Welcome to Charming, where swirling petticoats, the language of flowers, and old-fashioned duels are only the beginning of what is lying underneath…
After a magical attempt on her life in 1877, Queen Victoria launched a crusade against magic that, while tidied up by the Ministry of Magic, saw the Wizarding community exiled to Hogsmeade, previously little more than a crossroad near the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the years that have passed since, Hogsmeade has suffered plagues, fires, and Victorian hypocrisy but is still standing firm.
Thethe year is now 1895. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
Complete a thread started and set every month for twelve consecutive months. Each thread must have at least ten posts, and at least three must be your own.
Did You Know?
Did you know? Jewelry of jet was the haute jewelry of the Victorian era. — Fallin
Nova clutched a small bundle of pink coronations to her chest as she stared down at Ophelia's grave. It had been a little while since she had last visited and she felt guilty about that. That's why she had the pink carnations, 'I'll never forget you'. Sometimes she still couldn't believe that Ophelia was actually gone. Sometimes it felt like Ophelia was just on an extended trip somewhere and she'd turn up with a wealth of exciting tales from her travels. But no, Ophelia wasn't coming back, she hadn't even lingered on as a ghost, she was just gone.
It is a pity it had to be dragons... The dragon incident had been a tragedy there was no denying it, but it seemed so anti-climatic for someone like Ophelia to go that way. Just a name in a list of many others. Then again that's how it went with shipwrecks and those were still quite romantic. Outfit | Tag: Porphyria Dempsey | Notes:
Porphyria hadn’t brought flowers – she didn’t bother with flowers on any other occasion, so there was no sense in making an exception for the dead. But she had been tracing the mourning ring on her finger, with Ophelia’s dark hair bound around the dark stone, and, stooping, she dug a small handful of cool soil from the grave (it was grassy by now, but she had gotten underneath it) to absently feel beneath her fingernails, whilst they were here. Ophelia would have had no patience for dirty fingernails, Phyri expected, but that made her feel closer to her all the same.
“What do you think she would have preferred?” Porphyria asked thoughtfully. Something singular, she imagined. Not like this. (And Porphyria, for some odd reason, had always imagined Ophelia would live to be a widow first, rather than leave her spouse and son behind. Ophelia would have suited widowhood perfectly.) One question gave rise to another, more musing but still quite serious. “How would you like yours to happen?”
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Nova's eyes widened with both fascination and repulsion as Porphyria dug her hand into Ophelia's grave dirt. It was an incredibly intimate thing to do, she thought, if the very thought of sullying her hands with the dirt and having it sit there under her nails weren't so unconscionable to her, she might've wanted to do the same. Instead she made do with placing the little bouquet of carnations down at the bottom of Ophelia's headstone.
She spoke rather animatedly to me once of nearly drowning. I never felt closer to her than I did in that moment... Ophelia had admittedly been in an odd state after her brush with death, perhaps it had been wrong of Nova to enjoy her so much at time but she could hardly help it. It would have been very fitting if she had drowned. As for how she wanted to die? There were so many different ways... I rather like the idea of it being slow and drawn out, not in so terrible a state that no one can bear to sit at my bedside, I'd like to slip away peacefully at the end of a great deal of dignified suffering. The keyword being dignified, she wasn't interested in being unsightly at the end. Or else a tragic accident. My parents died together in the rubble of the house their new house, I have always found it inspiringly romantic. I think perhaps Ophelia might have preferred a spectacle to herself, rather than sharing it with others. Outfit | Tag: Porphyria Dempsey | Notes:
What with November’s flowers against the headstone of the grave, Phyri almost could picture Ophelia as the mad heroine, skin paler than ever, drowned with flowers in her hair. A little drama in it, a dash of scandal – not at all Mrs. Malfoy’s choice of dignified suffering. Tragic accidents, she could approve of, and tilted her head to acknowledge that.
“I’m almost surprised she didn’t come back as a spirit,” Phyri said, of Ophelia again. Perhaps not in the state her body had been in, at the end – she imagined a dress in tatters, blood and guts and not much left of a Society look. “To have the last word at her funeral, you know. ” And Porphyria accepted death very well, was fascinated more than afraid of it – but she did miss Ophelia something awful, day to day. “But hopefully your tragic accident is not too soon upon the horizon,” Phyri added, in that vein; her tone was teasing. “I haven’t very many friends left to lose.”
