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
The thing with being Head Boy was that Sirius saw Phineas individually much more often than he had beforehand; being Head Student called for meetings with the Headmaster, and Sirius and Flora sometimes alternated the responsibility. This Monday, it was Sirius' — he was exactly on time, as meetings with HB called for, and smiled at his father as he stepped into the office.
"Good evening, father," Sirius said — (HB was a term reserved for himself and Rex, after all.) He closed the office door behind him and stood, with straight posture, and at attention. "I have the prefect schedule for the next two weeks, as well as the list of disciplinary actions and confiscations from the past week. Which would you like to start with?"
While Sirius generally strived to come across as casual, he did not do so in meetings with professors, or in his duties as a leader. That was where his fastidious nature was more likely to come out — one could not come across as cool and casual if one had not prepared for all eventualities.
Sirius might be of age now, but he was still evidently more a boy than a man: he had smiled for no reason as he came in. Children smiled too much. It was a mark of stupidity.
Fortunately, any sense of that Sirius evaporated by the time he had stepped over. “Sirius,” Phineas greeted in turn, “sit.” He waved him to a chair opposite his desk, as if he habitually did this for any student. (He did not – other students had the luxury of standing until dismissed.)
But Sirius was already proving diligent with his new responsibilities. This was a hopeful sign. He considered the question, and answered indulgently. The tediousness of scheduling could wait today. First – “Confiscations, shall we?”
Sirius sat down across from his father as bidden, and kept his back straight. He set his notebook down on the desk and opened it to the page of confiscations. This was the official record of what was taken on prefect patrols — Sirius skimmed small amounts of items that interested him off the top, and knew that other prefects may do the same, but the only written record was in this notebook.
"Ten fanged frisbees, three low-grade love potion, six bottles of liquor, five units of belch powder, seventeen stink pellets, and a cursed sock," he reported dutifully. "The main outlier here is the stink pellets, as their numbers have gone up significantly. No fireworks this week."
(That was tragic. Sirius could really use some fireworks.)
“Hm.” He tutted at the list. It was hard to say which items were the most unforgiveable: toys and pranks were immature, love potions immoral, and alcohol a vice intended for the lowest in society, gutter-bound layabouts and the like. But then Phineas also simply could not abide a putrid smell, so maybe he held with stink pellets as the greatest danger here, after all. They would have to do something about those.
He was oddly tempted to change the subject and ask Sirius after himself on a more personal level – but he had been mostly unaccustomed to doing so for the better part of his eldest’s upbringing, so it would be inelegant to try without a little more preparation. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself once they had made headway with the disciplinary business here?
“We’ll monitor the stink pellet situation over the next few weeks,” he commented instead. “Numbers always do go up following a Hogsmeade weekend – if they get bad enough we shall simply have to rescind some Hogsmeade permissions,” he mused (he would not say quite gleefully, but close). “And if one tallies up the offenders, which house has had the most confiscations and other infractions this week?”
Sirius made a mental note to do his own checks and balances as he monitored the stink pellet situation; certain people could lose Hogsmeade permissions and it would be fine, but it would not do for rescinded permissions to interfere with some of his own hobbies. He flipped his notebook page to the tallies by house.
"Raw number, it's Gryffindor," Sirius said. This was not, particularly, a surprise — Gryffindor was currently losing the house cup. "But two of the three love potions were in Ravenclaw, so we'll be looking at continuing patterns there as well."
He felt a little juvenile satisfaction at those rankings – quite typical indeed. Not that the Headmaster ought to play favourites, but... the way Phineas saw it, all the heads of house and the matrons and the prefects and the students themselves were horribly biased toward their own, so why shouldn’t he be?
In spite of that – he peered more seriously at Sirius. “And what of the prefects themselves – are any of them proving lacklustre?” Phineas did not have sole control over the appointments, so there was always bound to be a liability or two amongst them, a student looking to abuse their power or who slacked off on their duties. “I suppose you stand in good authority with them, and the professors? They respect your position, your leadership?” Phineas would not be above investigating further, in such a case.
He could not have Sirius’ abilities in question, after all, else the cries of nepotism would only grow, and tarnish their – er, his – school record. No, his son’s record of achievement needed to be spotless and enduring. (No letting his quidditch captaincy detract from his other duties.)
