tray.  More recently her diet was pretty full of bread, wine, and cheese – Thomas’ influence – but the sushi was fantastic. 

Wiping her mouth with the corner of a napkin, she shook her head and slumped in the chair, full and content.  There were still a few rolls left on her dish, but she couldn’t possibly eat another one.  Not with ice cream coming! 

Letting out a raspberry of air, she shook her head at the dog and reached over to grab the glass of bubbly from the coffee table.  She raised it and tilted her glass toward her friend and winked.  “Haven’t you made a dog friendly recipe yet?” she raised her eyebrows and took a sip.

“And,” after she smacked her lips – fizz bubbling in her throat and stomach, “speaking of chocolate…” she let the sentence hang in the air, eyebrows arched and very ready, despite the feeling of being stuffed, for more food in the form of an iced treat. 

“One of my writers is a bit of a conspiracy theorist…” ‘A bit’ being an understatement where more than one of Adelaide’s adult adoptees were concerned. “He's convinced that the air in Hufflepuff house was poisoned with something that causes longterm insomnia,” she went on, holding her chopsticks with a spooky stillness that was still somehow animated. Her brows hadn’t stilled though. Their dancing betrayed what Ada thought of that. And as she leaned back, she flashed.

A lack of sleep was something the pair had in common, but Ada was sure it had more to do with their lifestyles and general natures— maybe the hardworking streak that had got them sorted into the same house— than a collective poisoning. Even if Adelaide could appreciate a few extra winks, she relished long nights, the endlessly (often accidentally) adventurous ones, and even the maddeningly restless ones full of quills and red ink. The healers should be happy they were providing willing patients. Very willing, in Adelaide’s case of late. (Though she doubted the healer who had called on Coralie and Thomas was her new favorite customer.)

“You should have your wandmaker bring you breakfast in bed,” she volunteered, almost as if she were volunteering on his behalf. “If he can stuff phoenix feathers into perfectly swishy strips of elm, I bet he can make a killer omelette.” But then were plenty of things Adelaide’s own mother could do brilliantly, and omelette-making was beyond her realm of understanding. It was Mr. Fortescue who had always done the cooking. (Adelaide enjoyed it, but takeout sushi was equally delicious.)

Giving the dog another scratch of sympathy, Adelaide laughed again. It hard enough getting him to eat regular dog food. If she started doing gourmet meals, he’d want them all the time. It was his cuteness that damned everyone who crossed his path, Adelaide included, and threatened to spoil the dog’s appetite for ‘healthy’ run-of-the-mill puppy chow. “I think knowing how to work with chocolate gives me a sort of pass…” Her poor, soon-to-be long-suffering pet aside.

Lifting her wand as if it were a heavy thing— mostly because she was so full of sushi— Adelaide nevertheless gave it an easy wave, summoning the monolith of a sundae bowl. It was lavender painted glass, girly and cheery, and complimented with a pair of brassy silver spoons. The perks of having an ice-cream man for a father were that Adelaide was never short on dishes. And the ones she owned always seemed to inspire mountainous servings of dessert. This one somehow managed to squeeze itself into the spread of leftover Japanese food and coffee table nicknacks.

She leaned over the broad, low table and clanked her spoon against Coralie’s in cheers. “How’s the line coming? You know, with all the encouragement to fit into the samples," she added, waving her spoon and smiling again.

“Neither of us are cooks: an hour ago; the Christmas story,”  Cora pointed out, her mind rapidly jumping to the Christmas dinner she had with her family… well sort of had with her family.  Having taken Thomas with her, they’d made sure they burned the entire meal down to cinders by messing with the stove and then the whole wine incident… oh, that was never going to be lived down. 

Her brother and his pinch-nosed wife would certainly have every intention of bringing it up over… and over… and over again.  Annoying.  She would have rolled her eyes if her mind didn’t jump to the next thing within seconds: clothing!

Cora was working on so many things right now.  Her mind was constantly buzzing with new ideas and she was making commissions too – it was strange, having so much on her plate.  There was a sense that she was probably falling behind, but she was young and she could pull all nighters once and a while, right? 

