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.
The very notion of not going to work hadn't even crossed his mind, it had been a foregone conclusion that he'd go to work tomorrow even after he'd been shot. Yes, he might find it difficult and extremely uncomfortable but the alternative wasn't an option. "I never miss work, I also don't take many personal days so the Minister is going to find it strange if I suddenly ask for another day." He'd mulled over a dozen or so different explanations for the Minister to address why he was moving like he was under a half worn-off full body-bind curse. "I'd rather not deal with too many questions I can't answer, it's in your best interest too. If I'm arrested for illegal dueling you're coming with me."
"Well aren't you a good employee?" Valerian said quietly as he busied himself with another potion he'd left on the dresser, so focused on his task that his words lacked the sarcasm he'd intended. He poured a few different unlabeled liquids into one empty mug and then walked back over to the bed, settling himself on the corner at Macmillan's feet. It was strangely intimate given how they'd been shooting at each other less than twenty-four hours prior to this whole ordeal, but being in his own home made him a little more comfortable.
"What do you think's going to happen if you show up at work? Honestly," he said, passing Macmillan the mug to drink from. "You'll be at the Ministry, with the head of the government and surrounded by law enforcement officials. What happens if you collapse? Start bleeding again? Die in the middle of your office?" Any of those were worse than taking an unusual off-day. There were plenty of things that could keep men at home—and Macmillan had a daughter, didn't he? "You could cause a scandal at work. Then we'll both be finished," he pointed out.
Macnair had a point, sort of. It was possible a long day at work wouldn't go as well as the brief meeting earlier with Miss Lestrange which one could say hadn't gone 'well' at all on account of almost being caught literally red handed. He'd reasoned that after one night of rest and proper medical attention (which he then hadn't sought and still wouldn't have received had he not passed out on a healer) he ought to be much improved and even better prepared for a day of work as long as it didn't require a lot of movement. He was still reluctant to admit how optimistic that outlook was though, even as he sat half undressed in Valerian Macnair's bedroom - was it his bedroom or a guest room? - barely able to shuffle himself out of the bed.
"There are a thousand ways on could sustain a wound like this without it involving illegal activity!" he snapped, although he couldn't think of a single one that didn't sound ridiculous. The best one he could think of at present was a unicorn mishap whilst giving in to the whims of his young daughter. He really didn't fancy telling the Minister of magic he'd been impaled by a unicorn of all things though, he'd sound pathetic. "Whether I go to work or not, I absolutely can't be here tomorrow. You can't keep me hidden here like a pet you're keeping secret from your mama, I'm a grown man for god's sake!" His pride simply couldn't countenance it.
Macmillan had a point, but it was one easily refuted. They could go back and forth all night and they wouldn't have a good solution, but this wasn't exactly an easy problem to solve so they'd have decide—or Valerian would have to decide, since Macmillan wasn't in any state to be making decisions—what the best path forward was. He eyed Macmillan's bandages suspiciously, knowing there was no way that he'd be able to go into work without being caught. There was just - absolutely no way. He had an infection, and although he believed he'd stopped it with his potions there was no telling how it would develop over the next few hours, let alone the next day.
"You can't travel magically. Not like this. The potion I've given you doesn't react well with added magic—it's too strong. I wouldn't even floo with it," he explained using his healer voice, which felt a little misplaced but also very necessary given the severity of the situation. "This is a guest room. Nobody comes in here except the servants to dust once a week. You'll be safe here." Safe, healthy, under his watchful eye (and hopefully not-dead, too.)
It suddenly occurred to Charles that he was being incredibly trusting of a man who had not only put a bullet in him earlier but done so through dishonest means. Oh yes he'd denied cheating and all that but he knew what he saw and perhaps Macnair could lie to his face with ease about it because he technically hadn't done it himself- Elmer. That son of a- No, that was a greater insult to his own mother than the little guttersnipe he called a younger brother. The two had obviously conspired or else Elmer had acted in a characteristically cowardly way and tried to murder him by proxy, but to what end? Elmer was many thing but he'd never seemed the type to resent Edward for being the heir as he did, Elmer was too far down the pecking order to have such aspirations. It was entirely possible Elmer simply resented him that deeply.
