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Welcome to Charming, the year is now 1892. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.

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“Cheese and Crust” - an exclamation common among the lower classes. A perversion of the invocation of the name of Jesus Christ, though considered somewhat respectful for its veiling of the oath. — Bounce
Maybe a choice shade of grey - the closest thing she had to mourning clothes - as a symbolic marker that her relationship with Victor was dead.
dining is pageantry

In The Moode For A Melodie
19th December, 1891 — The Three Broomsticks
Barnaby had overcome his hatred of all such taverns as this – well, he was still loath to go anywhere near the Hog’s Head, filthy pigsty that it was – because the holidays were come and the pub was bursting with good cheer, and Barnaby might not be able to feel the cold of the snowy out-of-doors, but he could suffer the distinct sting of that old foe, the Feare Of Myssinge Oute.

And ‘twas nearly Christmas, so he was feeling generous and charitable and some remnant of his former self, given to good cheer and abandoned revelry – so Barnaby had produced himself as a particular carol-singer one evening, for those very fortunate patrons of the Three Broomsticks tonight. (He did not know what the owner of the place made of it, but he had not paused to take no for an answer – and they could not exactly slam the door in his face.)

Ghostly lute in hand, Barnaby drifted to and fro up by the rafters of the inn, regaling the revellers with a long medley of Christmas carols (some which had fallen a few centuries out of style, mayhaps, but the sentiment remained). As the peasants of the place had drunk a little more, Barnaby felt as though their patience might be waning – so he took a strategic pause, letting the silence swell and instead drifting down towards a table where someone was tucking into an evening meal. Barnaby, now half-immersed in the table, stared longingly down at the food for a protracted moment. “How is the fare here?” He quizzed, of the meal-eater. “Much to your liking?”

Morgana was settled in the Thee Broomsticks while her husband was off doing Marvolo Gaunt things. Christmas was coming up soon and she honestly didn't have a whole lot of Christmas spirit to spare. After a while of being home alone, she felt that she needed to go somewhere warm because their hut sure as hell wasn't doing the job. So she had come to the pub and being around mostly cheery folk was grating on her nerves.

A ghost of all things was singing to them all which was the most interesting thing she had seen this holiday. But after a while even that lost its luster and was just irritating.

"Better than the swill at the Hogs Head. I once saw a rats tail in my bowl there," she said bluntly when the ghost seemed to see fit to ask about her food.

That was not the answer – nor the tone – for which Barnaby had been hoping. She sounded as though she had already reached the end of her tether. Unfortunately for her, Barnaby had yet to meet the beginning of his.

He gave a ghostly shudder at the mention of that Hog’s Head fare. He would never have set foot there, alive or dead, and that review was quite enough to confirm his good reason for it. “What infernal stuff,” Barnaby said, shaking his head as if terribly offended on her behalf. “But this – this, then, is better?” He peered at her meaningfully, to say a little description of the taste, if you please.

He was not quite so desperate as to entertain imagining the taste of rat tails, but even this homely looking food would be enough to make his mouth water now, if Barnaby could still have eaten. (But the next best thing, naturally, was to watch this young lady eat and live vicariously through her.)

Morgana hummed in agreement in response to his words. "A lot better. It is savoury in a way that makes ones mouth water," she said. "It feels like it is warming my bones." Which he had none of but Morgana didn't really see any reason to be sensitive to a ghost. He was already dead so why should she care? "Do ghosts feel cold?" Admittedly, she knew almost nothing about them for she had no need to.

Well, that was a start: Barnaby’s imagination was just warming up the flavour and texture of this mouth-watering meal when this impertinent little moll had the audacity to ask if he felt cold.

“I am but the imprint of a departed soul,” Barnaby said, in sardonic monotone, dismayed by having to make this plain, and miserable, himself, to remember it. “I do not feel anything.” Did not, could not, not really, anyway – and she was hardly helping him pretend, the wretch!

He shifted a little closer to her; now she ought to feel a chill in the air from that.

Uh huh. "Though you can feel indignant, apparently," Morgana sassed in response to the sardonic monotone. It probably was not a good practice to antagonize a 'departed soul' but Morgana had never been one to possess a filter.

He shifted closer and that did give her a shiver. "You would be handy in the summer."

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   Barnaby Wye
Oh, this youthful peasant girl was horribly ill-mannered. Clever with words, mayhaps – but Barnaby’s eyes narrowed anyway, because he liked to be the annoying one in any interaction, not the other way around.

(This was what he got for deigning to mix with the masses in their goddamned public houses.)

And it only got worse at her next remark – “I am not a fan to waft or anyone’s personal ICE HOUSE! Barnaby fumed, tone going increasingly shrill in (more) indigance. He folded his arms above the hilt of his death-sword to resist the urge to swat uselessly at her, as if she were a flea to squish. (A pity for him, that he could not even squish a flea; all that was left to do was insult her back, he supposed, and so he did, with a judgemental glare.) Particularly not for the comfort of some dirty unwashed trollop.”

"You could make good galleons if you were," Morgana said, wording it like a compliment despite the fact that she was really just needling him further. Ghosts were amusing, she decided. "I am quite washed but I suppose you cannot tell not having a sense of smell any longer. Why, you can't even smell how savory the meat in my bowl smells."

Barnaby held his tongue, because if he had managed to point out that ghosts had no use for galleons or that he would never, in Life, have lowered himself to having an actual profession, either sentiment would only have come out of his mouth as an inhuman shriek.

Barnaby’s eyes bugged out of his face. And now the rotten wench was offending him about his lack of ability to smell. This was why taverns were a veritable hell on earth! (Barnaby should have incited the Hogsmeade villagers to arson that day when he’d been confronted by the constable about it, after all.)

In the meantime, he had to do something about this loathsome creature and her unceasing quips. Unfortunately for Barnaby, she had made him so angry that all thought was quite scuppered, and he just gaped at her for a moment or so, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. “Well,” he pronounced finally, quivering with fury, “I hope it is made of rat-tails – and – and that thou may’st choke upon’t, thou moldy flap-mouthed strumpet!”

(Belatedly, Barnaby realised that he was perchance making quite the scene here, and that the Three Broomsticks mightn’t invite him back to sing again.)

The look on the spirits face was quite amusing. Who knew that she would be blessed with such entertainment. She couldn't wait to regale Marvolo about the entire experience. She took a nip of her food as the spirit imitated a fish with his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

"Are you sure you want that? I could become a ghost and haunt alongside you," Morgana said easily as she continued to eat despite the scene being caused by the spirit. Compared to the spirit, Morgana was the utter picture of being unbothered.

“Impossible!” Barnaby squawked, as if he was not, suddenly and truly, terrified by that possibility. Haunt alongside him – more like haunt him! If she became a ghost, he would have no peace in death, none at all! “Foul creatures like you belong only in hell,” he assured her, damningly – but no doubt she would have something to say about that, too, so Barnaby did the only thing left that he could think of: flee.

With only a last wounded, deploring glare, Barnaby turned for the outside wall, floated halfway through it, before darting back to retrieve his lute from the rafters – and then, with a dramatic swooping dive through the air, fled into the winter night.

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