The stubby candles scattered around her flat flickered to life with a careless wave of her hand, illuminating her dreary little two-storey. It was located several blocks off the main Diagon thoroughfare in a true alley incongruously called Fleet Street. The footprint was small—all she could afford, considering her meager savings—but that had been okay. The ground floor had enough space for her workroom and the shop front, and the first floor accommodated a double bed, a ragged couch, a slouching bookshelf, and dingy kitchenette. Draughty, threadbare, and, at one point, full of promise.