He'd make sure Mama found out about this, somehow... So he didn't have to give away that he'd been dueling. God Edward would look so good if their parents found out not one but two of their three sons had illegally dueled and lost in the same week. At least if Edward died he'd still be a preferable heir next to Elmer. He could probably go to Azkaban and still be a less embarrassing son than Elmer. It was all inconsequential right now though, he could do a damn thing about Elmer's treachery whilst Macnair was holding him hostage.
"You can't keep me here, I managed to apparate here fine earlier and I feel considerably better now." That was definitely not a compliment or any kind of gratitude for the medical attention, nope. "I'm supposed to be coming here tomorrow to see your cousin, I can't just turn up inside the house already and wearing the same clothes from yesterday, covered in dirt no less!" Did he even have the ring with him. Shit he couldn't even search his pockets now, what if it'd fallen out? He couldn't search the lawn in broad daylight! Fuck this was a mess! "And what the hell am I supposed to be doing with this?" He brandished the vial he was still holding. "I'm going home Macnair, I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making out." He threw back the sheet again and shuffled off the edge of the bed.
Charles regretted standing up before he'd even properly stood up. His eyes were almost watering with pain which baffled him on account of he was sure it hadn't been so painful before he'd passed out. The vial fell from his hand as he reflexively stuck that same hand out to steady himself against the bed. "Of course you're fucking poison healer, aren't you? Bullet not good enough for you? You know poison is a woman's weapon, you should've left it to the pistol." His voice became increasingly constricted from the effort of holding in how much it hurt until he finally grunted and crumpled to his knees.
Despite Macmillan's insinuations that he was fine, Valerian knew he was very much not. It didn't take a near decade as a healer to know it; the pain on Macmillan's face as he repositioned himself on the bed was noticeable and so was the strain in his voice. He was irritated, which seemed to be his usual state, but now he was borderline paranoid. Macmillan was not only injured—it was possible that he was ill, his nerves out of whack from the previous day's events and his body unprepared to handle everything at once.
"I know you want to believe you're fine. It's normal to feel that way," he explained using the same healer voice, rising off the bed. He shadowed Macmillan as he made a clearly painful attempt to move to the edge of the bed, mirroring his movements in case he needed assistance. He was being silly and he knew it; Macmillan was a grown man and should be able to make his own decisions, but Valerian knew what sort of mindset he was in—he'd smelled the alcohol on him earlier—and letting him try to find his way back home wasn't smart from the perspective of Valerian The Healer or Valerian The Guy Who'd Just Shot Him.
"It's a pain potion, it's meant to—" he began to explain, but then Macmillan had the grand idea to try and get off the bed without assistant and collapsed. Valerian shot forward and snaked his arms under Macmillan's and tried to pull him back into a standing position, grunting as he tried to hold his weight. "For Merlin's sake, Macmillan, have some sense," he grumbled, just as he was finally able to put Macmillan back on the bed's edge. With a gentle shove—it was almost surprising how little effort it took—Macmillan fell back towards the pillow, and for a brief second Valerian kept his knees on the edge of the bed and hovered over him.
"You're right, though, I do deal in poisons, and I know about half a dozen I could use to knock you out for the next week if you don't agree to let your body rest." He pulled back suddenly and roughly tossed the covers on top of Macmillan before turning so swiftly that the edge of his cloak flew up. This could turn out better than he'd thought; Macmillan might be too ill to even see his cousin, which would give him time to figure out what Tatiana intended to do about him before it actually happened.
His body was screaming at him and then his pride took a turn when Macnair grabbed him and he was powerless to stop the man from manipulating him like a ragdoll. This was hell, this was his own personal hell goddamn. In all his years of clutching at his mother's apron strings this was somehow the most emasculated he'd ever felt in his life. Well maybe, time had dulled it but Noelle had certainly done her best both in life and posthumously. Particularly posthumously.
