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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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Life's Distractions
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Lorcan had apparated back to Diagon Alley, not far from the bakery and their flat above it, after his shift of work to and from the hospital, his limbs tired but otherwise feeling fresh and clean in the cool outdoors air. It was getting dark early, as it did, but not dark enough under the streetlamps and shop-window lights not to notice a familiar face when it appeared, walking briskly.

Rare enough that that face was found outside a book. Or a glass museum cabinet. Or something equally boring.  

"Donovan!" Lorcan yelled, not caring about disturbing the flow of passers-by, or about keeping a composed air when instead he could affect a shrill, high-pitched trill to catch his cousin's attention (and embarrass him too, hopefully). "Oi, Donovan! Coo-ee!" He dodged a few people, waving vigorously above their heads. He wasn't convinced that Cousin Donovan hadn't noticed him (it would have been hard to ignore Lorcan, since apparently no one else in the street had) but Lorcan also wouldn't put it past one of the quietest of the Connolly cousins to feign deafness and hurry back to safety.

Not today, he wouldn't, though. Lorcan caught up and began to trot doggedly alongside his older cousin, grinning at him, unrestrained. "Where're you going, cousin?"




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