December 9, 2024 – 3:49 AM
Last modified: December 9, 2024 – 3:49 AM by Sirius Black.
The prefects themselves. Sirius had prepared for this question, as well — he puffed his chest out a bit before answering. "I feel confident about my leadership of my fellow prefects, and my relationships with my professors," he said, "Particularly those whose N.E.W.T. classes I excel in." While last year he hadn't been as invested in his classes as others, now he was interested in proving himself through his exam results, and had been working very hard.
"The prefects I'm keeping a particular eye on are primarily the fifth years. Gillenwater plays Quidditch, and mudblood," Sirius wrinkled his nose, because he was sure his father had not chosen Gillenwater. "Glynn has drive, but is working class." Sirius wouldn't be surprised if one of the working class prefects made a glaring error because they didn't understand etiquette in the way their social betters did.
"And DeCroix has run into more trouble than I expected," he added.
“Good,” Phineas intoned, because he expected no less from Sirius – and he was keen and apprehensive both to see his NEWT results this year. Not because Sirius’ future and good standing depended on the grades, but merely as a point of pride. The son of the Headmaster ought to be an impeccable student – with a natural brightness and aptitude passed on in the family. Thank Merlin the Sorting Hat had seen something of the Ravenclaw in Phineas II, if not another Slytherin; he hoped it boded well too.
As for the less adept prefects, Phineas made a mental note but did not spare the mudblood a second comment. It would all be wasted breath. “Oho,” he said, of DeCroix. “The pupils don’t take well to a foreign command, is that it?” She was la fille Francaise, was she? No wonder. (He and Sirius were speaking in confidence; he could allow himself to be entertained by this.) But, in warning, he added – “But if there’s trouble, I’ll not have it in the dungeons. Get your own house in order first –” (the saying had some bite to him, given the interminably unsatisfactory state of his own house beyond the castle, but), “or we shall have to reconsider your quidditch duties.” A friendly threat, at this stage. But Phineas had never much liked Sirius’ fondness for the sport.
The corners of Sirius' lips twitched with amusement at his father's joke, because despite his private desire to do a tour, he had never found himself particularly inspired by the concept of the French.
He settled back in his chair at Phineas' threat; his father's threats had little impact on Sirius, mostly because it would require HB to parent to enact them. He nodded sagely. "I've made some adjustments to stop her from catching trouble," he said, almost lazily. "But there is another rumor. Have you heard of her betrothal?"
Oh, some adjustments? Phineas’ eyebrows rose, surprised at this proactiveness – and not quite trusting it, because Sirius knew what to say in the same way that his younger brother simply didn’t, but – hopeful of it, all the same.
“I have not,” Phineas said curtly, because who was he to listen to rumours? Rumours ought to be reported to him, really – one could not expect the Hogwarts Headmaster to sit up here and peruse Witch Weekly. (He only did that occasionally, when there was a beauty potion recipe of questionable efficiency he wanted to examine, or to skim it for any whispers of his wife’s further infidelity.) He inclined his head as if to say do tell.
Sirius had to keep himself from looking too excited to provide gossip. He loved gossip, and liked to collect it, and liked to use it. But he didn't want his father to see him trying to use it, so he tamped his energy down and merely quirked an eyebrow at his father as he said, "I've heard that she's leaving at the end of the year to marry."
Not normally a problem for the upper class girls — but they were going to have to select another prefect, if it were true. Sirius bet that HB would hate that.
“Dear Merlin,” Phineas said, with a wince. The only reason to marry off a girl so young was if she were une petite idiote or had gotten herself into trouble, and was thus better off sheltered from society’s eye in some distant marriage to spare everyone the embarrassment. Well, if that was so it was for the best she would be gone, so that he might wash his hands of her existence.
Still – he rolled his eyes, less than pleased by the prospect of granting another student the privilege in her stead. “Well, I won’t have that –” he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, trying to think of the other Slytherin girl’s name and failing – the seeker, the working class ruffian who looked like she’d been hit in the face with a shovel (she probably had, for that matter: wasn’t her father some rough lout?) “– girl taking her place. You will have to find me someone else.” A pity, that even Slytherin could be scraping the bottom of the barrel for prefect candidates nowadays.
