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.
There was a reason people seldom threw parties at this time of year. The floor in the entrance hall was ruined by sleet and melted snow, dragged in on the shoes of anyone who had walked more than a few feet from their carriage door to the front porch. Despite the best efforts of the staff to keep the fires stoked at both ends of the ballroom, there were still gusts of freezing wind blowing through the room whenever a new guest arrived. In spite of this, there were always a few brave or stupid hostesses who were too charmed by the idea of snow-spotted ball gowns to hold off until the snow melted. It was a shame it wasn't fashionable to travel by floo; Morgan would have preferred a little ash over wet socks any day.
But he was here all the same, because a party was still a party even if the journey here had been a little unpleasant. He had found a drink and had made conversation with some friends from the club, and now he was thinking he'd dried out enough to ask someone to dance. He spotted one of his usual dance partners across the room, so he said his goodbyes to the man he was talking to and started off in that direction — only to hear the sound of fabric ripping as he accidentally stepped on the dress of the nearest young woman.
Clarissa had made it a point to protect her gowns hems and shoes with a spell so that they could stay dry and free from the snow and sleet. Not everyone seemed to have had that hindsight though as she spotted more than one dress hem with snow encrusted upon it. It was one of the greatest perks of being a witch to be able to have her shoes and gown nice and dry, she thought.
She had been speaking with someone when she felt a tug at her hem. She gasped as some of her gowns fabric ripped. She quickly adjusted her gown so that her ankles wouldn't be unduly exposed. Then her cheeks flushed when she saw who the culprit was. At least she now knew his name thanks to some mild investigation. Even so, she couldn't quite stop the oh, it's just you expression from crossing her features. "It seems we are always to meet in less than stellar circumstance," she snarked.
Under normal circumstances Morgan would have been mortified to have torn someone's dress, but the way she reacted had any apology he might have made dying in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was her expression or her tone, but something irritated him to the point that it evaporated whatever goodwill he had left over towards her for not having said anything about their last encounter to anyone else at the New Year's party.
"Quite," he said in a clipped tone, moving his foot off of her hem. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with that? You didn't go laying down curses when you assaulted me with the umbrella, did you?"
Clarissa rose an eyebrow in response to his words. "Why would I do something like that? It isn't like I wished to see you ... well, the way I last saw you," she said, her cheeks flushing a bit pink of the faint reminder of manly legs and a dark room.
She supposed she was just lucky that she didn't seem to be pregnant though she didn't think she had been alone with him long enough for it to have taken root. Clarissa didn't know how it tended to come about but she knew it happened if a man and a woman were left alone together for too long. She and Evan had been alone a couple of times but not for too long so she supposed that was the timeframe she ought to remember. Not that she planned to be alone with men, of course. "Though with my dress now torn, I suppose I ought to 'assault' your feet this time."
Morgan's cheeks colored slightly. He'd been hoping that she wouldn't bring that up. He didn't have anything he wanted to say about their encounter in the disused writing room, and he was hoping they'd both collectively pretend it never happened. That was certainly what he'd been doing with Annie after the event had concluded. He'd told Basil, but only because Basil was far enough removed from the situation to find the story humorous, and was in no way going to let it slip to anyone who might care. She, on the other hand, had brought it up in a ballroom. Morgan instinctively glanced around to see if anyone was paying close enough attention to have heard — and then took a quick step back when she mentioned pouncing on his feet, just in case she was serious.
"That's not very ladylike behavior," he mumbled indignantly — he was aware that he must have looked a little silly stepping back like that, and was annoyed about it. "Threatening people over the slightest misunderstandings."
Clarissa managed not to roll her eyes as he glanced around. With her wording, who would immediately come to the conclusion about how she had last witnessed this man? Perhaps he was the overly paranoid sort, she didn't know. She actually laughed a little when he took a step back.
"It's not very gentlemanlike to unapologetically tear dresses," she pointed out airily as she slid out her wand and tapped her skirts while muttering a reparo spell under her breath.
