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 1895. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
Complete a thread started and set every month for twelve consecutive months. Each thread must have at least ten posts, and at least three must be your own.
Did You Know?
Did you know? Jewelry of jet was the haute jewelry of the Victorian era. — Fallin
Meri landed in a whirlwind of flames and skirts. Spinning like a top pulled a squeal of delight from her that became a giggle when she finally came to a stop in the fireplace. She planted both gloved hands on the walls beside her before stepping forward out of the cloud of residual floo powder into what she might eventually notice was a lavish parlor.
She giggled again, swaying on her feet.
"Professor Carmichael!" she announced to the empty room. "No, wait… Mister. Mister." She cleared her throat and pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose at some point, leaving a streak of soot over her cheek. "Mr. Elliot Carmichael…" she trailed off into a fond, distracted smile.
Elliot was drinking brandy and reading about prophecies, which was a hobby he'd developed since going back to being a gentleman of leisure. He did not — could not — understand why he was afflicted by the Sight in the way that he was.
He had not achieved anything new when he heard a familiar voice in the parlor. Elliot's bedroom was on the ground floor, and he wandered down the hall until he stepped into the parlor and was faced with — "Miss Temerita Reid?"
There was a streak of ash on her face. It was — endearing, in a way. Elliot closed some of the distance between them. "Are you alright?"
Despite having just said his name a number of times his appearance was unexpected going by the puzzled look she gave him. Fuzzy thoughts churned at their leisure as she worked to make sense of… him. Slowly her gaze roved from him, down to her feet where she stood, and eventually panned the room.
A delighted realization dawned bright on her face. "I said it right!" she said with a pointed finger as if this was some point she had proven. "Brandon Carmichael residence, Llantrisant, Wales!" she recited in an incredibly English but passable pronunciation of the town.
Elliot smiled at her, because she was excited, although his expression had a baffled quality to it. "You certainly did," Elliot said, sounding amused. "You're visiting?"
It was question she wasn't prepared for. But there was probably very little she was prepared for in that moment. She devoted half a thought to trying to remember why she was there before derailing into a completely different train of thought.
Holding up a finger as if asking him to hold a momment, she rifled through the folds of her skirts, seeking out a hidden pocket. A humbly decorated locket did eventually emerge but not without some frustrated grumblings from her as the pocket opening evaded her.
She held the locket up to eye level and peered into the mirror for a beat before snapping it closed.
"You're not a vision." she stated decisively. In case he wasn't aware.
That one got him to laugh, once and loud, and his eyes were still crinkled up at the corners with amusement afterwards. "Not a vision," he affirmed, with a gesture to himself. He wasn't a vision, and neither was she — which meant that she was really here, in Llantrisant Wales.
He was not sure he understood.
"Neither are you," he said, decisive. "So — you're here?"
It hadn't occurred to her that she could be a vision. That prompted a small frown and a dizzying moment of existential confusion before she shook it from her mind. Literally.
"I was out looking for wood -" she began, finally back to a solid train of thought and perhaps something approaching an answer. "and I had a potion."
"No," came an immediate correction with another pointed finger "I had a drink like your potion." She nodded, clearly happier with that version, and recited the whole thing again for good measure.
"I was out looking for wood and I'ada drink like your potion and then I said Llantrisant right." She raised her brows at him, clearly proud of herself for managing it again.
Elliot's brow creased with concern. "You had a drink or you had a potion?" he asked. It was important to clarify — because if she had a potion, then she may be drugged as he had been. If she had just had a drink — then she was now drunk, and apparently being drunk made her think of him. He was vaguely charmed by it, but mostly concerned.
"I thought you'd find it funny. And then you wouldn't need to be embarrassed anymore." The hint of disappointment drifted away into a distracted grin as she swayed into a steadier stance. "Do I need to ask you on a walk to muggle London and tell you I love you?"
So she knew he'd been embarrassed for nearly two years; Elliot was going to say something self-deprecating about it, but instead he grimaced at her last sentence.
The words had come so easily, without any forethought, but she felt belatedly winded by them now.
"Come ooonnn." she cajoled, moving forward to take his wrist in both of her hands. But his grimace had struck her like a sour chord and reverberated in her chest, leeching away her conviction. She dropped his wrist, fighting waves of old familiar embarrassment, and took a sensible step back.
When all else fails: dig your heels in. "Would it help if I promise not to propose?"
Elliot felt a vague surge of horror-or-embarrassment as Miss Reid grabbed his wrist, which only worsened at her words. "Miss Reid," Elliot managed, sounding slightly shrill. Was this how she had felt when he was on that potion?
However she'd expected any of this to go, this was definitely not it. The tone in his voice was sobering. Or least it felt sobering. Her movements still felt unwieldy and comically exaggerated when she noticed with a wince she'd left some ash behind on his sleeve and reached out again to brush it away.
"To complete the picture, this is where you send me home." she said, her whimsy considerably dampened. "Tippit?" With a pop, a house elf appeared near by, looking curious if not a bit sleepy.
Meri straightened herself and looked at him squarely. "You said we could speak freely." Her chin tipped up, either out of obstinance or necessitated by their height difference. "You said we were friends."
Elliot was more inclined to offer her somewhere to sleep it off than he was to tell her to go home, but this was like watching a train crash — like watching his visions — he didn't know how to stop her. He swallowed at her last words.
"Do you want me to be honest?" he asked, unable to stop himself — he could send her on her way or he could be honest, and he was not sure that both were compatible.