It was perhaps worth admitting to himself now that he would have to wait until he'd at least had a nap before he tried to go home. That prospect was almost as unpleasant as having to admit that that meant Macnair was right about something. He flopped back against the bed with a groan of discomfort and defeat, the sight of Macnair looming over him only made it worse. He tried to swing his leg at the other man to kick him although there was hardly any power in it if he even managed to make contact. "I'm leaving first thing in the morning and I'm not taking any more potions." If he felt better after some sleep he would rule out going to work although he was finally accepting the fact that it would probably be beyond his capabilities. "You will make sure I'm awake in time to send an owl to the Minister or else." Oh shit his owl... "I'll need your owl. It'd better be a fast flier."
Whatever you say, Valerian thought as he poured another vial of potion from the cauldron he'd prepped earlier. He would not force it down Macmillan's throat, but in a few hours he'd be begging for it—the effects of his current potion would not last forever.
"I'll have to check you in the morning, but assuming all is well—" Which it would not be, he'd reckon. "—I will allow it. My owl is perfectly capable, so you've no reason to worry about that."
"'I will allow it'," he mimicked in an insipid little voice. Immediately afterwards he felt foolish and regretted being so childish, which was impressive really considering how pathetic he already felt being tucked up in bed by Valerian Macnair of all the fucking people. The only person who could tuck him to bed like this was his mama and the whole situation was just an insult to his dignity. Never mind it was a situation entirely of his own creation from start to finish. "You're worse than my childhood nursery maid." That thought circled him back to Elmer. "Since when are you friendly with my absurd brother?" He tried to sit up suddenly but was immediately reminded of his wound and grunted as his head jarringly hit the pillow again. "You're not to breathe a word of this to him, do you understand? Elmer will-" Run to Mama and tell her everything. "He's an idiot and a terrible second, why couldn't you have used one of your own brothers? You've got more to spare besides." Not that he was thinking of how much he'd miss his younger brother because he wouldn't, his mama on the other hand... Could Elmer really have been the one to rig the duel?
Macmillan was determined to be as difficult as he could, wasn’t he? Valerian rolled his eyes at the mimicking and managed to push down the urge to smile, either because he’d won the argument or because... something else entirely. He walked back towards the bed and placed the small vial on the bedside table, leaving it propped up against the decorative candleholder.
“You’re lucky you’re dealing with me here and not at the hospital. You’d have far less choices,” he pointed out, sitting on the edge of the bed near Macmillan’s knees. None of the way he’d tended to Macmillan was influenced by their duel, semi-mutual hatred, or Macmillan’s pursuit of Tatiana; he’d treated him with the same care that he’d treated his younger brother a week prior. He ought to be grateful—it would have been less comfortable in a hospital bed.
“I visited your brother after his duel,” he explained, not really sure why he was explaining it but - well, it had been a long evening and he was too tired to resist. He doubted Elmer would shut his mouth if asked, so better to relay the details himself. “He’d been hit by a dozen magical arrows. At least he had the sense to stay in bed all day.” It was amusing to think that Elmer was more sensible than this Macmillan—but in a way, he was. Sort of.
“If you agree to follow my medical advice, he won’t hear a word of it,” he offered, a single brow raised in challenge. “But if you don’t...”
Ever since we met I only shoot up with your perfume,
It's the only thing that makes me feel as good as you do
Elmer didn't need an excuse to lie down all day, he was a lazy wastrel and had probably been delighted. If Elmer did something sensible it was a coincidence. Clearly Macnair had been desperate for a second; he didn't seem to know his younger brother at all well if he thought he had a shred of common sense between his ears.
