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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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The Debut
#1
June 1st, 1892 — Diagon Alley

She had stood stiffly in her dress robes at the edge of the dance floor, dancing only twice, with Miss Lestrange and with a fifth year who looked particularly adrift, before retiring to find a game of chess until midnight allowed the seventh years to depart the castle at last. George Waterford had completed her time at Hogwarts, and while Mr. Swann's efforts had not yet determined her fate outside the castle's walls, the new graduate was determined to make an informed decision in all things.

George would not have been entirely unrecognizable to those who knew her but the wig and the dress made for a definite disguise. She had been reading etiquette manuals for some weeks, and it was time to put her studies into practice.

She didn't realize how unfeminine her walk was, drawing some side-eye from passers-by, but given the how busy Diagon Alley was at any given time, few paid her much heed beyond this. It also had not occurred to George that a young lady navigating the streets unchaperoned was, at best, unadvisable—a quick study, but one who did not realize the breadth of what she didn't know.

Like how to fall without cursing like a schoolboy.

There had been something slick upon the cobbles, perhaps some errantly spilled potion or intentionally laid grease of nefarious purpose, but George's feet went out altogether from under her, prompting her to join another who, coming from the opposite direction did much the same.

"Damnit!" she ground out instinctively as she slipped, though nothing was able to leave her immediately upon landing, the wind knocked from her lungs.
Open to someone who does not know George!

Beauty set by Soph <3

He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.
#2

It was nice to be back in her own skin, even if she had rather liked the pretty face of the young girl she had 'traded' with. No - as novel as it had been, she liked her own skin, it had taken everything in her to become comfortable in her own skin, and now she was, she wore it like armor. That did not stop her feeling rather badly for the girl who looked very awkward in her day dress - enough to be garnering giggles and sneers from those who were enjoying her ungainly step.

Minny knew what it was to be an ungainly girl. Unlike her friends she had never been light of foot or dainty in her movements. She was a spirited, if untalented dancer and so could feel some small sympathy for what appeared to be one of the most ungainly creatures to ever grace a modiste's fitting stand.

'Are you alright my dear?' Minny asked, with a smile designed to try and alleviate the poor girls embarrassment. She held out a hand to help her stand and with a twirl of her wand cleaned her dress. 'No permenant damage eh?'


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#3
The words themselves were innocuous enough, but as George looked up (quite a ways), her face went beet-red at the realization that it was a woman of some wealth, based on her attire, that had addressed her.

And George had cursed.

If she could have expired on the spot, it might have been preferable.

Flushing, George accepted the proffered hand and tidy; even once back upon her feet, she could not help but notice how tall the woman was.

"My pride is bruised," she allowed sheepishly, "but nothing more."

Beauty set by Soph <3

He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.
#4
A couple of slight of figure tittering things were still watching them, and the socialite shot them both a scathing look so that they turned and scurried off. She was not a hard woman by any stretch of the imagination, but cruelty for it's own sake was nothing something she could not easily bear.

'Pride can also be the quickest thing to heal if we let it.' she consoled, 'Ermengarde Delacour' she introduced herself, between her books and the...what was the word, not scandalous exactly...notorious? notable?...marriage, there were few that wouldn't have at least some idea of who she was by name. There were few middle class spinster in their late thirties who married to first born sons of good fortune who were in their mid 20's. So she knew what it was to be a figure of mockery and derision.

'In my considerable experience a good cure for wounded pride is tea and perhaps a biscuit.' she offered, her eyebrows popping half way up her large forehead.



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