Did you know?
The Language of the Flowers was a popular method to express feelings where words might be improper, but did you know other means of doing so? Some ladies used their parasols, as well as their fans, gloves, and hankies to flirt with a gentleman (or alternatively, tell them to shove it!). — Bree ( Submit your own)
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Questionable Friend/Crush for Philip Aymslowe.
When your mum thinks you're gay for your best friend (but you probably are)
This boy, then. He wasn't new. Wasn't one of the worst people in the common room, those rotten rich boys - like Mr. Jailkeeper - who could not fathom a world beyond their own farts. Was a good working class lad, so he'd heard. Had a bit of a weird looking face, and a bit of a weird thing for preaching. Still.Aubrey Davis in The Under-Sofa
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Post 3+ times in three or more class threads during the course of a school year. Must all be done with the same character, be they a professor, student, or school portrait or ghost!

Angel Without Wings
June 28th, 1888 — Irvingly Infirmary
@Enoch Rosier
Dionisia was unsurprisingly still in Irvingly following the the fog invasion that was wrecking havoc on the small village outside of Hogsmeade. While the infirmary was equipped with healers and nurses, mediwitches they were not, which meant the hospital had been picking up cases where immediate medical attention was needed.

One of the more notable cases of the month had been of Mr. Enoch Rosier, an auror who had taken quite the tumble while in pursuit of a crook. He was a tall and dashing gentleman—charming, even—but his wealth and blood status (which she'd learned later after some light digging) had left her unsure of how to approach him next.

After returning to the infirmary for the day, she'd been tasked with taking Mr. Rosier for a stroll in the grounds outside the infirmary to test his strength and stamina. She entered his room with a smile on her face, but not before taking a moment to self-consciously tidy with her hair for whatever reason.

"Good morning, Mr. Rosier," she greeted. "The healers tell me you've been quite the trooper; they'd like to see how well you can take a spin around the infirmary."

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Enoch, having spent precisely zero effort in finding out anything further about his pretty saviour had, nonetheless, spent a deal of time thinking about her as he lay in the Infirmary convalescing. He seldom met young ladies that were actually what one would call useful. Indeed, he shared with his sister the opinion that most young ladies had any sense and practicality removed from their brains at the point of coming out, and yet this girl had known precisely how to help and had no dallied in doing just that.

It went to show that if a woman had to work then it ought to be something nurturing, as was their nature, rather than his sort of work which led to oddities like Connolly.

“I’m sure I’ll be quite safe in your hands Dilys,” he replied with a charming smile, lifting himself deftly from the bed to the wheelchair he had been provided with using the pulleys above his head. He had practiced it three times in the last hour so the transition was smooth and, he hoped, effortless.

“I’ve never had to wait for anything to heal the natural way before,” he said grimly, eyes on his wrapped up ankle. “It’s quite tedious so I’m glad of the company.”
His smooth movements indicated either a natural grace or plentiful practice, and given his large, broad stature, Dionisia was inclined to believe the latter. She moved towards him with a smile and took hold of the chair's handles. A single push quickly proved that this walk was going to be far more difficult than the three small children she'd taken for a spin earlier—hopefully Mr. Rosier might find the strength to take a step or two later on.

"I hope you are," she responded, her tone laced with amusement. "Because you're stuck with me for the next half hour. I'm afraid the rooms are beginning to fill up and the healers would like to see some patients back on their feet and back to the streets if at all possible."

The Irvingly Infirmary, unlike the hospital in Hogsmeade, was not meant to sustain a large number of patients at any given time. Unfortunately, the inability to travel combined with the visibility problems meant all patients were confined to these walls at the moment. If only the Ministry could find a way to make it disappear!

With that, she pushed him out of the room, albeit in a silent struggle.

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For all his current impediments Enoch considered himself an astute man and, generally, he approved of those that struggled without complaint but in the case of Miss Tweedy, whom he could tell was already having to push his chair rather harder than her frame was really built for, he was willing to make an exception. Glancing over his shoulder he gave her his most noble, heroic face and- Merlin, she was pretty up close with better visibility!

“I’d prefer to wheel myself if you have no objections. One doesn’t like to be a burden after all,” and with only a modicum of effort he pushed on his wheels. It was good exercise anyway, he told himself, letting her hold onto the chair to steer as he would almost certainly veer off course otherwise. “I’m sure most of the patients would prefer to be back on their feet too but without magic I’ve seen some poor beggars in more pain than they know what to do with. It’s no wonder muggles are always cutting bits of each other off if they don’t know how to properly treat broken bones.”

His ankle was still wrapped up with a splint and the healers had the audacity to call it the old-fashioned way, as though the wizards of old had been stupid enough to leave themselves incapacitated for weeks at a time!
Despite the information on him she'd found on paper, Mr. Rosier was proving to be nothing less than a complete gentleman. The words that left his mouth could very well have been an echo of the sentiment she'd shared with those who attempted to help her in life; being burdensome was perhaps her biggest fear, though in this case she was inclined to disagree with his words despite not voicing as much. She caught his eye as he glanced over his shoulder and offered her a smile and small nod in response.

"If you wish, Mr. Rosier," she allowed, letting him control of the steering while her hands remained rested on the bars to street. "I would not be concerned about being a burden; as my patient, I will do everything in my power to ensure your comfort until my legs collapse," she explained, a subtle tone of teasing present in her voice. "If your arms begin to tire, do let me know. I'll be happy to take control again."

