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
House parties were hit or miss, but even when they were a miss Don Juan was starting to think he preferred them to larger balls. There were fewer guests but in a much more constrained space, and without the structure provided by a set rotation of dances. They had the potential to be electric when the right people were involved, when the momentum kept building and there was the potential for anything to happen. Then there were those with the wrong people involved, and forced to interact by virtue of the venue, and tension building until it boiled over somewhere. This was one of those sorts of parties. Someone was here with their wife and in close quarters with their mistress, and it seemed everyone knew it except perhaps the host. Separately, there was a woman who was quite aggressively flirting with everyone — obviously for the express purpose of making someone else jealous, though Don Juan hadn't yet pinned down who (which meant it probably wasn't working very well). A third ongoing ordeal was the woman drowning her sorrows — sorrows unenumerated, but she was on her fifth drink and had been looking miserable all night.
Don Juan was had just gotten a fresh cup of punch for himself and taken a few steps away from the table when the woman who'd had too much to drink stumbled into it, upsetting the punch bowl onto a crowd of conversationalists. Don Juan raised his eyebrows and edged away from the spectacle, accidentally running his elbow into another woman as he did. "Oh, sorry," he muttered. "Just making way for the cleaning crew. You weren't hoping for punch, were you?" He supposed the chivalrous thing would have been to offer her his glass, since he hadn't managed a drink from it yet and it seemed unlikely the refreshments table would be restored any time soon. He would have to ponder whether or not he was feeling chivalrous. He was mostly just enjoying watching the chaos unfold.
This evening was a fucking shit show. She’d done this as a favor to Irina, to lend her support to her friend’s friend. It was just to please Irina; and frankly to get her to stop talking about it every waking moment (could one not finish a simple cup of coffee in peace?), and now Sybella was wondering if she should have just suffered through the endless hints in lieu of actually attending. Every where she turned, there was a disaster waiting to happen. A wife and mistress in the same room was sure to lead to the two-timing husband’s eventual heart attack which Sybella did not want to end up treating; there was a woman who seemed hellbent on flirting with everything and every one in sight (Sybella made sure to steer clear of her seeing as she even seemed to be making eyes at a rather well-endowed naked statue in the foyer); and then there was Irina’s friend Wilhelmina, (note to self: downgrade said friend of friend to acquaintance after tonight; it wouldn’t be too hard, she’d called Sybella ‘Cyril’ earlier before dinner) who was currently drowning her sorrows because the bachelor she’d been after had recently declared his interest in a friend of her friend’s.
Note to self: decrease circle of friends, their lives are all messier than a hurricane’s.
And despite Sybella wanting absolutely nothing to do with Wilhelmina, she still felt obligated to make sure she didn’t make a complete fool of herself tonight. Well, at least more than she had managed to already. Of course, that was too late because —
“Guarda, Wilhelmina!”
Cazzo, she’d just completely upturned the punch bowl! Was nothing safe from this woman tonight?
Muttering to herself in Italian, Sybella stopped herself from going to try and rescue what little pride she could have the woman. It was pointless. Mid-sigh, an elbow caught her midsection and she looked towards the man who’d done it. “Well I’m sure not hoping for any now,” She deadpanned, not bothering to hide her frustration at the woman who was now sobbing her apologies to the maids that had rushed to clean up the mess. Her gaze dipped down to the beverage in the man’s hand before rising up look at him. “I see you made it in time, at least.”
Sybella speaks with a slight Italian accent.
Her family is well known throughout the Sicilian Mafia; if your character is attuned within those circles, they might know who she is.
Don Juan raised his eyebrows, a look of amusement on his face. "No, it's not quite good enough to bother lapping it off the floor," he quipped in return. What she'd said hadn't been exceptionally funny on its surface, but her tone struck him as humorous. Did he know her already? It was hard to keep track of all the ins and outs of society these days; everyone already knew him, for the most part, and so he only got an introduction half the time anyway. Perhaps he'd met her before and she'd faded into the background of polite society in his brain, or perhaps he'd managed to avoid her thus far. He'd gone through a period where he was too infamous to receive invitations, except to the kinds of parties where they didn't mind, so it was entirely possible for him not to know people who were otherwise quite standard in society circles. He had discovered this recently: since Oz's election, he'd started getting more invitations again, and now he got into situations where he had to wonder whether or not he knew people.
