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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


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Iola Hitchens for Elladora Black. The Blacks' black sheep.
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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Blue Christmas
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December 23rd, 1888, Evening — Church of St Fergus
Just before the CMJ Nativity Pageant

Beneath her blue robes, a cushion had been strapped firmly to her belly, giving her the illusion of the roundness of pregnancy. Too firmly, if one were to ask Blythe, but no one had, nor did they seem to care that the witch was having trouble breathing. Blythe Fairchild had had no desire to play the role of the saviour’s mother in the nativity, but her aunt had been beyond reason and so here she was, awaiting the ordeal, relieved—at least—that she would not actually be giving birth to Jesus Christ. It was a very minor comfort, given the amount of eyes that were soon to be upon the shy witch, and the fact that she could not breathe.

Blythe stood against the rear of the church, its overhang protecting her from the lightly falling snow as she did her best to steel herself against what was to come. If only her father were here, she might have had a friendly(ish) face in the crowd, but she had all but begged Miss Lestrange not to attend and her aunt’s hawklike gaze would be upon her throughout.

The witch gave out a choked little sob, willing the whole thing to be over.



— graphics by rune ❤ —
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Despite her beliefs best aligning with those of muggle's version of Christianity, her uncle had never discouraged her from attending any service or event hosted by the Church of Magical Jesus. She supposed it was his way of showing support, because even if she was off doing magic in a school he'd never be able to lay his own eyes on, he knew she was still following the word of the Lord.

Still, it never got odd being surrounded by numerous recognizable witches and wizards. Though many tried to align with muggle fashion, there was always something—maybe an out-of-place hat, or maybe a clashing cloak—that set them apart from the overall dull muggles that populated Irvingly. The difference was even more distinct when both magic and muggle folk had gathered under the same roof for the same reason: The Church's Nativity Pageant.

Overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who had actually chose to attend, Myra fled to the back of the church to escape the heat, but found that she wasn't the only one in search of solitude. It was a girl—a distressed girl—who she recognized but well enough to know her name.

"You look like you could use a prayer," she said softly, reaching out but not quite touching the other girl.
#3
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Her solitude was pierced, and Blythe stiffened before hastening to wipe the tears from her eyes, relaxing when she discovered that it was not the rector or her aunt or any number of people likely to tell her aunt, but a young lady close to herself in age.

“I am not sure what I wish for more,” Blythe confessed. She recognized the witch—and she was a witch; she had seen the face at Hogwarts before—as Miss Dursley of the Reverend Dursleys, but knew little more about her. Still, as prayers went, hers must surely be better than most. “For an incident of some sort to absolve me of this responsibility—” she almost said ‘burden’, but thought better of it as God was likely listening closely “—or for rather an uncharacteristic surge of courage to get me over my stage fright!”



— graphics by rune ❤ —
#4
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Myra's features softened even further at the explanation, a sympathetic smile finding its way onto her mouth. "I'm sure I could quell your fears without need of a prayer, then," she said, her gaze dropping to the the unnatural bump that protruded from the witch's stomach. "I could always say you fell ill and I took your place," she offered, patting her the flat, corset-bound plane of her stomach. "I don't mind the attention. I'm used to it." At home, at least, and definitely in Church during the summer months. An extrovert she would never be, but she neither so anxious and intimidated by the prospect of having all eyes on her.


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