Welcome to Charming, where swirling petticoats, the language of flowers, and old-fashioned duels are only the beginning of what is lying underneath…
After a magical attempt on her life in 1877, Queen Victoria launched a crusade against magic that, while tidied up by the Ministry of Magic, saw the Wizarding community exiled to Hogsmeade, previously little more than a crossroad near the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the years that have passed since, Hogsmeade has suffered plagues, fires, and Victorian hypocrisy but is still standing firm.
Thethe year is now 1895. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
With the same account, complete eight different threads where your character interacts with eight different usergroups. At least one must be a non-human, and one a student.
Did You Know?
Braces, or suspenders, were almost universally worn due to the high cut of men's trousers. Belts did not become common until the 1920s. — MJ
Early evening of July 6th, 1895 — Amelia Evans' Gravesite, Church of St. Fergus, Irvingly
Barnabas thought that there was nothing better to do to get a break from what had been a rather harrowing day, than flooing to the next town over to mourn over his ex-beloved (one of many, may this one rest in peace.) He'd heard of her untimely demise, but had been unable to make travel arrangements in time to attend her funeral services. The peace and quiet of a cemetery was just what he needed, along with a good excuse to cry.
It hadn't taken him too long to find her. He laid the bouquet of flowers he'd brought with him upon her gravestone, then leaned heavily on his cane as he said to them (or her, rather, but the flowers were on top of her, so they were what was currently in his line of sight), "This could have been easily avoided, Amelia." And then he burst into tears.
Irvingly was always a place to come to escape her family’s drama, when she needed to – either to Nathalie’s house, the zoological gardens, or here, the cemetery. She was heading towards Amelia, as she often did (she rather thought of the place as hers, whoever else might visit her friend’s headstone; Porphyria would insist she and Amelia had been closer), but her eyebrows knitted upon seeing the stooping stranger from the back.
Who in hell’s name was that? And were they weeping? “And what do you think you’re doing there?” Porphyria barked, picking up her pace as she marched over to hopefully shoo this performative faux-mourner off. That was her friend’s grave, and Amelia deserved far better than such stuff and nonsense –
Barnabas looked up, startled. He'd been so intent on his wailing that he hadn't even heard this storm cloud's approach. He wiped at his eyes before he straightened. His eyes would be rimmed red and his cheeks still wet, but it was better than facing her with tears running down his cheeks. Gentlemen didn't weep and they certainly didn't do it in public.
Was she the groundskeeper? Were there visiting hours he didn't know sbout? There hadn't been a sign as far as he could tell, though maybe he'd missed it. Either way, she could certainly have approached him more politely. "I'm mourning," He said by way of explanation, gesturing with the hand not holding his cane toward the gravestone and flowers he'd brought.
Barnabas walks with a cane • Set by the lovely Lady • plot with me
“And what right do you have to mourn Amel—,” Porphyria had begun defensively, irked by his overblown lamenting and the bouquet of flowers he’d gestured at; but midway through her question, she looked at him directly, and started as if she had seen an apparation.
Not that she would have been so dismayed by an apparition as she was by this denizen of the darkest depths of Amelia’s past. What rock had Barnabas Skeeter crawled out from under? “Oh, not you, you cockroach,” she said, furious to even see his face again in such proximity to any friend of hers, be they alive or safely dead.
Barnabas's head reared back in suprise. Cockroach? He was many things–handsome, clever, competent, etc. etc. etc.–but he wasn't anything close to a cockroach. She spoke as if she recognized him and knew who he was. He'd known it would happen at some point today, but he'd never imagined it would have been by someone who was a stranger to him.
Perhaps she had him confused with someone else? He would take the high road, he decided. He'd had an awful day, but he would be the gentleman and allow her to keep some dignity once she realized her mistake. "Do I know you, madam?" He asked, unsure of what to make of this unexpected turn of events.
“Porphyria Dempsey,” she snarled, as she stooped to snatch up the flowers with which he had desecrated Amelia’s grave. Of course Barnabas Skeeter did not bother to remember her, though she had been a friend of Amelia’s right through school. Of course this cretin had only ever latched onto the overly compassionate few people who could have been tricked into caring about him, little loathsome wart that he was. (Of course she had not liked him ever, because she never really did care for her friends’ suitors, but once Amelia had turned to hating him, Porphyria had at last been allowed to express her rancour freely.)
So she thought she knew her friend’s last wishes better than he. “Amelia’s best friend,” she growled (and self-appointed protector of her grave plot, thank you very much), “and if you think she would ever allow you to be here, then – you are – much mistaken,” She had punctuated this last retort at intervals by thwacking him violently with his uncalled-for bunch of flowers.
The name rang a bell, and it came back to him that this was, in fact, Amelia's best friend (or, rather, had been.) Before he could respond, there were flowers flying at his face, and he'd had to duck to avoid getting a mouthful of them. And then she was hitting him with them again and again. Leaves and petals were flying everywhere, littering the ground (which was all he could see really, from his perpetual ducking position), likely in his hair, his suit... ugh not his suit! He scrabbled backwards with his cane in tow in an attempt to get outside her reach. "I hardly think this is appropriate, Miss Dempsey!" He exclaimed, thinking her very much a lunatic.
Barnabas walks with a cane • Set by the lovely Lady • plot with me
“Appropriate!” She echoed with a vicious laugh, as he ducked away from her. The only inappropriate thing here was his presence.
She let the now-slightly-bedraggled flowers fall back down, and wondered if he would try to swat her with his cane in self-defence. She had only known him from a distance, but he had always seemed the cowardly type to her. “Amelia would be rolling in her grave! If you ever so much as dream of setting foot here again,” Porphyria threatened, “I will curse you.” She made a motion to withdraw her wand – she would do it now, happily – even if magic was not technically allowed in public in Irvingly. It would be well worth the warning.
Barnabas would have persisted. Amelia would not have been rolling in her grave. She would have been very glad to see him—appreciative that he still remembered her after all this time. Had even come to visit and leave flowers, for Merlin's sake. The madwoman went for her wand, threatening him with a curse (which wasn't very ladylike; although Miss Dempsey didn't seem to be concerned with such things.) He believed she fully intended to make good on her threat. He shuffled backwards in a panic while waving his free hand out in front of him, "No no no, there's no need for that. I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"
Barnabas walks with a cane • Set by the lovely Lady • plot with me
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