Her laughter bruised his ego and his face felt slightly hot as he watched her repair her dress. "Well, there's clearly no harm done," he muttered, as though that mattered. Under normal circumstances he would have apologized for tearing her dress, whether it was repairable or not, but — well, he wasn't used to being looked at the way she'd looked at him when she recognized his face. What was the point of flashing a charming smile when she was so obviously not charmed by him?
"Maybe if your modiste was more attentive, it wouldn't have been in a position to be torn in the first place," he said — apparently having given up on the charm front some part of him had decided to veer in the opposite direction and continue on that way.
"I doubt my modiste thought that a mans heavy foot would tread upon it," Clarissa said in return. "But you do have a point there - some men can not dance at all. Perhaps I ought to thank you instead for making it so clear that I should see about procuring a new modiste." She had heard good things about the Modiste Rose. Perhaps she would take her business there.
Morgan wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a jab about his dancing abilities or not. He also wasn't sure whether he cared or not. He had a few consistent dance partners at society events during the season, so he hardly imagined he was a terrible dancer, but it also wasn't a particular point of pride for him — and her opinion of his dancing skills was unlikely to matter much when she already had such a low opinion of his everything-else. Still, her remark made him feel a little defensive.
"You haven't seen me dance," he pointed out, despite knowing it would likely have been better to have just ended the conversation and moved on, hopefully to a more productive night elsewhere. "Actually, if I didn't have evidence of how bold you are in all other aspects I would have thought you were avoiding me at the last ball." In fact, he was almost certain she had been avoiding him — he'd been too nervous that she or Annie might accidentally say something to someone and had been keeping an eye on her on and off throughout the rest of the night to see if she had, and he'd seen her notice him and move away on one occasion.
"I am not bold," Clarissa said, flushing a little at him calling her out for having been avoiding him. Well, she had been. It would have been impossible to met his eyes and Kenneth would likely have noticed and said something to her. And the fact she had seen Mister Morgan sans pants was not a conversation she wanted having with anyone let alone one of her brothers.
"Perhaps instead of talking about imaginary things that definitely never happened, you should show me these supposed dance skills of yours."
"You're not bold," Morgan repeated with a skeptical eyebrow raise. "And yet you just asked me to dance."
Well, in point of fact it had been less of a question and more of a challenge, but he thought it made the point well enough. Wasn't the fashion for ladies to flutter their eyelids and wait for a gentleman to make the first move? He certainly couldn't picture her doing any eyelash fluttering.
"I did not do so," Clarissa said with a smile when the man said she had asked him to dance. "I simply suggested you show me these skills you have claimed to possess." She was vaguely aware that she was somewhat challenging him despite that not having been her specific intention. If he saw it that way, though, she wondered what he might do about it.
She was stubborn, though Morgan supposed he knew that already. If she was pushing for him to ask her... well, now he certainly wasn't going to. He could be stubborn, too.
"Well, keep your eyes open, I suppose," he said lightly. "I'm sure to find someone worth dancing with sooner or later."
Clarissa chuckled in amusement at his words. "Good luck with that. Just be sure not to go tearing their hems," she said a little cheekily. If one asked her why she was getting such enjoyment out of somewhat antagonizing the poor man, Clarissa honestly would not be able to say. Perhaps this was one of her odder ways of flirting despite the fact she was well versed in how to flirt in the usual ways of fans, handkerchiefs and florals.
He had expected his comment to sting a little; he'd even had a brief, buried pang of guilt as he said it. He had not expected her to laugh at him. Was she doing it only to be contrary and antagonistic, or did she actually think the idea of him finding someone else to dance with was funny? There was no reason it should have been funny. He danced with women at all these types of events. He did not generally go on to do much else with them, but he'd never found himself lacking a dance partner when he wanted one.
"Good evening, Miss —" he began. He'd intended to give her a curt goodbye, but the effect was rather ruined by the fact that he still hadn't learned her name. "Er... Miss Pig-Headed."
Clarissa was amused when it dawned on her that he did not know her name yet. Had he not asked Mrs. Cameron? Well, she supposed that he hadn't given that he seemed to not know what it was. She doubted that he had paused just to call her Pig-Headed.
"Good evening, Mister Morgan. I hope you enjoy the rest of the event," she said cheerily before taking her leave.
