Who: Harry Dresden, Bob What: Bob's arrival When: Friday night/Saturday morning, in the witching hours Where: Harry's apartment Warnings: Snark-fest ahead
As usual, Harry had been up way too late, working on his magic. Perimeter alarms, wards, even a bit of alchemy to try and unwind. Every day, there were more and more zombies, and they couldn't be controlled--not with classical music, not with classic rock, and not with Rachmaninoff. Not even with polka. Needless to say, it left him feeling more than a little stressed; and that was without the whole Seasonal Affective Disorder thing. Yeah, that's what he was calling the Winter Mantle and all of it's...issues.
But trying to remember (or invent) a proper potion recipe without Bob there to read off the ingredients hadn't exactly worked as well as he'd hoped, so Harry ha tumbled into bed angry and disheveled--and smelling like burnt...something--and fallen into a fitful sleep.