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 1894. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
While Darling was generally very much of the opinion that all people had sort of good side to them, she was also of the opinion that Kristoffer Lestrange's was buried quite deep. She generally managed to avoid having to speak with him too much, at least. The few times that she had to had been rare but enough for her to know it was not an experience she tended to enjoy. How someone as wonderful as Frida could have such a brother was very much beyond the blonde.
She had been gossiping with Frida when a young gentleman came to whisk her friend off elsewhere. It was not a ball but a cocktail party however some people seemed to be dancing anyway. Her chaperone was somewhere around and Darling had been about to go to their side when her eyes caught onto Mister Lestranges.
Oh, no. It was too late to pretend she had not seen him and it would be very rude to just not greet him at this point. "Happy New Year, Mister Lestrange," she managed to greet with a kind smile.
A new year was approaching, which meant little enough to Kristoffer, who could not be bought in by the usual talk of resolutions and high-minded promises of reinvention: one could not promise to self-improve if there was nothing to be improved.
He couldn’t say the same of everyone here, however, scanning the crowd for Frida with a cocktail in hand – and Frida had scurried off somewhere like the mouse of a person she was, which left only... “Miss Whitledge,” Kris greeted, his returned smile rather less kind, though he was pleased enough to see her. Obviously he had always thought her a bad influence on Frida’s character, and had always loathed Miss Whitledge’s brother, too – but she was pretty, nonetheless, and the aforementioned reasons made it twice as pleasurable to pick on her. “Still ‘Miss’, I take it?” He asked. (Not that she had been out very long at all, and not that Frida had any prospects either – but still, he thought it was a nice insinuation that there was probably nothing Darling Whitledge had to be celebrating from the dawn of a new year.)
"Yes," Darling responded primly in response to the question Mister Lestrange asked. "If I had been wed, Frida would have surely been invited to my wedding." She did not intentionally imply that he would not have been but the feel of it was there, all the same.
“That’s kind of you,” Kristoffer said, with a barely-concealed snort and a disparaging air of I don’t know why you would. “I wouldn’t have.” Frida’s presence never added anything that he could see – but obviously he was her family, so he was obligated to have her around. (Miss Whitledge presumably liked having pureblood connections in society, else she would have dropped Frida’s friendship by now, surely.)
Kristoffer was so busy being condescending about his sister that he hadn’t actually noticed the implication in Miss Whitledge’s words. He had caught the slightest touch of a tone in it, though, the primness sounding almost impertinent. He raised an eyebrow, sure he’d imagined it. “You haven’t seen her, have you?” he added casually, supposing Frida had sensed him coming and made a timely disappearance so as not to be picked on tonight. Ah, well: he had Miss Whitledge to amuse him now instead.
"But she's your sister," Darling couldn't help but say when Mister Lestrange said he wouldn't have invited Frida. She knew that the siblings did not exactly get along but even so. Though she didn't know what woman would despise herself so much as to want to marry someone like Kristoffer Lestrange. He was a pureblood from a prestigous line though so she supposed someone would do so eventually.
"We were chatting just a moment ago before she was whisked onto the dance floor," Darling said, her gaze darting to the dance floor to see if this was still the case..
“Who asked her to dance, an ogre?” Kristoffer said with a loud scoff of laughter, although it was mostly to himself. Miss Whitledge was friends with Frida, yeah, whatever; his wit would be wasted on her.
“But I won’t judge you on your siblings if you won’t judge me on mine,” he drawled, because between her brother and her odd working sister, Miss Darling hardly had stellar relatives to recommend her. “What shall we do in the meantime, then?” He asked, raking his gaze over her as if Miss Whitledge desired nothing more than to spend as much of the evening as possible in his company. (Who in their right mind wouldn’t?)
"A very handsome man," Darling said, defending her friend. Well, she wasn't exactly sure of the mans looks. He had seemed like any average gentlemen. In this moment, however, he was the most handsome gent who ever lived.
"I don't judge your siblings. They are delightful," never mind that she was really only familiar with Frida. Frida's sisters had never done anything for Darling to think negatively of them. They certainly weren't as bad as their brother.
The way his gaze raked over her made her a little nauseous. "In the meantime? You mean you intend to wait here with me for her?"
A very handsome man? Kristoffer didn’t believe that for a second.
But he could forgive Miss Whitledge all her naive loyalty for the disconcerted question she asked next. She didn’t sound wonderfully pleased about it – was that just him? – but Miss Darling Whitledge surely didn’t know the first thing about being unpleasant to anyone, did she? Kristoffer would like to see her try.
“Well, since no very handsome man has whisked you away,” Kris affirmed, with a mocking glint in his eye. “It would be remiss of me to leave a young lady standing alone, bereft of any company.” Wasn’t he thoughtful? (At the very least, he would be entertained.)
"Are you suggesting that I ought to dance with you?" Darling asked, a little incredulously. Or perhaps he meant sticking around for conversation but even that, she was not very pleased about.
You, she said, as if he was the last man on earth with whom she could conceive of dancing. Until that incredulity in her tone, Kristoffer honestly hadn’t cared one way or another.
But now. Now she had made it sound like a provocation, so he really had no choice at all. “And if I am, Miss Whitledge?” he asked, a challenging glint in his eye. No well-bred woman could politely refuse a dance when she had no other excuse for it, and he very well knew she didn’t.
He extended his hand, expectantly. “What do you say?”
And what if he was? She would have no choice in the matter. She wasn't naive enough to not know that publicly shunning a Lestrange would be very bad, societally speaking. And his sister was one of her dearest friends.
Ugh.
She really had no choice. Her smile was forced and it was obvious. "I'd be delighted to dance with you, Mister Lestrange," she said as she reluctantly accepted his hand.
“Excellent,” Kris said, in his most obnoxiously pompous tone. He was sure she was being intransigent, beneath the veneer of good graces – he just didn’t know whether he was pleased or annoyed about it yet. Nor whether he wanted to ignore or to prod at her until the facade unravelled.
He escorted her out to take their places, kept his eyes determinedly on her all the while as they made ready; she would not have any respite here, no glancing around at the other couples and pretending she was not here. “So,” he said, self-satisfied, and happy to make perfectly banal conversation if it meant she had to indulge him in kind – his hand was on her back now, the other clasping hers – “do you like to dance?”
If there was one man that Darling ever had a desire to actually punch, it would be Kristoffer Lestrange. He was insufferable at best. Anyone who could genuinely like him had to have serious issues. The way he treated people... it was abhorrent.
"I very much enjoy dancing, yes,"when the company was tolerable. "And you, Mister Lestrange? Which dance is your favorite?"
“Oh, the dance matters less to me than the company,” Kristoffer said, voice cheerful but the inflection behind the words intended to injure. It was true, he supposed: and he would enjoy himself all the more in this one if he could make it torture to Miss Whitledge. That would rub away her patience, wouldn’t it? “A dance all depends on one’s partner,” he explained, with a look to imply and you are entirely disappointing. “But you can surely have no complaints about my technique?” Kristoffer goaded, making a point to – subtly – press his foot upon her toes in an attempt to make her trip up a step. For the entertainment of it all.
Darling could very much agree on that. And that look on his face reflected how she felt. "Of course not. You are not heavy footed at all," she said, almost through gritted teeth as Lestrange pressed his foot upon her toes. As if they weren't tortured enough by being pinched into new shoes!
