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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Post at least once with the same character every day for a month.


The Book of You
8th January, 1888

Dear Marmaduke,
Is it terribly sad of me to say I already miss you since leaving for Hogwarts again? (I still find that terribly funny to say, as though I have regressed to going back to school - I expect you understand that, whenever you have to visit for "NEWT exams"!) Well, anyway, I do.

The school is almost noisier than home at the moment, too: some pupil's diary has been unceremoniously published to the world. A Hufflepuff girl, I believe; not one of my students, so I have blessedly avoided mention - though it is a real tragedy for her, I am certain. You know how insensitive students can be! I am almost sure I did see a line or two about Lucky, though, if you can believe it!

But how is work? And what are you reading, at the moment? Something less scandalous than a diary you shouldn't, I hope!

I ought to be marking homework, so I had better leave it there, but I am looking forward to hearing from you, and, as always from your older sister,
lots of love, Carmelina

9th January, 1888

Dearest Carmelina,
It is terribly sad to miss each other so soon, and yet it is a sadness we share. To return to a place where our whole lives were ahead  of us, only to know that we are tethered to our chosen paths until our fateful ends.

I remember well how insensitive fellow students could be! Few slights cut as deep as the injustices of youth. Who dare besmirch Goodluck? They must just be jealous – no doubt their life would flash before their eyes on a broom!

I worry about Goodluck. It seems but to tempt the fates to give a child such a name, that it might put flights of fancy in one’s head. How fortunate for us he manages to live up to it. He still is, is he not? It was an awful storm tonight, and death is ever looming.

You wear gloves handling those artifacts, do you not? That archeologist (Macbeth? Macbain?) who licked that fossilized Bosnian cookie or whatever it was still has a curse running through his great grandchildren.

May your grading not involve the Lindevalds. Never have I been more grateful for the finite state of living as when I have to decipher a Lindevald’s dragon scrawl.

With love beyond my last dying, sputtering breath,

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