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Although their friendship - independent of Ophelia - had now been established for a while, it still thrilled Nova to hear Porphyria say as much in words. It probably ought to be sooner rather than later, it is less tragic the older one gets. Nova suddenly looked down and found her hand around Porphyria's and though she had no memory of initiating the gesture, it was clear that she must've done so. She immediately let go of her. Then, fearing this might cause greater offense, she took her hand again as though she'd never dropped it in the first place. She looked up and away so as not to draw further attention to their hands, as if Porphyria was likely to not notice otherwise. Ophelia would make a fine ghost, she muttered, body more tense than a violin string. Outfit | Tag: Porphyria Dempsey | Notes:
Something strange was in the process of happening here: Porphyria was not usually, of the pair of them, the one to be disconcerted. Or rather, actually – she was never the disconcerted one.
But November had just clasped her hand. And let it go, and held it again. Phyri’s gaze was still on Ophelia’s headstone, ostensibly, but her mind was on their hands. There was a little of the grave dirt on her hand still, from where she had been crumbling it; some had probably pressed from her palm to November’s. Maybe that was why?
“She would,” Phyri murmured in agreement. And she didn’t know if the soil was the reason, but it felt natural enough and not so much an imposition, now that she had progressed past surprise: she interlaced their fingers, experimentally. “Your hand is cold,” she remarked. Whether that was because hers felt a little unusually warm, or because they had been talking about ghosts, she couldn’t say.
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Oh, she murmured delicately, not sure whether the verbal acknowledgement of the hand holding was more the cause of her surprise or the interlocking of their fingers. What she did know was that the latter made her feel... Well, she wasn't sure exactly what, but it was very confusing and uncomfortable.
Sorry. Should she withdraw her hand then, if it was too cold? Oh but Porphyria had been the one to tighten their clasp of each other so perhaps it wasn't so offensive to her? Could it be possible that she was just commenting on her hand temperature neutrally? Unsure of how to judge Porphyria's comment, Nova opted to change subject... mostly. I suppose Ophelia is even colder... Outfit | Tag: Porphyria Dempsey | Notes:
She supposed they would just... keep holding hands, then. (It did not make much of a seancé with only two people at a graveside, but Phyri adjusted herself to the sensation by supposing there was something almost fitting about it.) “She’s turning waxy in places now, I imagine,” she remarked, about Ophelia. Not so cold anymore; the walls of the coffin would be a crumbling fortress against the slow decay of skeletonisation, but the soft tissue of her body would perhaps be changing already, seeping away from her – or turning a firm but soft candle-waxy white in places where the fat started seeping to the outside.
Mr. Devine had given them each a token of Ophelia’s hair, of course, but surely he could have given them each a hand to keep. Apparently she could not stop thinking about hands, now, because before she could stop herself she had started reciting a a particular verse of Keats to November.
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
At the mention of Ophelia's potentially waxy corpse, Nova felt inspired to inquire just how much Porphyria knew about decomposition, scientifically speaking. Nova preferred a more romanticized lens herself, but that didn't mean the reality didn't also intrigue her. Before she found the exact words to do just this, however, Porphyria was speaking again.
On the third word, Nova felt a tug of recognition from her subconscious. By the end of the first line she knew what was happening but she hadn't fully processed or accepted it. She turned her face towards Porphyria. At 'grasping' her heart suddenly seemed to lurch into understanding and threatened to make her lightheaded with its sudden hammering. From here on out she could only listen as her mind and body seemed in a state of tumult. She fought to ignore it all as best she could, even in the face of dangerously weak knees, because she couldn't bear to miss even a syllable.
By the time Porphyria had finished, there were a few stray tears running down Nova's cheeks although she was none the wiser. They had quoted poetry to one another on more than one occasion but this felt different to her. It had something to do with the hand holding. She felt an overwhelming want for something, for closeness, but that in itself confused her and at the same time it reminded her of... Oh!
Oh no.
