Charming is a Victorian Era Harry Potter roleplay set primarily in the village of Hogsmeade, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the non-canon village of Irvingly. Characters of all classes, both magical and muggle — and even non-human! — are welcome.

With a member driven story line, monthly games and events, and a friendly and drama-free community focused on quality over quantity, the only thing you can be sure of is fun!
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    07.23 Your stamp collection is about to get bigger!
    07.21 Calling in the banners!
    07.15 The rubble has been cleared and deadlines loom!
    07.10 Not one, not two, but THREE more stamps to add to your collection~
    07.09 New Account Change Feature!
    07.09 Disaster strikes!
    07.08 Charmers go above and beyond...
    07.07 Pop-up protest and photobucket things
    07.06 Photobucket emergency! Read me!
    07.04 A plot is afoot ;)
    07.01 July has come! Group threads are coming!
    06.30 Photobucket has gone rogue. What does this mean for you?
    06.24 AC incoming!
    06.15 Prefect season has begun!
    06.13 Abilities, adoptables, and notes on the CML
    06.11 Prepare yourselves - June 15th is coming!
    06.03 Networking has been cleaned up.
    06.01 New skins! Not kidding!
    06.01 June reminders!
    05.31 New skins...
    05.28 Students, get to work!
    05.27 A brief activity check reminder!
    05.21 Networking spring clean imminent!
    July 1887
    SWP7 is live!
    07.01 - 07.31 Posting Wizard
    07.01 - 08.31 Camp Charming
    07.01 - 07.09 Wizarding World Market
    07.05 First Prefect Application Deadline
    07.15 Second Prefect Application Deadline
    07.29 Hogwarts Prefects & Heads Announced
    07.31 Another Lytton Ball
    And More!
    Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time
    Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. This had already been bad, and now it was getting worse, because there was a girl here.

    "I'm fairly certain she's not a demon," Art snarked. He turned to the redhead. "Did you sleep with anyone last night?"

    If he'd had sex with the redhead - he didn't even like redheads - Dezzie was going to kill him.
    [-] The following 1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post:
       Reuben Crouch
    [Image: 2rgfha9.png]

    Ben had been alarmed enough by the appearance of the woman, but everything that happened after that only made it worse. He wasn't sure what to do with Macmillan's imbecilities. He sort of wanted to throw the man out of the barn and force him to fend for himself in the wilds of wherever-they-were, so that he wouldn't have to put up with him any longer, but since no one knew where they were, he wasn't sure exactly how mean such a thing would actually be. He didn't dislike the man enough (yet, anyway) to leave him stranded in a foreign country, or anything.

    Then Art spoke up, and Reuben's heart sank a bit. It was generally considered very poor manners to forget about someone after having slept with them, and he'd already confessed to having no idea who this woman was. Of course, he assumed that he had been the one to sleep with her, if anything of the sort had happened, because although he hadn't said this to any of the people assembled, redheads were kind of his thing. And sleeping with women in ill-advised situations, such as in barnyards in foreign countries with half of his friends not far off, or in an too-intoxicated-to-make-good-decisions state of mind, was also kind of his thing.

    He edged a bit further behind Howell and eyed her warily.
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    Fallon flipped a finger in the direction of the guy with the Parkinson-wannabe curls. “I fucking hope not.” She sneered a little in the direction of the dark haired one she very vaguely recognised. Not that all the men weren’t objectively quite handsome- though maybe she would have found the dishevelled-hair-in-hay look more alluring had she been a country girl- but if Fallon was going to sleep with some rich nonce she didn’t know, she’d at least want to remember so she knew who to bribe for abortion money a few months down the line, regardless of what happened.

    She realised her night gown had fallen down her shoulder, and tugged it up irritably. “Though Merlin knows what happened after you knocked me unconscious.” Fallon grumbled.
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    Reuben let out an audible sigh of relief. He may have been slightly less than scrupulous in many regards, but no matter how intoxicated he'd been last night, there was no way he'd slept with a girl who was unconscious. Even if she was a feisty redhead. Non-consent just really wasn't his style; he didn't even kiss someone unless he was fairly certain, through the hints they'd dropped and their body language prior to, that they'd be happy that he did.

    It occurred to him that everyone else, who had not been following his train of thought, might think it a bit strange that he'd seemed so obviously relieved by the news that they'd apparently kidnapped and knocked unconscious some girl none of them knew. Flushing, he said awkwardly, "Well, uh, sorry. About knocking you out."
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    Macmillan seemed intent to believe that they were all dead. Not only that, but in Hell. He rose an eyebrow as Ben edged behind him. Howell was trying to muster up any sort of memory but whatever drugs they had been on the night before seemed to have blotted out his memory circuits entirely. "Also, for the kidnapping," he added on, eyeing Ben a little as he wondered what the relief was about. Well, they were all here so he figured their best chance of getting out of here unharmed was to stick together.

    Moving towards the barn doors, he looked out and found... nothing. Well, some sort of house that looked like where some sort of farmer person might live but nothing that outright indicated where in the world they actually were.
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    "Oh, thank Merlin," Arthur said. He sunk into his hay bale. For all that Dezzie may kill him, at least he had not slept with the redhead, even if they had - apparently - decided to kidnap her. He was never doing drugs again. (He was definitely going to do drugs again.)

