Residence of Demetrius Woolfolk
Fleetwood, Lancashire, England


Charlotte pulled back offended fists and raised her wand, hissing a combinations of passwords and verbal antidotes for any charms that might be waiting on the other side of the door. Not that an intruder would have much difficulty-- for all his talent as a wizard, Demetrius had also become a certified drunk. Even a ballsy stranger could have found a way through his window, she suspected.

But the quaint little cottage with its light tower was full of treasures that were all his own, many nonsensical for anyone who didn't study the heavens, but worth a pretty penny nonetheless. Charlotte stepped across the threshold as if she were inches from testing an invisible fire hazard, and crept up the first few stone steps. When the ground didn't give way or do something wonky beneath her feet, she stood straighter, more confident, and looked around (and upward) with suspicious-- almost childish-- blue eyes.

"Demetrius," she murmured, as if he were hopeless. Spotting a leg, she continued more quickly up the steps; she reached landing at the wide curve, and saw bit of Woolfolk blond loitering lazily above the couch, somewhere beneath a blanket. She made a beeline for it, soles of her feet impatient where a moment ago they had been wary. "Demetri," she said louder, leaning over the edge of couch and pulling back the blanket. She tilted her head so that her face was beside his. Her hair spilled after her. She stared, examining him as if he'd fainted and she were trying to rouse him from unconsciousness. She made to touch him with her wand-- just to be sure he was still alive-- but saw his tummy move subtly in the sluggish breath of sleep, and retracted. Her ankle knocked an empty bottle, which sang back like a clunky chime.

"You can't live like this any more." The announcement was fact. Charlotte straightened up and pointed her wand at the windows. The blinds and drapes peeled back, unshaded themselves, or snapped up accordingly, window by window, around the cottage. Charlotte loomed over him, her old friend with the sometimes-scruffy face and penchant for the stars. He was endearing, even now-- but Merlin, what a giant child. Her hands were on her hips. "When's the last time you weren't wearing pajamas past noon?"