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.
Complete a thread started and set every month for twelve consecutive months. Each thread must have at least ten posts, and at least three must be your own.
Did You Know?
Did you know? Jewelry of jet was the haute jewelry of the Victorian era. — Fallin
Barnabas was doing his best to adjust to his new life surrounded by so many people - one of which was his most beautiful bride. If she were to be by his side, he would be able to find happiness even in his discomfort. He tried not to make his pain obvious to her so that she wouldn't worry. After spending so many years primarily alone - his department was small, his office even more so and having lived alone save for the recent edition of his dog Queenie - not having a moment of peace and quiet could wear a man's nerves thin.
Whenever he was feeling irritable, all he needed to do was think of Maeve and he would feel refreshed and overjoyed at being lucky enough to be graced with her love and affection. It was almost as if it were magic, though that notion was ridiculous.
After breakfast, they had decided to talk a walk about the grounds. It was cold and windy, so they were huddled close together to share the warmth. He didn't mind it of course. It was a perfect opportunity to slip his hand beneath her cloak and give her bottom a cheeky squeeze, entirely unseen by anyone who happened to be watching them from one of the house's windows.
Thus far, Maeve had refrained from killing any of her relations. This was something of a feat, given how mercilessly they had been teasing her. While the witch had not expected she would be able to endure it, the knowledge that she had her husband's confidence and support had helped immeasurably to bolster her own self-confidence, and so while she found their barbs irksome, they did not gnaw at her as they might have otherwise.
Instinct saw her hand reach swiftly for his offending wrist, but then the auror realized what had happened and, rather than break a finger as she had intended, Maeve instead moved his hand to rest cozily upon her hip. She enjoyed the closeness of him, and the relative quiet their walk out of doors provided. Perhaps the worst thing about sharing a roof with her family was the lack of privacy such arrangements garnered, and the witch found herself wondering if Lorcan hadn't had the right idea after all in leaving.
Such notions would have to be put out of her mind at once, Maeve reasoned. She had already put her father and mother through enough of a shock.
"Perhaps we ought to take some time from work," she suggested slyly, "to go abroad for a bit, have a proper honeymoon."
He chuckled at his own slyness and welcomed the suggestion of his arm wrapping tightly around her. It made walking a bit more difficult, but he didn't mind. It was nice to feel the closeness of her outside of the bedroom and the prying eyes of her family. It seemed that her thoughts were of the same nature. Of course they were, they were in love and married! They were now one! Naturally, their thoughts would match up as well.
"I like the way you think, my darling," He told her eagerly, "Where would you like to go? I'll take you anywhere! Whatever you wish and I'll have it done. We can go to the moon, even!" How in the world he was going to manage that, he didn't know, but he'd figure it out. Whatever Maeve wanted she would receive. She deserved everything he had to give to her and more.
Though the moon was only truly an option in the minds of ridiculous Prophet editorialists, Maeve knew that, were it possible, Barnabas would do it. He would do anything for her—so devoted, so kind, so...
Obnoxious.
The thought hit her like the Hogwarts Express rolling into Hogsmeade Station and a wave of revulsion coursed through her as the redhead realized, truly realized, that the man who she so loathed was physically touching her. Abruptly the auror tore away, looking at Skeeter with murder in her eyes.
Her sudden shove away from him took him by surprise — to say nothing of the look of pure murderous rage writ across her face — one that he hadn't seen since before they'd decide to wed. It was as if she'd suddenly turned into a stranger. The shock was emphasized by a sharp wind hitting the side of him that she'd only just warmed.
Alarmed and confused, he reached for her, "Not the moon, then. Never the moon. I'll never say the word 'moon' again. Come back darling, I'm sorry I upset you."
The initial burst of disgust now passed, the redhead's mind scrambled to analyze the details of what she knew and where she was in the hopes of making sense of her current company. Maeve's head felt heavy and her mind as though things were just slightly out of its reach, as she might have after too many drinks. But the auror was sober as a judge, which made her solitude with Barney Skeeter all the more troubling.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
While in truth it was probably imperceptible, she felt the weight of the ring about her finger—much as one might experience shackles about their wrists—as the memory of their nuptials (and what had come after) came flooding back. Her look of rage shifted to one of horror as Maeve realized the appalling truth: she had married Barnabas Skeeter. She was Mrs. Barnabas Skeeter.
Maeve Connolly had never fainted in her life, but Maeve Skeeter did in that moment.
Something was terribly wrong. Barnabas didn't step closer for fear that she might run - or apparate away - even. He stood there with his hand outstretched, beckoning for her to return to him but not wanting her to flee like a cornered, frightened animal might. For that was what the look in her eyes resembled - a wild animal. Before he knew what was happening, her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went completely limp.
"Maeve!" He shouted and flung himself toward her in an attempt to soften her fall, but he hadn't reached her in time. She hit the ground solidly. He followed a half a moment later, wincing as his bad leg was jostled. Barnabas reached for her and pulled her head into his lap. "Maeve, Maeve darling, Maeve, wake up," He patted her face worriedly. If she didn't wake soon, he'd have to try to apparate them back to the house to get help. Perhaps she was simply overextended? Or... could it be? Was she with child already? Women fainted when expecting, didn't they?
