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Alastor 

I sit in the room that the little naïve princess assigned to me, hands steepled beneath my chin, grin unwavering as per usual. 

Smiling shows dominance. Keep that smile on, and you're in control.

The room itself is rather dismal- peeling orange wallpaper, bloodstained peach shag carpet, sagging four-poster bed, and the dresser coated in dust, blisters in the once-shiny lacquer. I make a mental note to fix it all later, but right now, I need to think about what I'm going to do. I didn't really think this whole thing through, to be honest. I only set the groundwork, telling myself I'd expand on it once everything got secured. (Which is how I get most of my work done now, and most likely how most of it will get done for the rest of my days, however many of those I have left. ) 

So. What do we want to do here? Destroy everything? Make them a mockery? Show everyone that no demon can be rehabilitated and prove them to be foolish? 

No. 

I decide to just do what I said I was originally here for- be their patron and in turn, get enormous amounts of entertainment. While doing that, I'm sure to come up with something even better. 

Now. Back to the room. I scan the depressing situation, then, making up my mind, I snap my fingers and watch as the transformation occurs. 

When I'm satisfied, I survey the change. The walls are now black-and-red-striped, the floor a glossy oak hardwood, and the bed is restored to its former glory- hand-carved posts strong and straight, cherry-red finish looking good as new. Greyscale sheets and pillows are fresh on the queen-sized mattress, and the dresser is taller and cleaner, with a smooth, shiny black lacquer and ornate gold handles. 

Perfect. The study that adjoins this room, however, is nowhere near the same beautiful state. I waltz in there, snapping my fingers once more, and it is transformed as well. The sagging, hole-rotten mahogany desk stands erect and polished once more, and added is a new desk chair with wheels. New lamps, with bloodred shades, replace the rust covered old ones, and the spongey floor is now a firm, dark stain maple, and, even though I know they'll most likely die as soon as I touch them, there's a small shelf lined with succulents. I drag my hands along the splintery walls, and they repaint an ash-gray, like a winter's sunset at 4 p.m. Bookshelves spring up, filled with my favorite books that beg to be read again. I add a black leather couch, too, so I can relax while reading. I stand back and survey my work. 

Pausing, I quirk my fingers and pull one of the empty walls inward, creating a space in the bedroom for a closet. I walk back in there and fill it with my favorite suits, lining the interior with cedar wood beforehand. 

Perfect. Just like me. 

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After the room and study is completed to my satisfaction (there was also a positively hideous, crumbling bathroom I had to attend to- colored in awful shades of purple and yellow), I find Charlie and ask her what I can do to make this cesspool livable. 

She simply gestures to the entire floor. "Fix it?" She asks hopefully. Somehow, I'm not the least bit surprised. I sigh condescendingly and smile, walking off to start with the broken-down galley. Soon enough, it's transformed into a modern, spacious kitchen big enough to feed a small militia- given, of course, that it has enough cooks to use the space to their advantage. 

Next is the pantry. Shelves are righted, spices renewed and reorganized. I fix the paint job, not selecting from my own personal palette, though, since that contains only blacks, reds, and greys, and Charlie likes pink, yellow, purple, and so on. So, with the walls awash in a putrefying sun-yellow, I leave, shaking my head in distaste.