“I’m just everwhere,” Cora finally decided on.  It wasn’t as though she was talking to Runwitch and had to lie about progress or the direction of the line – which, as of right now was a little bit of everything.  It wasn’t her fault – there was just so much to be inspired by!  “I just want to make a little bit of everything… and recently I’ve been getting into much… smaller pieces.”  She raised her eyebrows suggestively before taking a spoonful and sinking back into the chair with her flute of bubbly. 

Pursing her lips she took a sip, “I’m fairly certain it’s going to be a disaster sooner or later.”  She sighed and let the tension out of her shoulders, "But look at me - hogging all the spotlight!" Cora shook her head, "How are the books?  Find anything good recently?  Or a recommendation for me - you know I love a steamy, little romance novel now and again." She winked and leaned for more ice cream - priorities, after all. 

Adelaide had gotten swept up in the story. (Stories. They’d shared several already.)

She knew that Cora wasn’t the world’s best cook. That she was actually a rather terrible cook. And that the pair of them together had set off more than one smoke charm with midnight cravings (even if Ada could whip up a mean sundae). But most of their girls’ nights consisted of takeout and a little too much alcohol: it was easy to forget time and again that Thomas had neither improved Coralie’s skills in the kitchen, nor possessed them himself. Being French and all.

Hell, she’d even met him a few times and knew just how unlikely a cook he was.

Still.

“He must know how to make croissants,” she insisted, reaching for her wine glass. Adelaide had called them crossaints as a child, for they were one of the few ways to shut her mother up on a lazy Sunday morning. Her father had always gone out at dawn for the espresso and fresh bread, and pain au chocolat for Adelaide.

“Sometimes everywhere is the best. You don’t want to be boxed in, right?” Ada’s brows jumped again, seemingly autonomous. “But good things come in small boxes,” she added deviously, already imagining the sorts of small things Cora was making. Her sunny side up friend had a dark side. “I call dibs on the next pair of extra cheeky little black knickers. Ones that make your ass look rounder and your legs look longer.” And the hips to waist ratio killer. Her request had more or less turned into an expensive order. Adelaide was pretty happy with herself, a casual person for the most part, but who didn’t want to show off a little? Coralie’s designs could turn a normal witch into a vixen. “That can’t be a disaster.”

And then, thinking about it, “Do you think you could show your new stuff on a runway?”

She rolled her eyes at the idea of Cora hogging the spotlight, gave the puppy a look that said she’s mad. Cora deserved it, and hardly got enough of it, in Adelaide’s opinion. Adelaide hoped that the less lovable personalities of the fashion world never got their clutches on her. Having spent plenty of time in the publishing world, she’d met one or two.

Books weren’t quite so edgy in reputation, but they had their own sort of sexiness. “Actually, this mousy little witch just handed me a manuscript that actually made me gasp.” She pointed her spoon at Cora for emphasis. At this point in her career, she hadn’t thought a love scene could do that to her. “Seriously, if you saw this girl… There’s a scene on the Hogwarts Express that’s just…” Ada trailed off, grinning around another bite of cold dessert. “It would go perfect with a pair of triple-x panties. Or, you know, classy lingerie,” she edited herself quickly. Meant to be torn off.

Cora’s eyes sparkled as Ada pointed out that he must know how to cook at least croissants.  One would think.  But, he and Cora were fairly hopeless when it came to producing anything edible in the kitchen.  “His skills are,” Cora paused thoughtfully, trying to find the right words, “not in that arena.”

She winked playfully, sharing that knowing smile with her friend and just happily sipped at her wine: smug in the knowledge that unlike the kitchen, there were other things Thomas was good at.  And making up for a lack of skill was enthusiasm.  That subject had, of course, already come up many, many times.  She was lucky Ada wasn’t the type to judge… or that would become quite the problem area. 

And they probably wouldn’t be friends, considering everything.  But, her comment about wanting Cora’s next little thing reaffirmed why they were sisters from another mister.  “You know, I can probably whip some of those up for you,” she reasoned out loud, leaning back into the fluffy folds of the couch.  She considered what Ada said about the disaster thing and she sighed.  She didn’t know if she really bought that.  And the question about the runway? 

