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 1894. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
"Not long now," Maeve murmured to herself, but audibly, as she stretched.
It was now the end of the road for the fog explorers, who had been brought in to the Ministry for a debriefing on what had transpired. Still too energized to sit but at the same time yearning for a nice, hot bath, Maeve's small frame stood near the chairs that had been set out for their use. A bath and a sleeping draught, the redhead thought, and she'd be right as rain.
"What'll you do, after this?" she inquired lightly of one of her (former) companions. The fact that a whole month had passed was still baffling to the auror, who felt as though it had been only a couple of days—though she would not mourn the loss of her company. Some had been useful, but some had almost gotten them killed on more than one occasion.
Mason was stretched out in one of the provided chairs, lanky limps spilling over the edges in his exhaustion. A month. They'd physically been gone a month that had lasted only a day them. It was baffling to say the least. His mother was going to throttle him, kiss him and then throttle him all over again.
Half asleep already, Mason had approximately zero energy left for this nonsense. Debrief, answer questions, drag his ass down to the Beast Division to let his mother know he was alive and then go home and pass out. Opening one eye to look at Miss Connolly as she asked a question, Mason tried to straighten up a little and at least stay awake for the time being. "Sheepishly trudge down to my mother's office and let her know I've survived, so she can likely kill me." He joked, but it came out mostly as a tired sigh. "Yourself?"
One thing Maeve Connolly had never done well was wait. She was always the last auror 'picked' for a stakeout due to her sheer level of impatience. It was that, the witch knew, rather than a lingering sense of camaraderie that had prompted her to speak up, though at least Skeeter was well enough—especially in comparison to his cousin.
"Sleep as long as my own mother lets me without an earful," the redhead chuckled in response. Caitriona Connolly had never loved her daughter's life choices, but choosing this particular excursion had been a huge bone of contention between them. "And then back to work, I suppose, saving damsels and hexing crooks and the like."
As she spoke, it was with her head down by her knees, the petite witch having doubled over, fingertips on the ground, to stretch out her back.
Mason nodded along, his movements slow and lagging, the exhaustion really settling into his bones at this point. "A bath and sleep, next on the list if I survive my mother's office." Of course if he had to venture a guess, those would be Morwenna's stipulations after a bone-crushing hug anyway.
"Oh, I don't envy you there. Thank Merlin school doesn't start up for another few weeks." Mason had plenty of time to recuperate and set himself straight before having to go back to work. That was certainly a perk. Lolling his head to the side when Miss Connolly suddenly disappeared, Mason found her best over... stretching? Well he couldn't blame her there. Moving to roll his own shoulders, he leaned back again to rest his head against the wall behind his chair. "Any idea how long this'll take? Wondering if a power nap is possible." That would be lovely.
“Probably all night,” she replied grimly. While Maeve herself was the pinnacle of efficiency—and she would cut anyone who suggested otherwise—the same could not be said about the bulk of the Ministry of Magic. No matter how lethargic the weary travellers grew, their debriefing would be methodical, but slow.
Satisfied that she was as loose as she was likely to become, the redhead moved to take a seat at last, easing herself into the chair between Skeeter and one of their companions who was asleep, and who, the moment she sat down, let out a prodigious snore.
Maeve could not help herself—the witch burst out giggling.
Mason sighed, followed almost immediately but a chuckle when a loud snore sounded nearby. He cast Miss Connolly, now sitting beside him, a bemused, if tired smile. "I think he as the right idea." The temptation to conjure himself a pillow was high, but he doubted he'd actually fall asleep, no matter how tired he was. Once upon a time Mason could fall asleep anywhere, but after he started working at the school, hadn't been nearly as successful as he used to be.
"At least it's over, now I need to figure out what's happened in the last month." Mason was still having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that their day in Irvingly had actually last a month everywhere else. What a strange thing to endure, essentially missing out on a whole month of your own existence.
