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.
With the same account, complete eight different threads where your character interacts with eight different usergroups. At least one must be a non-human, and one a student.
Did You Know?
Braces, or suspenders, were almost universally worn due to the high cut of men's trousers. Belts did not become common until the 1920s. — MJ
My Diary THIS DIARY BELONGS TO MISS GRACE GREENGRASS.
IF YOU ARE NOT GRACE GREENGRASS, DO NOT LOOK. IT IS RUDE.
–
9 September, 1894
It is a Monday, and I am sad.
I cannot think of better words to describe how I am feeling. I have left my bedroom in Bartonburg behind and now live in the middle of a noisy London neighborhood. I was not meant for life here; I distinctly remember three separate occasions over the last two years where I mentioned how better-suited for country life I was over city life. I suppose it matters naught now, as none of the men I revealed this to had any intention of marrying me.
It should be noted for record's sake that I do not like my employer. He has spoken only ten words to me since I entered his home, and two of them were "Miss Greengrass".
Tomorrow I meet my charge. She is returning from a stay with her aunt in the country. I was told her name only once, but it fled my mind as soon as the interview was over, and they've only referred to her as "Miss —" ever since.
Until then, I will try and get the wrinkles out of my bedsheets. I don't like how they don't match the curtains. I don't like how the drawers have scratches on them, nor how the dark wood of the trunk at the foot of my bed doesn't match the light wood of my headboard. I don't like how my window catches very little natural light, nor how the only bit of light shines right on my pillow.
The only thing I hate more than this room is Ford. I think I hate him most of all.
Here are all the things I have gathered about Miss Ellie —:
- She is nine years old and tall for her age. When I first saw her I assumed she was nearly eleven; the top of her head is nearly parallel with my ear when she stands beside me.
- She does not play with toys. I remember still being very attached to my dolls at her age, but she has no desire to play with any of the toys that I know she has stacked in a box in the corner of her bedroom.
- Her favorite color is brown. I have never met a child who likes brown.
- Her French is awful, but her Latin is better than mine.
- She is not unkind, but she doesn't like me. She does as I say with little complaint and no attitude, but she doesn't seem to take any joy in her successes, either. She does not seek my affirmation, and she doesn't appear very motivated by praise.
- Her mother died rather recently, I've gathered. This may explain the above.
- What cannot be explained by her mother's death is the sense that she is different. There is gleam in her eye that makes me uncomfortable. I sense no darkness there, but it always seems like she knows something that I don't. I don't like it.