No. She looked down at their hands. She wanted now to extract hers but at the same time couldn't bring herself to do it, she started to pull her palm away but at the same time her fingers gripped tighter. Nova, looking stricken, glanced back up at Porphyria and with great difficulty looked her in the eyes - only to immediately look away again. She couldn't summon any words, her mouth felt completely cut off from her brain. What was she to do? Maybe it wasn't too late for her to pretend all was fine and normal? Could she do that? Maybe... Maybe she was mistaken anyway, she was just a little overwrought and confused and she needed to clear her head.
Nova gave her hand a squeeze and hoped it would somehow be enough to cover everything and also make sure Porphyria didn't think she didn't appreciate her Keats when she very, very much did.
She wasn’t sure what had possessed her – but she always felt so very understood in November’s presence, in spite or perhaps a little because of things she had said of her once (bold, coarse, alarming, too free), before they had even known each other well. If anyone felt the weight and power of a poem, it was her – her heart lurched a little at the squeeze of their hands, and her gaze latched onto the trail of tears down November’s pale, almost waxen cheek. She wanted to touch her there as if to test the theory of its softness – and if she could not grasp at Ophelia anymore, November Malfoy was a fitting substitute.
So she turned more towards her than the grave, and lifted her free hand to rub one of the stray tears away with her thumb, tracing over her cheekbone with vague, inexplicable curiosity. “Come home with me,” she suggested, on impulse. To Ireland, she meant, and the Dempsey estate – so that they could spend more time together today, because she didn’t feel inclined to surrender November’s company to anyone or anything more mundane just yet, and they were already holding hands. That felt halfway to disapparating.
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Oh! Her stomach flipped and then the internal convulsion seemed to move upwards to her chest cavity where it lingered as Porphyria's thumb made contact with her cheek. Her knees started to buckle, miraculously she managed to steady herself again with only a brief wobble to betray her. What was happening? It was like some divine nightmare had descended upon her. The final nail in the coffin was the invitation. She almost couldn't breathe - it seemed like Porphyria knew what forbidden things were lurking in her soul and she was speaking to them, but that couldn't be. This couldn't be real. What she felt, what she thought she felt... What was real anymore? It was all too intense and confusing. She wanted to go with Porphyria but she needed to be far, far away and utterly alone.
She also needed to reply, she couldn't contiinue to gaze mutely upon Porphyria for the rest of the day. She was also starting to feel lightheaded and the weakness in her knees seemed only to be worsening. Fainting at that moment would be a relief and a part of her was a little surprised it hadn't already happened, and yet here she was painfully still conscious to prove it. Her shallow breathing had now gone on long enough to render her properly dizzy. The thought then, that she'd taken so long to say anything that Porphyria might think less of her was all it took to send her over the edge. She started to pitch forwards towards Porphyria which was a prospect so inviting it horrified her enough that she managed to throw herself backwards, but not before some nefarious reflex made her hand grab towards the other woman to, what, steady herself? To stay close to her?
As she lost her balance, she heard Shelley.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth...
It was only when she hit the ground that she realized that she was the one reciting it. She trailed off as soon as she realized and accepted her fate of falling in the dirt of the graveyard with as much grace as she had left to afford it Outfit | Tag: Porphyria Dempsey | Notes:
It was easy to see, sometimes, when November froze and fell silent, got all locked up in her head and pale and trembling on the outside – she had done it before, swooned in a dead faint. Too late, Porphyria had a consciousness it was going to happen again. She attempted to hold her upright, but November had grasped at her as she buckled, sending Phyri stumbling over her feet and tumbling with her.
She fell heavily and much less gracelessly onto her, no longer holding hands but their bodies more closely entangled, and Phyri suddenly a little dizzied from the Shelley. Wandering companionless, she thought, as if to fill in the rest – but though she related to the verse’s image she could only think in this moment that November Malfoy was more the moon to her.
She probably should have tried to spring up, or at least to ask if November had hurt herself sprawled there under her, but Phyri didn’t move. She was a little too caught up in the poetry of her pale hair against the grass and the earth, enthralled at some dreadful idea of dirtying her, the way she had crumbled soil into clean palms. They had always had a slight height difference but from this angle Porphyria felt just as tall as her, November’s face naturally at eye level as she gazed down. “I was going to show you around the bogs,” she said breathlessly, only partly joking, “but this is – good too.” She was rather comfortable here, lying in the cemetery dirt together.
