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!

Going Away to College, But With Possible Death
June 29th, 1888 — Fudge House at the Sanditon

"You intend to do what?" Herbert asked, quite certain he had misheard his firstborn. It had sounded to the ghost as though Somersby wished to enlist in some sort of...Fog-expedition fraught with danger and uncertainty, but the spirit reasoned that that couldn't be the case. After all, while a healthy dose of adventure was necessary for any young man, healthy was the operative word. Somersby would never put his very life and limb at risk with only one year left at Hogwarts, would he?

He smiled encouragingly as he floated in front of the boy—man now, Herbert reasoned, though it seemed rather unbelievable—as though to show he hardly held the Ravenclaw at fault for what was clearly a miscommunication.

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After the Daily Prophet article and Benjamin's letter Somersby had made his mind up and he would not be detered from his course of action. It was for the good of their whole community. Somersby was a smart boy and if Benjamin was going then Somersby sure as hell wasn't letting his best friend go to his death alone. So he'd approached his father, who of all people, he assumed would take it was seriously as he did all serious matters. That was to say not seriously at all.

"I intend to join the expedition into the fog, father." Somersby repeated, either his father was taking this as expected or he really could not believe Somersby intentions. Before his father's death Somersby might have known, now he really wasn't too sure.
Whatever he might have wished to be the case, Herbert doubted strongly that he could have misheard something so outlandish twice. His face fell and incorporeal eyes widened as he realized that Somersby was going to risk life and limb.

“But—you can’t!” the ghost returned, aghast. He could not quite verbalize why the Ravenclaw couldn’t, but felt very strongly that it was true.

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Somersby had expected his father to be upset, but he hadn’t expected the simple ‘you can’t’ he’d expected at least a reason. Somersby’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “I’m seventeen, father, I can.” He explained as if he were explaining something to one of his siblings. This hadn’t been the logical response he had expected, then again, his father’s death had changed something in his father who hadn’t seemed to understand logic in his ghostly form.
Herbert made a tsk sound.

“I know how old you are, Somersby,” he reminded the boy sternly, a rarity for the father, “but what you possess in years and…and…legal stature, you still lack in experience!”

His translucent eyes were wide as Herbert tried to explain this. He did not say what he was truly thinking, that his eldest might die on this ill-advised adventure, but that was a possibility that had already begun to gnaw at him. What if Somersby died, and did not remain in the mortal realm as Herbert himself had done?

Worse, what if he did?

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His father’s harshness surprised Somersby for a moment, making him pause. It was rare to see such a reaction from his father who rarely took anything seriously. Somersby collected himself before he answered. He was the logical one after all and while he’s father’s own argument was logically sound and lacking in his frequent humor, Somersby still felt this was his right and he could convince his father through reason. “Yes, father, I have not yet graduated. But I am one of the top students in my year and more than capable in handling myself. Besides, I can actually help! My knowledge of animals is certain to come in handy on such a venture. It would almost be criminal if I sat aside and did nothing simply because I have not completed my NEWTS. Half of our world has hardly obtained their OWLS and they manage dangerous situations all the time.” Somersby was careful to keep his tone even and calm, but it increased in speed with each reason he gave, hinting at a form of passion for this venture of his.
“You cannot help!” Herbert exclaimed, exasperated. He had never been the sort to think his children were not capable of anything, but with the stakes as high as they were…he did not have the luxury to be encouraging, not in this.

“You have a great deal more knowledge and skill than most your age, Merlin, even more than most a few years your senior, but trained Minsitry officials have thrown their hands up in defeat on this,” the ghost explained quickly, “pacing” as well as one of his condition could as he spoke. “Aurors should be doing this, experts in myriad fields, not lads who have only just peeked through the door to manhood!”

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Somersby glared at his father, he was determined that he could help, it would take more of an actual explanation of why to dissuade him from his purpose.

Yes, and perhaps they are too trained to their tasks in other fields to actually be successful at this. They are trained to take down criminals, not to fight fog!” Somersby replied heatedly. “Perhaps new sight and ideas are what is needed.” He added, trying to calm himself back to some form of rationality. Which really didn’t seem to be working on his father.

Despite if you like it or not, I am going.” Somersby told the ghost firmly, with a resolve that would not be swayed. He was seventeen, this was no longer his father’s decision. It hadn’t been since March.
How could his bright, brilliant son be so blind to the obvious flaw in his plan? How could a lad who was talking with the ghost of his father be so reckless with his own mortality? The look on Somersby's face, though—the only living (for now) participant in the conversation was in no mood to be dissuaded, at least not today. Herbert did his best approximation of a sigh, finding it a bit more tricky without actual breath.

"You have to tell your mother," he acquiesced darkly. "It should be good practice for overcoming the impossible."

[-] The following 1 user Likes Herbert Fudge's post:
   Prudence Browne

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Finally his father relented, Somersby breathed a silent sigh of relief. But, the idea of telling his mother almost froze him. He had hoped his father might tell her, it seemed, however, that his father intended this to be his punishment. "I'm sure she will be alright when she sees the logic in it." He replied smoothly, knowing it close to a lie. His mother was the least logical of the family.
Herbert doubted it—was it legitimate doubt, or merely vain hope that Freddie would be able to talk their son out of risking his life? Regardless, the ghost knew he had lost this dispute, and had to console himself with the knowledge that, if nothing else, he had raised a confident lad.

He’d rather have raised a “not going to die” lad, but one couldn’t have everything.

Not trusting himself to say any more, Herbert gave Somersby a nod of acknowledgement before poofing as ghosts did, choosing to come to terms with this new development away from prying eyes.

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