“Everyone's died, likely as not," she returned with a laugh in response. The past decade did seem to have had more than its fair share of calamities, and for herself, Maeve was just pleased to have made it through this latest one with no more than a few missing weeks. "But don't fret, we'll have them resurrected in no time at all, I'm sure."
Mason chuckled quietly, albeit a little hesitantly; he couldn't tell if Miss Connolly was being serious or not. He decided to go with not, but considering Hogsmeade's luck over the last few years, nothing was out of the real of possible. He did think however, that they would have been told of some terrible tragedy had there been one, when they'd first reported in.
"Well with the fog now, at least magic is back up. I wonder if it made it to the school." Mason wasn't sure just how strong the Headmaster's barrier was. If the fog had indeed gotten through, his greenhouses were going to be in sore shape. That was going to take a lot of work to rectify.
"Worried about your flowers, then, Professor?" Maeve teased good-naturedly. From her perspective, there were far more pressing matters to attend to—but then, her livelihood depended on something entirely different than Skeeter's.
"More like the venomous tentcula or the rather large devil's snare in greenhouse six." Mason shrugged. The distinct lack of sunlight was a particular problem for the snare. The last thing Mason wanted to do was have to subdue that overgrown beast in the absence of proper light. It would be an adventure no doubt. "The tulips are the least of my concerns. If I survived that nonsense to be taken out by a rogue snare vine, I'll haunt the ministry and be a miserable pest." He chuckled this time, though he was concerned, it was a trivial follow up to whatever it was Miss Connolly would likely have to deal with after this.
Her laugh was the tired chuckle of someone who was enjoying the conversation, but knew full well she would rather be in bed.
"At least you've a few more skills to help you sort it, should the worst happen," Maeve pointed out. "After the undead, I would think a wee bit of devil's snare would be a walk in the park—or garden as it were."
Though she joked about it now, the walking dead man had struck a fear in her that the auror had never before experienced. It was the stuff of nightmares, and the witch hoped to trivialize it sooner than later.
Mason visibly, if involuntarily shuddered at the mention of the undead man they'd come across in the forest. He was likely to have nightmares about that. "I am, at least, prepared to handle the snare." He managed with a weaker chuckle this time.
"Not sure I'll ever get that image out of my head though." He added with a more somber tone to his voice. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to be handling live criminals once again yourself." Mason did have to give Miss Connolly props for that; he would have never been able to do her job, nor was he delusional enough to think that woman couldn't do it either. He'd essentially been raised by a single, extremely independent and headstrong woman. Mason knew better.
Her smile was perhaps a bit more tense than she might have liked.
"I'm not certain that 'pleased' is quite the word," the redhead remarked, "but a return to routine, I think, will be just the ticket. Not that there can be much routine when one gets to the meatier parts of the job."
There was nothing routine about an impromptu duel, or a chase through the back allies, but the paperwork...even the paperwork, Maeve thought, would be nice to return to, at least for a time. So long as the auror business did not take her back to Irvingly anytime soon, the witch would be a happy woman indeed.
Mason nodded along with her evaluation of the topic. "I will not pretend to know just how hectic that could possibly be. I don't know how you do it." He thought teaching was hectic, but it was more like herding cats than anything else.
"After a decent amount of sleep, I hope." That would be his ticket. In fact, despite the conversation, Mason still felt himself fading. "This could not take any longer." He grumbled sarcastically, eyeing the door where people flitted in and out, wondering just when they would get the hell out of here.
As if on cue, the door opened, the Ministry investigator on the other side looking about the room before his eyes finally settled upon her.
“We’re ready for you now, Miss Connolly,” he said, and Maeve groaned. Though she was eager to be done with this, she had always loathed being at anyone’s beck and call.
“You’re a sorcerer, Mr. Skeeter,” she teased quietly as she returned once more to her feet, stretching each of her limbs languidly before moving towards the waiting figure. At the last moment, Maeve paused, then turned ‘round.
“Good luck,” she called back to her former companion. She hoped he would not need it—he’d been through enough.