    "Where the fuck are we?"
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    ”Well, given you knocked me unconscious, I don’t know.” Fallon snapped, mentally trying to snapshot their faces so she could bribe money out of them a few months down the line. The blondish one was definitely on her list- he seemed far too relieved about not having slept with her and not too bothered with the fact he had been involved in a bloody kidnapping.

    “I was just minding my own business at my window, and you all come bumbling along and hollering about rescuing a fucking princess, which I’m not, if you haven’t noticed.”
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    Princess. Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his own stupidity, now that he had the benefit of both hindsight and sobriety. Wrong redhead, idiot, he mentally chided, though something about that didn't make a hell of a lot of sense, either. How could he possible have gotten drunk enough (or high enough, or whatever enough--there was a distinct lack of a hangover which didn't really imply intense alcohol useage) to think that trying to pry Ellory Pendergast away from the jowls of her mother would have gone well for anyone?

    Well, he had drunkenly flown a flying carpet to her windowsill, one time, so he supposed with a lack of sobriety he was capable of resounding stupidity. This entire thing was probably his fault, he reasoned--but he didn't want to tell anyone else that, least of all the redhead.

    Turning his attention back to the open barn door, Ben walked over towards the outside world, blinking at the too-bright landscape to bring it into focus. "Off the top of my head I'd say probably still Europe," he offered hesitantly. Nothing outside looked that foreign... but it didn't look like any place he could remember being in England, either. Which didn't necessarily mean it wasn't. England was a big place, and Ben had been too busy traveling the world to really explore the whole thing. Besides, how on earth would they all have gotten out of the British Isles, in their rather impaired state last night? Ben, at least, didn't keep a selection of portkeys available for spontaneous travel.
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    "Oh, good, still Europe, with the fake princess," Arthur snarked. The hay was poking through his shirt again. With a tremendous sigh, he roused himself from the hay bale and brushed off his pants. They were doing this, whether Art liked it or not.

    "I'm Art Pettigrew, princess," he introduced to the redhead, "I suppose that you have a real name?" 
    [-] The following 1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post:
       Reuben Crouch
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    Elmer hadn't said anything after Pettigrew turned down his suggestion about the redhead being a demon. He silently listened as the other men made sure that they hadn't slept with her. Elmer was quitec onfident that he hadn't slept with her either. He didn't get action enough for him to forget it. Besides, redheads weren't really his thing. Reuben Crouch's sister, on the other hand...

    "At least we didn't think that you were a mountain lion and then kill you," Elmer commented, sure that none of those uncultured imbeciles would get his literary reference.
    Howell wasn't about to give the woman his real name. That would just be stupid in case she decided to charge them for a crime. Or attempt to blackmail them. Or whatever thing women tended to come up with when they were kidnapped.

    Macmillan was being weird again so Howl kind of side-eyed him before turning his attention back to the outside world that he had been looking at. A farm. He'd slept with a farmgirl once. Their fathers tended to be a little testy so he figured farmers in general tended to be that way.
    [-] The following 1 user Likes Howell Merrick's post:
       Reuben Crouch
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    Fallon didn’t move from the hay pile, glaring at Parkinson wannabe. “You probably couldn’t kill a puma if you tried.” She snorted. “You’d risk messing up your curls.”

    One of them was asking her name- Art Pettigrew sounded familiar- a quidditch player, if she remembered correctly. Though her head was throbbing so much him being a troll wrestler was about as feasible. “Princess Fallon of the Windmill to you.” She rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t one of you go put all your lessons with your little governesses to use and go see if one of you speaks the same language as the farmer?” She wasn’t short on what languages she could speak either, but she wasn’t in the mood, and she doubted informing the man she was confiscating his temple in an obscure dialect of Greek was going to be much use.
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    Well, this was a shitshow. Art was apparently planning a tea party with this girl (Ben could think of no other reason why they would need to introduce themselves, before figuring out where they were or how they'd gotten here), Macmillan was being melodramatic and weird, and Howell hadn't said a thing. And while the redhead's solution wasn't necessarily a bad one (what else were they going to do, except go ask someone where they were?), Ben had always been shit at languages, compared to his siblings. Aldous and Roman used this sort of thing all the time, and Ben technically did, too, but unless he'd specifically bulked up his vocabulary before heading into a foreign country, the extent of his knowledge tended to be words like hi, what, whiskey, and, if he was more proficient, maybe some sort of cheap compliment, like you're a very beautiful woman.

    None of those things were going to be particularly helpful. Unless the farmer had a very beautiful woman staying in his house--but even that wouldn't be particularly useful in the short term. He doubted they needed an ambassador to go get laid and then report back in an hour, or anything.

    Well, no one else seemed to be going, so he supposed that just left him. "Alright," he grumbled, heading towards the barn door. "But we didn't walk here, wherever this is," he pointed out, glancing at Art. "See if you can find your carpet around here, somewhere," he suggested. "Or something." The carpet would have been a... uncomfortably tight squeeze, with four men and an unconscious woman, but it certainly would have been a lot better than a broomstick.
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    Oh, Merlin, had they taken the carpet? Art really hoped that they hadn't taken the carpet. He supposed it was too much to hope that they had taken a portkey. With an emphatic sigh, Art tugged his wand out of his pocket and said, "Accio flying carpet."

    He waited. Within the minute, a carpet flew through the door, summoned by his wand, and smacked into his face. Art sighed and let it drop to the floor, where he peered at it to inspect the damage -

    "This isn't mine." 
    [-] The following 1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post:
       Reuben Crouch
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