There were few faces, even among her own family, that Maeve would have been happy opening her eyes to, but Barnabas Skeeter's was certainly not one of them. She could smell his breath—no more unpleasant than anyone else's—as he urged her back to a wakefulness she did not want, for wakefulness meant she had to acknowledge what had transpired between them. His hands were soft, those of a man who spent his entire life shuffling papers about rather than doing anything useful. Merlin, what had she done?
"G'off," she slurred, half pushing him away and half pushing herself upwards into a seating position, head still spinning.
He allowed himself to be pushed away, if only because he was absolutely bewildered by her sudden change. Clearly, he'd done something absolutely abhorrent! What an idiot! Had he ruined things forever between them? He'd never be able to live with himself if he lost her - and their life together had only just begun!
"Are you alright? Should we return to the house, darling? One of the healers ought to have a look at you," He ran a hand through his hair in distress. He wanted to hold her close and reassure himself that she was alright - that they were alright.
Her brows narrowed as she looked at Skeeter—well, the strange facsimile of Skeeter that stood before her now. Where was his malice? His snideness? Merlin, she could practically see the love in his eyes. This was not the Barney Skeeter that she knew and loathed.
One by one, the gears in the auror’s head ground slowly into place as the puzzle began to paint a picture of what must have happened. It was, as far as the witch could see, the only logical explanation, though how in the hell it had happened, Maeve could not yet say. The why, too, was equally troubling—who the fuck would play a joke so cruel?!
“Skeeter, come to your senses,” she spoke softly—a feat, given how badly she wanted to rage against someone right now. He was now a victim of a crime, and though Maeve hated him, she would treat him as such. At least, until he returned to his right mind. “We’ve been dosed with a love potion, Amortentia, likely as not. Come now, surely you must see it?”
If he didn’t, well, maybe a slap upside the head could do the trick.
Oh, there she was. Her tone was softer - much more like the Maeve he'd seen over the past few days. He visibly relaxed, but her words were not ones of reassurance. Were they... pity? Impossible! Maeve would never pity him!
"Nonsense. You're just confused, Maeve. We should return to the house. You'll be right as rain soon enough, you'll see," He stood with the assistance of his cane and then offered a hand out to her to help her up. Her mood was difficult to gauge. Would she allow him to assist her? His original relief that she was no longer angry with him had subsided. Had she fallen out of love with him? Had she decided she did not like him any longer? Was she going to break his heart and blame her actions on being drugged all along?! Tears of humiliation and heartache welled in his eyes.
It was the love potion talking, she knew, though Maeve had little doubt that Skeeter could have been stupid enough to believe the words coming from his mouth, given the right incentive. Regardless, it was as plain as the freckles upon her cheeks that he was not going to see reason.
Fine, the witch thought, perhaps more smugly than the situation called for. A slap upside the head it is.
A not unpleasant tingle worked its way through the palm and fingers of her dominant hand as it made contact with the soft, meaty flesh of her husband’s cheek.
“Snap out of it,” she commanded calmly, her grey eyes meeting his own as she willed him to see the truth.
To say the slap had come as a shock would have been an understatement. He'd expected her hand to go in his so that he could assist her to stand - not at all suspecting that she'd surpass her target and wallop him across the face instead. He hadn't even had time to brace himself before she'd made contact. Eyes wide, his hand flew to the offended cheek, soothing the sting with the coolness of his hand.
"Did you just slap me?!" He exclaimed, aghast at her actions. Not only did his cheek burn, but an unsettling bout of nausea had begun to bubble up within his belly. There was something horribly wrong! She had become a completely different person within the blink of an eye.
“Only to help you see sense,” she affirmed dispassionately. “There’s no need for hysterics.”
In truth, if ever there was a time to overreact and become emotional, this certainly at least qualified, but, ever analytical, Maeve knew it would do little good in this moment. For now, they had to get through…whatever this was, and they could not accomplish that until they were both in their right minds.
(Or in Skeeter’s case, as close to it as he had ever been.)
How could she be so calm about this? Could she not see how strange this all was?
"Hysterics?!" He exclaimed again, unaware that he was doing exactly what she'd described, "Maeve, darling, please, tell me what I've done wrong! We can fix this! We can be happy again!" A very faint voice in the back of his mind made an unkind remark about how ridiculous he was being about this. Begging a woman to love him was incredibly demeaning - he'd never stooped so low before. His hands reached out toward her again for comfort, intent on pulling her close so that she might remember how nice it felt to hold him.
Gently, she swatted his hand away with a decidedly audible sigh.
“I think we’d best return to the house,” Maeve offered swiftly. The chances that any of her cousins had a stock potion of antidote to this about were slim, but perhaps if Skeeter had more of an audience, he’d be less…this.