"I had a cup earlier," he volunteered. "If you're parched, I'll give you mine. I could trade it up for a cocktail, probably," he mused. "Assuming the weeping wonder hasn't already smashed the liquor bottles."
Lapping it up off the floor? Sybella knew he was jesting, but she still didn’t hide her disgust. Eyes wide with her nose crinkled, she made a noise of revulsion. She rose her gloved hand to her mouth as if hiding a gag; instead, she couldn’t help but laugh. No indeed, she wouldn’t expect anything at this doomed party to be worth anything close to prostrating oneself on the floor.
Sybella was surprised the punch didn’t have anything stronger in it. At his offering, she shook her head. “No grazie, though that is very kind of you. I’m not interested in anything less than —” The rest of his offer registered and she cut off mid-sentence to whip her gaze to find Wilhelmina in the crowd. If Wilhelmina the Weeping Wonder hadn’t gotten to the liquor cabinet yet, she was about to. Sybella caught sight of her acquaintance’s frilly dress disappearing around the corner. “I swear I will make her lick up that punch herself if she so much as touches my cognac.” She’d brought that as a gift from her own family’s cellars — it wasn’t the most expensive bottle of course, but it was still meant to be savored, appreciated, not tossed back by some buffoon in the throes of misery!
And with that she immediately abandoned the man next to her and ran after Wilhelmina.
Sybella speaks with a slight Italian accent.
Her family is well known throughout the Sicilian Mafia; if your character is attuned within those circles, they might know who she is.
Oh, there she was, off like a shot. Don Juan was intrigued, but not enough to pursue her through the crowded party. If he'd chased her down they might well have become this parties fourth standalone vignette of unfurling dramatics: man pursues woman while she flees, wild-eyed. No, indeed not — he certainly didn't need that rumor spread about him.
He took his punch in hand and floated off towards the edge of the room, leaving the maids to worry over the punch bowl and the refreshments table, some of which was decidedly sticky by now. Had the woman he'd been chatting to said she knew the crying woman? Well, she hadn't said much of anything, but he'd gotten that impression. Even more intriguing; he hadn't thought she was here with handlers. If she had people who were supposed to be watching to ensure she didn't make a fool of herself and had managed to upset the punch bowl in spite of it, that really was impressive in its own way.
He found a seat — a hot commodity in a party where the guests outnumbered the chairs three-to-one. He intended to guard it as long as possible, particularly given that it gave him a decent view of half the party and people-watching had become his chief occupation. He set about trying to figure out who the flirtatious woman was trying to make jealous, and although it still didn't seem to be working he thought he'd narrowed it down to one of a pair of brothers. She seemed especially agitated whenever they were within earshot, although they were paying her very little mind.
He had finished his punch and was debating the merits of abandoning his seat in search of another drink; he glanced around to see how likely it was that he would immediately lose it and noticed that the woman from earlier was once again within earshot. "Hullo again," he said amicably. "Did she get into the cognac?"
Sure enough, Wilhelmina had gone after the liquor. Muttering to herself in Italian again, Sybella managed to duck behind a partygoer and make it to the cabinet before her friend. In the end, she needn’t have worried because Wilhelmina had gone for the cheapest, worst liquor possible. In any case, Sybella had taken the bottle back, if only to protect it from the other woman’s prying hands. Certainly after this there wouldn’t be a ball in society that would invite her back. Sybella didn’t like to gossip, but she placed a high value on consumption of goods and how to enjoy them, and Miss Wilhelmina Finkle had broken all of the rules.
Sybella had gone around the party with the unopened bottle dangling in hand by her side as she chatted amongst friends (some who cast her questioning looks but didn’t go as far to ask her motivations). Just as one conversation had drifted off into a lull she heard a greeting to her left and turned towards it to find the man she’d quite forgotten she’d abandoned in order to rescue her precious gift from Miss Finkle. “Oh - ciao di nuovo,” She greeted with a laugh. Then with a triumphant grin produced the bottle of cognac by way of an answer.
Sybella speaks with a slight Italian accent.
Her family is well known throughout the Sicilian Mafia; if your character is attuned within those circles, they might know who she is.
Don Juan looked exuberant at this turn of events. He had just been pondering his empty cup and considering whether it was worth it to go in search of another drink; she had arrived with another drink in hand. Whether she was keen on sharing it remained to be seen, but he wasn't afraid of that; he was used to being able to talk his way into just about anything. Talking his way out was sometimes another matter, but they could cross that bridge when they came to it.
