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Charming has a number of lonely plots looking for love. Why not take a gander and see what hijinks your character can get up to? — Kayte ( Submit your own)
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"Angelica" Warrington for Myles Warrington.
I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I’ll speak.
He has touched my ankle and seen me with my hair down (not intentionally, of course!), so I'm pretty sure I already know what it feels like to be married.Helga Scamander in Helga's Boy Book
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Post 3+ times in three or more class threads during the course of a school year. Must all be done with the same character, be they a professor, student, or school portrait or ghost!
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1st October, 1890 — The Painted Lady
The smell of the tea today was making her queasy. The Hogsmeade teashop always had strong floral scents wafting about, but they didn’t usually manufacture such a headache in her, or this undercurrent of nausea. Calliope had not even ordered hers, for her friend had not yet arrived.

She had tried to sit serenely and at least wait for her friend to appear, but eventually she couldn’t fake it any more, and hurried through to the teashop’s toilets. She had been feeling a little nauseous even before breakfast, so there wasn’t much to come up, but as she let herself out of the toilet and moved towards the washbasins in the little antechamber of the powder room, her face paler than usual in the mirror and her whole body feeling physically, abnormally dreadful, Calliope almost smiled. This confirmed her suspicions, then. Finally.

Absorbed in a haze of self-congratulation and persistent nausea, she splashed her face without wasting a glance for the other occupant of the room, not sure she could get down any tea now she knew the reason for the sickness. She covered her mouth for a moment, hoping there would not be a second round, and then moved towards the powder-room door.

It was stuck. Calliope pushed at it a little harder, and then pulled, to no effect, rattled the handle. As far as she could see it looked unlocked. What was this, a sticking charm?

“It won’t open,” she declared - with a hint of accusation - as she turned towards the other woman who she suspected had come in later than her and thus must be to blame. Her eyes narrowed, but that was for an entirely different reason. Look who it was.


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Having become rather blotchy and red from laughing with her friend Marcy, Ama had nipped into the restroom to powder her nose. But she was swift about it, partly because she didn't want to leave Marcy sitting there solo (especially with Ama's slice of lemon cake tempting her so beautifully), but also because she didn't care much about her appearance. At least not in any conventional way. Her dress today was a lovely, flowing thing, slightly unsuited to a lady of her age, sporting several shades of yellow. Ama cared about that more than she cared about blotches.

So she briefly checked said dress in the mirror, patting down a slight crease, before she turned to leave... only to find the restroom's other occupant standing by the closed door and looking round at her.

Ama remembered that face from the wedding notice in the Prophet. She recalled looking away as quickly as possible and reading no more than a few words, but it was too late; those features were seared into her memory. She'd recognise the new Mrs Zabini anywhere.

"Mrs Zabini", Ama greeted her courteously, her tone a far cry from the merry trill it had been not ten minutes ago. On auto-pilot, the witch — adept in wandless magic — raised her hand at the apparently locked door. "Alohomora".

It budged not.


[Image: ama-sig.jpg]


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