His words about muggle techniques brought back unpleasant memories from her childhood. She was sure that she'd prayed for the life of a man who'd lost his legs to plague only to hear of his death the next day from blood loss. If she were to have been a muggle instead of a muggle-born, medicine would have been an unlikely choice for a career.

(Then again, if she'd been a muggle she would have never been in need of a career to begin with!)

"Not all can be expected to handle injuries as valiantly as you have, Mr. Rosier," she chuckled. "We must pity them in the moment and hope they find their strength soon enough. One can only whine so long before they tire themselves."

[-] The following 1 user Likes Dionisia Fisk's post:
   Alfred Clearwater

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He had a brief, pleasant jolt of a thought about the pretty nurse taking control but he suppressed it quickly with a smirk to himself: those were thoughts for the privacy of his room later on, now he must control his behaviour for both their sakes. Miss Tweedy seemed to be quite the proper young lady – not a real lady of course – but certainly more demure than many that could claim the title through their family names. She had saved him without complaint, showing no concern for herself, and in the process had not stabbed him in the fucking neck! It was a low bar to leap over, but it was difficult not to use it as an assessor for all other women. All of them passed the first test. Miss Tweedy agreed with him and possessed a nice laugh so she passed a fair few more in a matter of moments.

“Quite right Dilys,” he agreed with a chuckle of his own, rolling himself carefully alongside her so it felt more like a conversation with a person and not the ceiling. “I might have guessed a pragmatic heart dwelled in your chest. Not many young ladies would have risked the fog although I’m told the Minister is soon to send volunteers.” He cast a purposeful glance in her direction, something approaching genuine concern borne of fondness on his features. “Please tell me you haven’t signed yourself up?”
She walked alongside him, hands folded in front of her, waiting for him to ask for anything. She wondered if she'd be able to convince him to put pressure on the ankle to test the strength, but then considered that she'd have to lift him back into the wheelchair if he stumbled. She considered herself to possess mighty strength for a woman of her size and situation, but she was nothing compared to a man of Mr. Rosier's size!

She glanced away bashfully at his comment, her cheeks tinted the faintest pink—though, fortunately, any flush to her face could be attributed to the physicality of her position, especially at the short-staffed infirmary.

"I do not believe my sex to be part of the equation," she admitted casually, casting a sheepish smile down at him. "It would not matter if I was man or woman; a mediwizard and mediwitch follow the same job description." Most women could not afford the privilege of feminine idleness, though she assumed a man of Mr. Rosier's station would only be acquainted with the sort that could. It was easy to mistake her duty—her job—with courage when such things would never be expected of woman of higher status.

"But nevertheless," she said, "I feel my abilities would be of better use here than on an expedition, so I have not. I assume it is us who will be tending to the ill and injured volunteers." A few moments of silence passed. "And you? Would you have braved the journey if you were not trapped here?"

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“I requested to go but was soundly rejected,” he admitted with a degree of bitterness. The owl had been tricky to send and slow to return, and it galled him that the auror office did not think him important enough to transfer to London, where they could heal him in moments, so he could lend his skills to the expedition. He was confident that he would have been more use than some of those he had heard were going – what bloody use was a debutante supposed to be?

He didn’t have a high opinion on the practicality of most women at the best of times but to think the most frivolous kind were going and he was not. If he had heard Miss Tweedy had gone it would have made more sense; at least she possessed abilities that would come in handy, though he found he was still not overly thrilled with the idea of her being in danger.

“You’re probably better off here anyway. Most of them won’t have a clue what they’ve gotten themselves into so they’ll need looking after when they get themselves hurt,” he raised an amused eyebrow at her, a grin forming on his face. “I do hope you’ll still find the time to come and keep me company though?”
Dionisia's lips slipped into a tight frown. Though she understood the auror's desire to assist in the expedition, to do so while in his sister—or even while recovering—would have been, in Dionisia's professional opinion, a brash move. She hoped that the Ministry was smart enough to employ a number of useful people with skills that would help the others who would undoubtedly be less-experienced. They were shipping people in, but many people well-versed in outdoor survival were those from poorer backgrounds, and many of them could not afford to give up a month, a week, or even a day's worth of work to search for a solution that may not exist.

"I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to," she responded, the corner of her lip tugging up into a grin as she walked alongside the wheelchair-bound Mr. Rosier. "Assuming we aren't overrun with volunteers, that is. There's no telling what they'll discover; the fog could be more nefarious than currently thought."

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Being of sound and sensible mind, at least in his own opinion, Enoch had cultivated the opinion that the fog was probably a calamity the Ministry was yet to own up to. Probably the Department of Mysterious Fuck-Ups. Letting women in the Ministry was one thing but to have such an important department run by a woman, even if she had married a Lestrange, didn’t bode well for its smooth running. No doubt Mrs Lestrange – wasn’t she with child too? – had lost her mind as most women were wont to do and had unleashed something she did not understand.

The Ministry would cover it up of course, if only for the sake of Lucius Lestrange, but Enoch refused to be bamboozled.

“I’m sure they’ll survive.” And if they didn’t then at least he would be able to commandeer more of Miss Tweedy’s time. “The two of us will have to keep each other company until then,” he added with a rakish grin. She was a terribly pretty girl after all, even if she was beneath him…albeit not in the way he was increasingly beginning to think about.

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