"Delightful. Are you offering?" he asked, tilting his empty cup towards her. "I do think I deserve at least some credit for its rescue. I'm the one who reminded you it was in peril," he pointed out. After a half second's pause, he climbed up out of the seat of the chair and perched instead on one of its arms, with one heel up against the cushion and the other leg dangling. "I can offer you half the chair, by way of trade," he said, with a magnanimous gesture towards the parts of it he was no longer occupying.
Her grin spread even wider at his reaction. At least she’d share this with someone who at least looked like they would appreciate a finely made alcohol. He seemed rather shameless in procuring himself some too; another word could be eager, though Sybella made a show of eyeing him. Surveying as if to see if he would be worthy, though anyone who would savor the alcohol at this party was better than Miss Finkle at this point.
She had to snort out laugh at his show of climbing out of half of the chair to perch on its arm. By way of trade. Brow raised, she heaved a sigh. “Very well, I suppose,” She relented, releasing the bottle to let it hover in mid air as she swept her skirts over to settle in. She was well aware that his ‘half’ of the chair might as well have been him giving up the whole chair, what with the volume of her evening dress to fill up, though she did her best to perch on the edge of her seat in the spirit of sportsmanship. “Are you a fan of cognac then?”
Sybella speaks with a slight Italian accent.
Her family is well known throughout the Sicilian Mafia; if your character is attuned within those circles, they might know who she is.
Don Juan was habitually a fan of any drink with an alcohol content, particularly in settings like these. It was always easier to take the world in stride with a bit of a buzz to curb the rough edges. The only time he didn't reach for a drink if offered was if he already had a competing substance underway. But he liked to pretend he was more particular than he was, so he peered at the label on the hovering bottle. "If it's a good one," he answered. "Though I imagine you'll tell me it is, if you brought it. That or you've a deviously petty streak." Host gifts weren't unheard of, but they were also by no means required for a casual party like this; having gone out of one's way to buy something insultingly bad would have been dedication to the snub indeed.
"But I don't think you'd rush to save it in that case," he speculated. "So yes, I assume I'll be very much a fan of this cognac. Let me conjure you a glass," he volunteered. She had just managed to get all her skirts into the portion of the chair not occupied by his leg, and it seemed rude to make her shift to get her wand out when his pockets were still easily accessible.
With a flick of his wrist and a muttered spell, he created a neatly fluted crystal goblet. Charmwork had been hit or miss for him at school, but of all the things one might need to conjure he predictably had the most experience with drinking glasses. "Did I get your name, earlier?" he asked as he handed it to her.
Sybella watched his spellwork as he conjured a crystal goblet. It was quite a beautiful piece of work, one that would go well with the nice amber-burgundy of the cognac. She would have been insulted that he questioned her picking out a good bottle of cognac, however because he had no inclination of who she was, deigned to forgive him. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know she’d known how to pick out a good cognac since she was in her first years of Incantima. Or that her family’s cellars were nearly prolific.
“I don’t believe in being petty,” she commented, tapping the bottle with her wand to make it levitate and pour into the two glasses he’d conjured. “If someone has done something to anger me, I see no point in trying to be stealthy about my revenge. They could be completely idiotic and not understand the message.” What a waste of time and energy that would be.
With the glasses having been poured, the bottle corked itself and floated down to sit by the back legs of her chair against the wall. “I don’t believe so. Sybella Capobianco.” She provided, looking up at her new acquaintance with a soft smile.
Don Juan could appreciate her take on revenge being best served dramatically. He wasn't sure he had personally been involved in anything of the sort; his two modes in a disagreement were either not caring a wit about it and therefore not bothering to stir himself to any action whatsoever, or caring far more deeply than he wanted to let on and slinking away before anyone could realize he was invested. Still, dramatic revenge seemed like the sort of thing he ought to support theoretically as a Dempsey; probably his mother or Porphyria or Ozymandias would have been on this side of things.
He'd noticed her accent earlier but been unable to place it precisely over the buzz of other voices in the crowded party, but on hearing her name the pieces finally fell into place together. "You're Italian," he said appreciatively. He had only spent the briefest of time there after things had fallen apart in Spain, plus a two-week stint during his original tour of the continent. He didn't speak the language except for a few phrases here and there, but he had enjoyed the culture and the food. "My tattoo is Italian. Don Juan Dempsey."
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