You can't blackmail me! Except he could. Charles forced himself into a slightly less impotent position, propping himself up on his elbows in outrage despite the discomfort it caused him. If you tell Elmer, if he ever breathes a word about to the duel to my mother - or anyone - I will destroy you. He wasn't sure in what sense but he was fresh out of ways to threaten Macnair. He couldn't do anything physically challenging at present and the man's career was, as ever, beyond his jurisdiction. Threatening his family whilst under their roof and trying to marry into it was ill-advised. What else was there? If there was any other way besides a scuffle that he could've subdued the threat Macnair posed to his future happiness he'd have tried it before ever raising a fist in Macnair's direction. There was surely some deep, dark, embarrassing secret; skeletons in his closet; something he could use against him; he just hadn't found it out yet. Outfit | Tag: Valerian Macnair | Notes:
He could blackmail him and he would, especially knowing in a few days time he'd likely be receiving a pile of strongly-worded letters from Macmillan about how his meeting with Tatiana had not gone the way he'd expected.
(Besides, if Macmillan thought that 'destroying him' would do him any favors in his family's or society's eyes, he was wrong.)
"But what would I have to gain from that?" he said, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, "What would I possibly have to gain from telling anyone, especially Tatiana or your brother, that you showed up at my house drunk, killed an owl, and challenged me to a duel weeks ago?" He had already hinted the latter to Tatiana, but had not said it in such plain terms. He could change that, though.
He did not want a dead Charles Macmillan on his conscious.
Ever since we met I only shoot up with your perfume,
It's the only thing that makes me feel as good as you do
Charles desperately wanted to knock the smug look off his face but seeing as he couldn't reach Macnair's face at present it was unlikely. Satisfaction I'm sure. If the shoe were on the other foot he wouldn't have hesitated. It can't feel good to be here, with me, knowing I've won. Tatiana Macmillan just sounds right, you have to admit. It wasn't exactly smart to goad a man whose ego had been crushed sometime earlier thanks to you whilst also being physically incapacitated and thoroughly at his mercy. Outfit | Tag: Valerian Macnair | Notes:
Satisfaction, I'm sure—if only he knew. It was all he could do to contain his evil little grin, because Macmillan didn't know that he'd won, that all the power was in his hands. He had Macmillan in bed, unable to go anywhere despite his good intentions, and Tatiana was to be his wife, not Macmillans; and still, there were other things he could hold over him, things that could impact other areas of his life if he tried to pull something.
And he would.
Valerian caught Macmillan's gaze, his blue eyes narrowed but not cold; there was a softness to them, a strange intensity that he couldn't define the source (or intention) of. "Plenty good," he responded simply, hearing the underlying meaning to his own words but positive that the stuffy, uptight Macmillan wouldn't catch on, not even for a moment.
Ever since we met I only shoot up with your perfume,
It's the only thing that makes me feel as good as you do
Charles' lips twisted into a faint grimace. What did Macnair have to be so pleased about? He'd hadn't gotten the girl and he hadn't won the duel on his own merit! Oh, it was because of right now. Of course it was, he was almost as defenseless as an infant, why wouldn't Macnair take pleasure in that? If the roles were reversed he certainly would.
I don't know what you're gloating about, we both know if it weren't for the hole in my stomach I wouldn't need magic or a pistol to wipe that stupid look off your face. In Charles' opinion the last fair fight they'd had had been the scuffle at the club, not that it was the most dignified way of settling a dispute but apparently it was the only way Macnair could be trusted not to cheat. Why are you still here anyway? Are you going to stand guard all night to make sure I don't go for a wander? The last part he spoke with a mocking, infantile inflection in his voice. Outfit | Tag: Valerian Macnair | Notes:
The only thing more entertaining than knowing things that Macmillan didn't was watching Macmillan getting annoyed at him, thinking he was still the clear victor. It proved that he held a power over Macmillan that even marrying Tatiana wouldn't rid of quickly, and for some reason he liked it. "You wouldn't have had the hole there in the first place if you hadn't tried to wipe the look off my face in the first place," he reminded him, pushing himself off the bed but not going very far. He went over to the door and grabbed his coat, taking great care to put it on so it covered the stains on his shirt—dirt, sweat, and a little bit of Macmillan's blood.
"Maybe I should," he fired back as he fastened the buttons, looking up every now and then to gauge Macmillan's expression. Finally he leaned against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. "You do have a habit of not living up to our deals."
