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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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“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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Who Are You Really?
#1
Evening, 1st April, 1892 — Jude’s flat, London
@Citrine Weasley/@Clarissa Cosgrove
The hour was late, the sky darkening, when Jude finally found himself on his own street, exhausted and bewildered and absurdly ready for the relief of seeing his own flat, even if nothing else about today had been normal in the least.

Hopefully Kingsley would be home from St. Mungo’s to let him in – in all the chaos, Jude had forgotten which shift his flatmate was on. (Hopefully Kingsley would also be bursting with immediate ideas about how this had occurred and how to fix him, but Jude realised he might be leaning a little optimistic there.) So he would settle for a night’s sleep in his own bed – he wasn’t sure what the Bobbins of Hogsmeade would be thinking about where their daughter had gone, but oh well – and start fresh tomorrow.

Jude climbed the front stairs and reached the front door of his flat, knocking on it because naturally he didn’t have a key. “Hello? King, it’s me,” he said through the door, forgetting that the sentiment would make no sense in an unfamiliar voice. Merlin. Jude knocked again impatiently, sure he could hear the creak of movement in the hall.

Fine, he must have imagined it; no matter, he would get in another way. He tried an unlocking charm, but as expected, this wand did nothing – but here in Miss Bobbin’s pocket was a loose hairpin. Alright, fine: Jude was sure he could jimmy the lock, just this once. (Jude had the reluctant suspicion that Morales would have managed this in a heartbeat. Merlin, maybe he’d have to go to him for help if he couldn’t get in.)

Oh, there – a satisfying click, and Jude finally pushed open his front door and strode into his flat.

#2
Citrine did not know where she was exactly when she had woken up that morning. She had eventually realized she was in London when she had looked out the windows. This was not the home of anyone she knew though.

Then she had made the startling recovery that she was not quite herself. Her chest was quite flat and there was a growth between her legs. What was that?! It was so weird, had her insides somehow come out? Was that what that thing was.

She was too terrified to leave the place she had woken up in. She wasn't sure how long she had been languishing in the bed she had woken up in when she heard someone knocking on the door and calling out for someone called King.

She tiptoed into the hall and winced as a floorboard creaked beneath her feet. Maybe if she kept very quiet, the woman would go away. At least, it sounded like a woman. Then there was jostling at the door and next thing she knew, someone was coming into the flat. A tear streaked face peeked out from the bedroom she had been holed up in all day. "Who are you?" She asked, her usual bravery absent in the wake of the days events.

#3
He hadn’t expected the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over him as he stepped further into his own flat, observing everything as normal, just as he had left it, just as it should be. All seemed quiet, though, which was strange – he was sure he had heard someone at home, and the only one it was likely to be was Kingsley.

Jude paced down the hall, past the front room and the empty kitchen and towards the bedrooms when – he stopped dead, because that wasn’t Kingsley, that was – was that him?

He made a strangled noise in his throat. It couldn’t very well be anyone else: it was like looking in a mirror, only mirror-him had been crying, apparently, and Jude couldn’t be looking in a mirror because today he didn’t look like himself. Jude made a few stunted starts, as if he was going to keep approaching or shake his head or do something, but each time he got caught there, still rooted to the spot in confusion. If he was here, what was his body doing there? (He could only hope this Jude had some idea what had happened that he had been – duplicated? displaced?)

His mouth had been open for a beat or two before Jude actually managed to form words. “I’m you,” he declared, forgetting again that he looked nothing like himself. “Or – you’re me. This is... this is my flat.”


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