Welcome to Charming
Welcome to Charming, the year is now 1892. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.

Where will you fall?

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Did You Know?
“Got the morbs” was Victorian slang for a temporary melancholia — Dante
In a panic sort of reaction, she shut the door but neglected to make sure she was on the other side of it.
the thrill of the chase moves in mysterious ways

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C. Neill
Full Name: Constance Neill
Her father would call her Connie, but no one has since his passing.
Birthdate: February 4th, 1868
Current Age: 24
Gender: Female
Occupation: Crime & Politics Reporter for the Daily Prophet
Reputation: 8
She has chosen the least ladylike topic to cover professionally, and has developed a reputation for sticking her nose where it does not belong.

A reputable ladies’ rooming house on one of the side streets of Magical London.
Hogwarts House: None
Wand: None
Blood Status:
Though Constance’s family is made up of halfbloods, she herself is a squib.
Social Class: Working Class
Justus Neill, Father [1835-1874]
Chastity Fullbright nee —, formerly Neill, Mother [1841]

Hadrian Fullbright, Stepfather [18xx]
Glory Fullbright, Half-Sister [1878]
Valour Fullbright, Half-Brother [1880]
Constance’s looks have long favoured her mother: dark skin; thick, dark hair; and brown eyes. Her mouth and jaw, though, are very much her late father’s—particularly when set into a stubborn line. Though hers is a short frame, at four feet, ten-and-a-bit inches, it is also a sturdy one.

She dresses appropriately for a woman of her class, favouring muggle attire in earthy tones. Her footwear, usually obscured at least in part by her skirts, is immensely practical and well-worn. She moves in quick, purposeful strides; meandering has never been a part of her repertoire. Constance is right-handed and speaks with an Edinburgh accent. 

Her PB is Zoe Robins.
Brown eyes open for the first time and focus upon a pair to match. At least, I imagine how it would have gone—this seems, so often, to be the description in novels. I was born in the Edinburgh of 1868, the daughter of a reporter (my father) and a midwife (my mother), both indefatigable souls in their own right. Though I was taught from a young age to value virtue, honesty, and hard work, there was never any doubt within our house that I was deeply loved. 

Though I loved both my parents dearly, it was my father to whom I took, who I sought to emulate. He inspired within me a love of reading, writing, and seeking the truth; even at four, I could have told you that I would someday be a reporter.

But this could not last forever.

It was a mugging gone wrong. That something so trivial could have been my father’s end still shocks me to this day, but that fateful morning of 1874, when I learned what had transpired, I was altogether inconsolable. I don’t remember much of this in-between time, only sorrow. I did not know then—indeed, not for several years—that this is when my mother began to worry, for even in the tempests of grief I displayed no signs of magic.

We were not overly burdened by the events of 1877. Though a distrust towards the ‘odd’ coursed through the city, babes delivered into my mother’s hands had a reputation for thriving more than most. I began accompanying her on her duties when not in school, and while I did not dislike the work, it did not stir in me the same passions as the idea of writing for my living.

It was this same year that my mother met and married Hadrian (a grocer), their daughter, my half-sister, joining our family just half a year after their nuptials.

It was not a surprise when my letter did not come in 1879, but it was a bitter disappointment to me. I would not go off and learn the magic that came so easily to my mother and step-father, but instead would remain at home—or rather, helping Hadrian at the grocery and my mother with her rounds. As a result, my adolescence passed without much note; my brother was borne into the world in 1880, my courses began when I was fifteen, and I had my first kiss with the butcher’s boy—a chaste peck that, I think, startled us both—at seventeen. It all seemed like a period of waiting, and I have never been one who has been keen to simply let things happen to me.

C. Neill
On my nineteenth birthday (in 1887), I began my internship at The Daily Prophet. I expect Mr. Pengloss took me on only because of my father’s name, and rather hoped I would peter out, become a secretary or join the gossip division instead. I like to think he gave up such foolish notions very quickly. What I lacked in magic (which does, I admit, make things dreadfully inconvenient) I made up for in drive; a dog with a bone, I was rather relentless in my own way. Thus, a year later (1888) when he hadn’t managed to get rid of me, Mr. Pengloss had me promoted to full reporter, where I remain today.

With my new pay, I was able to move out of the Fullbright home (well, we all did; this was the year the family moved to Hogsmeade) and into a rooming house, one connected to the floo network and with a sterling reputation.

Time marches ever forward. It was not easy to see Glory go off to Hogwarts when I could not, but I was happy for her nonetheless. Though Hadrian questions my place in the world, I have always had my mother’s support, for which I am grateful.

I will make my own future.
  • Languages: English
  • Constance likes to think she has a way with words—at least, on the page, where they might be revised.

  • Boggart: Her mother, stabbed and bleeding, just as she imagines her father did.
  • Amortentia: Old books, pipe tobacco, lilacs
Name: Kayte
Age: 31
Contact: PM @Aldous Crouch
Application Approved!

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