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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

May 15, 1892 - Hogsmeade Derby, near Padmore Park
Atticus wasn't at the Hogsmeade Derby as a result of societal rules, although to say he came because was bored was an inaccurate statement. For one, it was a chance to celebrate his dear cousin’s eighteen birthday in a way he Poppy would like - she always dropped copious amounts of hints that she wanted to attend events such as these, and whether she realized it or not, this was her trial run. Atticus had waved off a chaperone for her as he felt confident in his ability to attend to his cousin who knew better than to run off without him. Not only would that result in a scolding, it would also hold consequences he hadn’t quite decided on yet. She was with Mama at the moment though, fussing over her hair or dress or something he felt entirely unequipped to handle, leaving Atticus to his own devices as he waited for the racing to continue.

With a glass of champagne in his hand, and then another, because being raised as a pureblood son meant you’re always steps away from an alcohol problem, Atticus wandered around the top level of the derby, taking in the sights that his own family had helped fund, alongside the Blackwoods and a few other upper class families. He briefly stopped to place a bet on another horse that had the first race of the day, hoping that a horse with the name Luck in its name would bring him some. Atticus had already lost quite a few galleons to horses who hadn’t even come close to winning, and while the Foxwoods had plenty of money to spare (and lose), it was aggravating to not have one a single coin back in his pocket.

At least the money on the event had been well spent; the alcohol flowed, the food was abundant, the betting agents kept their opinions to themselves and even he would say he was enjoying himself. (Not that it took too much for Atticus Foxwood to enjoy such an event - he was born, bred and raised to thrive in these kinds of situations.) The agent had just shook his head and offered Atticus a coy smile as he lost yet another race, and the brunette merely frowned, waving on placing a bet at the moment. He paused to take a glance at the track, the crowd below them beginning to go wild as they counted down to the gates being opened.

Beside him was Olixander Blackwood, a man he’d seen win more money today than anyone else he’d come in contact with. “Where’s the hidden fortune teller?” He asked, in place of a greeting to a man he vaguely recognized from other events, his head tilting toward the large coin purse in the man’s hands. Atticus leaned over the railing as he watched a horse take off down the track; he hadn’t bet on this race, although perhaps the next one. “Because I swear with how much you’re winning, you have one hidden somewhere up here.” A joke, of course. Atticus turned toward him and shrugged.

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