Date: April 21st, 2009 — 11:47 a.m.
Location: Potter-Peverell-Grey Apartment, a.k.a. The Fortress of Functionality
Tagline: One Alpha, Zero Chill, and Blood Fang's Weaponized Muffins of Regret
Caius was trying to relax.
This was already suspicious.
He had entered the day with the noble intent of doing absolutely nothing—a rare and sacred rite, invoked only once per moon cycle and only when no one was actively on fire.
He had prepared. There was a pillow. There was ambient fae music piped in from the enchanted speakers (mostly harp, with an undertone of eldritch groaning and the occasional disembodied sigh of eternal despair). There was a mug of coffee dark enough to kill hope and strong enough to summon suppressed memories.
And he was wearing lounge trousers. Lounge. Trousers. They had a drawstring and the smell of resignation.
He was ready.
And then the house happened.
Seraphina was multitasking in the background like an anxiety-ridden Valkyrie on espresso.
She had a wand in one hand, a combat tea infuser in the other, a floating checklist overhead, and a half-summoned hex hovering on her lips like a song lyric from the Pit.
Every five minutes, a motivational parchment launched itself across the apartment and landed somewhere near Caius's head. Each screamed something different in magically aggressive calligraphy.
> "OUTSMART THEM, DON'T OUT-BLOOD THEM!"
"FAILURE IS AN OPTION. A DEAD ONE."
"REVENGE FIRST. THEN HYDRATE."
He tried to recline. Once.
The sofa nudged him off.
It was enchanted—subtly, maliciously—to detect "excessive inertia" and deliver moral judgment via cushion fluff. He landed beside a box labeled:
> "EMOTIONAL GROWTH (Phase One: Snarling Less)"
He glared at the box. It whispered back, "Try again, brooder."
In the kitchen, Blood Fang was baking.
Yes. Baking.
"Because," he said, while smashing cinnamon into submission, "self-care includes carb delivery systems laced with intention and minor regret."
Seraphina peeked over the counter. "Is that arsenic or cinnamon?"
"Why not both?" he replied serenely.
The muffins were labeled.
> Murderberry & Doomdust Crumble — Rich in antioxidants. And regrets.
Lemon Law Vanilla Vengeance Swirls — Lightly cursed for ethical retribution.
Rage-Chocolate Blackout Bombs — May explode if questioned about past trauma.
Caius, against his better judgment, bit into one.
"Why does this taste like my unresolved issues?"
Blood Fang smiled. "I stirred them in. Used your therapy notes. Also some lemon zest."
Meanwhile, Vespera the snake lounged on the windowsill, filing out her "Emotional Support Familiar with Sacred Duty Status" form. She hissed at a tax exemption line, drew a bloody "X" through it, and slid a blank parchment titled:
> "REASONS WHY I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO PAY TAXES."
Written in blood.
Probably someone else's.
"Do you even pay taxes?" Seraphina asked, sipping her spell-stabilized green tea.
Vespera raised one scaled brow. A single fang extended. The message was clear:
> I pay in existential threat and glitter.
Back to Caius.
He stood in the middle of the room. Barefoot. Mildly caffeinated. Slightly offended by the floral smell of lavender battle balm wafting in from Seraphina's meditation corner.
"I thought today was a rest day."
Raphael didn't look up from his glowing checklist. "It is. You're just failing at it."
"How the hell do you fail at doing nothing?"
Seraphina glided past like a chaos storm in coordinated warlock chic. She tossed a scroll onto the table. It landed with judgment.
> "TIME MANAGEMENT AND CASUAL LOAFING: A STRATEGIC APPROACH TO INACTIVITY (WITH GRAPHS)"
"You made a PowerPoint," Caius said, horrified.
"You watched a three-hour documentary on weaponizing naps," she replied.
Raphael sipped his tea. "He took notes."
By noon, silence descended.
Not peaceful silence.
Productive silence.
The kind of silence that breeds revolutions and spreadsheet categories.
The air vibrated with suppressed goals. The walls began to sweat ambition. A planner spontaneously combusted in the corner with a soft "pop" and a burst of color-coded post-its.
Caius breathed deeply.
Inhale: murder.
Exhale: purpose.
Then Seraphina, ever-helpful, ever-relentless, spoke:
"Caius, can you organize the blood vial archive by threat level and moral offense severity?"
He stared.
He considered saying no.
Then picked up a box labeled "Vials: Bitey" and went to work.
At 2:00 p.m., it hit him.
He had filled the day.
Again.
Without permission.
He had:
Spreadsheeted his breathing schedule.
Color-coded the entire fridge by nutritional value and potential post-battle recovery rate.
Alphabetized the knives by stab-to-scream ratio.
Reorganized the bookshelf by battle applicability.
He stared into the void of his own efficiency.
"I hate this," he muttered. "I am a machine now."
Blood Fang passed him another lemon-murder muffin. "Machines don't have style. You do."
Seraphina emerged from a battle-plan scroll like a minor deity of logistics.
"You also refolded the cloak shelf into hex-grid patterning. That was hot."
Pause.
"Don't make it weird."
He didn't.
He just updated his planner.
> 2:01 p.m. — Accept I'm Broken in a Structurally Impressive Way.
By evening, the apartment was humming with energy.
Calendars synced.
Wards polished.
Muffins labelled by emotional consequence and frosting flavor.
The new house rule?
No resting without prior productivity.
Which is how Caius found himself reading enchanted lemon water ingredients aloud to Vespera, who had declared herself Minister of Hydration Compliance.
And how Raphael, back against the wall, muttered, "I miss when downtime meant naps. Now it's a tactical maneuver."
From her corner, Seraphina whispered, "This is why we win."
She raised her tea.
He raised his muffin.
The couch puffed at him again.
He threw a dagger at it.
Everyone applauded.