One day --
one day -- Angharad would learn that heels and cobblestones didn’t mix, but today was not that day. She was tottering, weaving her way down Diagon Alley back to her flat, in midnight blue, velvet heeled boots adorned with silver stars. These, of course, matched perfectly (in her opinion) with the candy pink dress she was wearing and her favourite Irish green raincoat. She was running slightly late -- well, more behind schedule than late. She’d be home in time, just wouldn’t have so long to relax before the others arrived.
Her arms were laden with grocery bags -- she’d gone out to get
provisions: wine, popcorn, chocolate. Had probably gone a bit overboard, actually, but if they didn’t eat it all tonight it wasn’t like it wouldn’t get eaten at all.
The petite blonde skirted around a mother with a pram and then took the lane to their door. She fumbled for a moment to get the door open, climbed the stairs (panting lightly as she reached the top -- she really ought to do something about her terrible level of fitness), clacked along the hall and opened the door to the apartment.
“I’m home!” she called out in her sing-song accent, shuffling to the kitchen and plonking the bags on the bench with a sigh of relief. She placed one hand on each hip, inhaling and exhaling quickly to try and catch her breath. “Right,” she said to herself after a moment, taking her jacket off and slinging it over a chair. She reached into the paper bags to withdraw two bottles of wine -- one rosé and one pinot grigio -- and set them on the counter. Emma chose this moment to appear. Harri beamed at her. “Hiya.”
Her face fell. Emma didn’t look happy. The Welsh witch wasn’t sure how Emma was feeling -- her expression was somewhere between three different emotions and Harri couldn’t discern any one of them. “A-are you alright?” she asked tentatively, placing a gigantic slab of milk chocolate on the bench with a soft clunk and stepping toward her flatmate. “Did something happen?”
@Emma Hennings
