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ASTORIA (astorial) wrote in lockewood,

At nineteen, Astoria was a far cry from the woman she'd become. Scorpius would have never seen his mother open the door a split-second after someone had knocked, bright-eyed and smiling. The younger version of his mother, however, did just that. It couldn't have been any more obvious that she had been hovering. Waiting.

"You made it," she greeted. "And you brought wine! How thoughtful." It was customary to bring a gift for the host (or hostess, as it was). Astoria wouldn't have docked points if he'd shown up empty-handed, but she would have been disappointed. Any son of hers ought to have a strong sense of manners. Especially a son, since they carried on the family name.

She stepped aside, making room for him to enter. "It's a little messy," she warned, wrinkling her nose. "My roommate— well, I'm sure you understand." Truth be told, the house wasn't a mess at all. But to Astoria, who was used to a house elf shine in her home, it was filthy.