She lolled her head back.  “My cloaks were definitely runway,” she rolled her chin and looked at Ada up and through her eyelashes, “I’m not sure there’s much space on the runway for mere scraps of fabric,” she snorted, though her nerves were most assuredly showing.  She knew there was a consumer base for what she was making… but did they want to watch it walking down the runway?  She knew there were plenty of reasons they might want to… but it had very little to do with the craftsmanship and very much to do with the models who would be wearing her creations.

She didn’t want a spectacle, after all!  She wanted to be known for talent, not a peep show. 

Though, she liked that quality to her literature.  She squeaked with glee when Ada mentioned the scene she had read and she bounced in her seat.  “You need to let me read it!” she practically whined.  “Ah! It’s my favorite game: reading that stuff out loud.  It’s the most glorious.”  She could imagine many an evening where that was the main event: shrieking with laughter as heaving breasts and hardening anything were thrown about with reckless abandon.  “Sometimes I wish I had your job,” she sighed truthfully.  “I’d read all the filth I ever wanted,” she added with a laugh, “and publish it all. “  She laughed loudly and wrapped her arms around her knees, “That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”  She batted her eyelashes and giggled again, flopping over dramatically on the sofa.

“I’m so full,” she moaned, reaching out again for her bowl and spoon, perhaps in the saddest display of counterintuitive action of the day, “but it’s so good.”   

Each coarse of their meal (/wine session/ice-cream feast) just made everything funnier: the fuller Adelaide got, the warmer her throat and cooler her tongue, the more she laughed. They had both seemed to reach pleasantly tipsy by the time Cora confessed that Thomas’ skills were in other arenas. This time, Ada’s belly hurt from the amused contemplation. It was a vicious cycle of well-earned stomach ache and contagious giggling, as if a giant hand were tickling her.

An absurdity that seemed to suit someone in the publishing industry.

“And it all seems more brilliant, knowing the carpet definitely matches the drapes…” Thank Merlin Coralie’s love weren’t with them, or it was likely his skin would match, too.

That Cora was willing to fancy up a pair of knickers for Adelaide's own... Flooring... Was a testament to their closeness. And Coralie's generous brilliance. An umph-y lower silhouette was on Adelaide’s wardrobe wishlist, since butts were supposedly the new boobs, and she didn't have much of the latter. (Even if she liked what she had.) "Family discount and all?" Ada pushed excitedly.

She didn't agree that Cora-pioneered lingerie couldn't stomp its way down a catwalk. "Why not?" She demanded. "Isn't the minimalist thing in?" If one took it literally. "I bet they haven't seen dark, vampy, domineering minimalism." Again, literal. Minimal fabric counted! "Create a little scandal, Cora, I know you're made for it. And I have contacts if..."

Adelaide mightn't have worked in the more fashionable side of publishing, but she knew some press heavyweights. Not to mention PR witches who would scare the pants off anyone who dared protest a tasteful parade of them. No one wanted to be banned from society events for being too puritanical. That wasn't how night life worked.

“I mean, it hasn’t been contracted yet, so I might be murdered for giving you a peak.” Peep shows for everyone, it sounded like. “But I shouldn’t.” She tilted her head down, raised her brows so Cora knew what a good friend she was. And how serious she was about the free knickers and the runway show.

“Please,” she said, in a you wish way. “This gig actually comes with rumored publishing house assassins and poisoned quills. Do you know what happens if the filth gets into the wrong hands before an embargo ends?” She shuddered at the thought. “Me neither, actually. But I know someone who did and… I never heard from him again.”

But the laughter lurking in her belly was threatening to bubble up again, and before it could render her useless, Ada summoned a folder.

“Here, read this instead.” Printed atop the folder was a coded title, chapters, and edits, as well as the initials of a very recognizable author. “This one has so much money, she won’t care. She’d probably publish it for free if they let her.” But then the fabled publishing assassins might appear. “The real working title is A Game of Groans,” she added, bright eyes catching Cora’s knowingly. “They’ve already begged Tine to take a role.”

As Cora confessed her fullness and carried on anyway, Adelaide followed suit, her spoon sparring for bits of ice-cream real estate in spite of a bursting stomach. “I hope those knickers are soft,” she warned, leaning back into a cushion and propping up on one elbow (but not before grabbing her wine glass.) “Go on, then.”