Date: April 18th, 2009 — 3:00 p.m.
Location: Potter-Peverell-Grey Apartment
Tagline: One Girl, One App, Four Hundred and Sixty-Three Parcels of Self-Actualization
The boys returned from their afternoon of not stabbing anyone (yet) to discover that their floor was missing.
Correction: the apartment itself still existed—walls upright, wards stable, snake accounted for. But the floor? Swallowed. Consumed. Devoured beneath a glittering, capitalistic mountain of hPrime deliveries that rose like a shrine to emotional damage and expedited shipping.
Caius Everen Grey stood at the threshold like a man preparing to go to war against packaging tape and retail excess. The boxes shimmered in iridescent spellwrappings, stacked in architecturally unsound towers that defied gravity and good sense.
He said, deadpan, "Did someone die and leave us a boutique?"
Blood Fang unsheathed a blade that crackled with minor curses and began carving a pathway to the kitchen. "This isn't shopping. This is tactical hoarding with taste."
Raphael, ever the eternal disapproving Victorian aunt, sipped his basil-mint tea and stepped gingerly around a crate labeled:
> "Unseelie Lash Kit: Glamour or Gutting?"
A scroll fluttered down from the sky of receipts, opening mid-air with bureaucratic pride.
Items Included in Seraphina's Glorious Collapse Into Retail Therapy:
"Hex-Infused Wardrobe Capsule: Apocalypse Edition"
Because even in bloodshed, coordination matters.
"Tea. Just Tea. Don't Judge Me."
500-count teastack. Climate wards. Labeled by emotional state. Organizer with anti-anxiety runes included.
"High-Kill Ratio Heels – Cursed Velvet"
Guaranteed to murder dignity and enemies alike. Compliments calves. Sows self-worth.
"Combat Corsets for Courting and Casual Beheading"
Adjustable for flirtation or thoracic trauma.
"Pocket Void – Storage or Existential Crisis?"
Can hold seventeen cloaks, two unresolved vendettas, and one moral dilemma you're pretending isn't real.
"Dagger Hairpins ×72"
Panic bought in bulk. "They were on sale," she would say later. No one was surprised.
The living room, formerly a space for conversations and spiritual brooding, now resembled a post-apocalyptic glam-warfare boutique.
In one corner, a weapon boudoir glinted: glass shelving, cursed brass inlay, daggers sorted by emotional mood (Spiteful, Petty, Vengeful-but-still-polished). One blade was literally vibrating with passive-aggressive energy.
Next to that?
Snake food.
Label:
> "Luxurious Platinum Feeds: Vespera Edition — Threat Level: Tea Shelf"
And beside it, the peak of absurdity:
> "For the Wild Hunt: Because They Will Judge You"
Gourmet pet feed pouches, velvet-stitched, charmed with the approval of apex predator familiars.
Caius stopped beside a sleek black box labeled in silver:
> "Caius – Brooding But Make It Battle-Ready"
Tagline: For when you need to cry in warpaint.
He blinked. "I didn't order this."
Blood Fang sliced open a red-trimmed box marked:
> "Monogrammed Kill-Journal"
Embroidered in blood-thread. It purred.
He muttered, "Respect."
Raphael found his name scribbled in haughty cursive on a scroll-tube:
> "You're Not Subtle, So Don't Pretend You Are."
Inside? Spellproof gloves, silk-lined, laced with charm wards, a bracelet that whispered motivational critiques:
> "You could kill him, but would it be worth the paperwork?"
"Your tone is passive. Murder more confidently."
He made a noise like a disapproving dove choking on bureaucratic indignation.
Then Caius found it.
The box.
The one.
The holy grail of petty personalization.
"…Eyeliner," he whispered. "Bloodproof. Engraved."
His voice cracked. "It has my initials."
Blood Fang turned slowly to look at him.
"It's waterproof too," Caius added, voice trembling. "And comes with a retractable blade for—precision shading or murder."
And then came the monument.
The Tea Stack.
A five-tiered shelving unit, enchanted to hold 500 artisanal tea blends.
Clearly labeled, charm-stabilized, color-coded by mood:
"Don't Speak to Me" – Black teas. Spicy. With bitterness steeped into the leaves.
"Am I Crying or Plotting?" – Herbal brews that encouraged scheming.
"Feelings, but Make it Caffeinated" – The emotionally unstable blends.
"Trauma Chai" – With ancient root bark and resilience.
"Forgiveness? No. Just Chamomile." – You can't change, but you can hydrate.
The shelf hummed with the sound of emotionally processed vengeance.
And somewhere in the back, behind a cursed loveseat and a velvet boot altar, lay the universally recognized Symbol of Financial Denial:
> The Guilt Crate – containing returned outfits, backup tiaras, and receipts no one wanted to face.
It was then—emerging from the dressing annex like an avenging fashion deity—that Seraphina appeared.
Wearing:
A corset laced with Unseelie steel.
Charms-stitched combat trousers that looked legally classified.
Dagger earrings.
Boots labeled "runway murder optional."
She walked with the smug air of someone who had used emotional trauma as a discount code and emerged victorious.
Forty-five minutes later, the boys sat on the sofa like shell-shocked war veterans, surrounded by receipts and rhinestones and retail exorcisms.
Seraphina stirred her tea, which was steeping in a cup that changed colors with temperature and sarcasm.
"I'm changing my look," she said. "I don't want to look like a drowning rat anymore."
Raphael, still eyeing the Bedazzled Boot Rack of Rage, exhaled like a man confronting a new era of legislative challenge.
He whispered, "We need to lock her hPrime account."
Caius, cradling his monogrammed eyeliner like a relic, replied, voice hollow, "Too late."
From her perch atop a box of Emergency Skincare for Battle Witches,
Vespera the snake hissed.
It was an approving hiss.
Because healing? Healing looked like leather-slick daggers, chai fortresses, and parcel pyramids.
Because trauma never stood a chance against free two-day shipping.