Charming is a Victorian Era Harry Potter roleplay set primarily in the village of Hogsmeade, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the non-canon village of Irvingly. Characters of all classes, both magical and muggle — and even non-human! — are welcome.
With a member driven story line, monthly games and events, and a friendly and drama-free community focused on quality over quantity, the only thing you can be sure of is fun!
"Are you always this forward?" He asked teasingly since it would be a very short thread if he just ignored her entirely. — Tobin Cartwright in Take A Peek
Did you know? Churchgoers and worshippers had to endure a foul stench during prayers due to the amount of bodies often stored within the vaults of churches and chapels.
She'd already had spent a month or so in that damned hospital and she was sure another second would drive her to murder. The malady she'd had— something funnily named, she couldn't rightly remember— was a bit of an anomaly, according to the healers of St. Mungo's. Her healer had almost demanded that she return for check up after check up, due to her age. Of course, in the magical world, ninety-five was not ancient, but perhaps they were keen on her being far healthier than what she was at this age.
Wrapped in a fur-scarf and mauve dress, the elderly witch appeared in one of the entrance fireplaces, briskly striding towards the welcome area. With her bulging eyes a flutter and lips pursed in her usual Wiltingham manner, she wielded her cane with such a ferocity that one might've thought she was there to beat the entirety of the hospital's staff for wasting her time.
"Ahem," she said aggressively, her nose raised so high she was in serious danger of hitting the ceiling, "I believe I am expected for a check-up, dear. Violet Wiltingham,"
@'ANNABELLE SCRIMGEOUR'
Professor Wiltingham is a severe old lady with an unfortunate desire to say what is
on her mind, though one must credit that to her age. She uses a cane to walk, and
should you require a bit of extra-credit, one must simply persuade her with sweets.
The beginning of the new year had been far from stellar for Bella, but she was hopeful that happier days would approach as the year continued on. She had a healer's internship to look forward to, and there was no telling what friendships (or perhaps romance, however unlikely) would blossom.
A lot had happened in the past year—so much that Bella had almost forgotten her roots. Much of her attention had been focused on the here and now, and much of the information she'd learn (and the relationships she gained) had been forgotten if there hadn't been constant reminders of them.
It seemed like today she was getting a reminder.
"Professor Wiltingham," she gasped, her posture straightening almost immediately. The woman, while an amazing teacher, had an air around her that instilled respect (and sometimes even fear) into her students. "An check-up appointment? Is there a specific reason other than..." Age? She was far too afraid to insinuate that her professor—the tall, stern, commanding woman—was old.
Violet's eyes, which were already quite large and bulbous, widened with an air of exasperation, huffing to find the words to reply.
"Need I reason?!" she hummed in that aged shrill voice of hers. The old woman took a moment, inspecting that young face— an old student she must've been, she was quite right to refer to Violet as 'professor.' The face would match a name in due time, she supposed.
"Now, if you would be so kind," she said, her voice a bit more relaxed, though still practically oozing impatience beneath the artifical, sweet exterior, "would you direct me to where I ought to be, my dear." Her owl-like eyes strained in their ancient sockets, still trying to recall who exactly this young welcome witch was. It would come to her. That was one unlucky benefit of age: forgetting names was as common as using the toliet twice in thirty minutes.
Professor Wiltingham is a severe old lady with an unfortunate desire to say what is
on her mind, though one must credit that to her age. She uses a cane to walk, and
should you require a bit of extra-credit, one must simply persuade her with sweets.
Bella, unused to being asked—no, ordered was probably the correct terminology—to escort the patients into the building, stood them momentarily before composing herself.
"O-Of course, Professor," she blurted, her uncertainty apparent. Didn't they - er - have other people to do directing? How was she expected to know where Professor Wiltingham was scheduled to be seen, or by what department?
"Er... How have you been? I was saddened by news of your retirement," she said casually as she began to lead the elderly professor through the corridors of the hospital.
Violet was truly a tyrant, all she was missing was a tiara and a guillotine. As the girl complied and moved round the counter to escort her to wherever it was the professor was going, the old woman breathed heavily, puffing like an old train.
"Dear, please, hold my arm," she said quickly, taking the girl's arm without a moment's thought to steady herself as they walked. It was quite the old woman thing to do. All the while she was still desperately cleaving through her mind to pair that young, fair face to a name.
"Retire?" she said, the shrill in her voice not too dissimilar from that of a teapot's whistle. "My dear, I did not retire," she said aghast. Violet hummed a moment, as if searching for a gentler tone and explanation.
"I was taken ill," the professor said regally, "and unfortunately the headmaster filled my office with some young man." She was never one to admit defeat.
It came upon her suddenly— Miss Scrimgeour.
"Now, tell me, Miss Scrimgeour, how are you fairing in this— erm— prison?" Violet thought St. Mungos perhaps one of the most detestable places she'd ever been; a place where she could not command was a place she did not enjoy.
Professor Wiltingham is a severe old lady with an unfortunate desire to say what is
on her mind, though one must credit that to her age. She uses a cane to walk, and
should you require a bit of extra-credit, one must simply persuade her with sweets.
Bella smiled at the woman's correction, albeit hidden from the woman's view. There were very few female figures in her life like Professor Wiltingham that she admired so dearly; most working women were either ladies of less fortunate situations or spinsters who had to work for a living. While her former professor was a spinster, her wealth very much assured her comfort without the little living came from academia. She could only imagine what denial she might endure if she were forced to retire, especially due from ill health.
"I dearly hope that your health has improved since your sudden illness. I have no doubts that the school has mourned your presence since the day it was announced another would fill the vacancy," she offered sincerely, smiling up (something that was odd considering that her companion was a woman) at her former teacher.
Professor Wiltingham's next question, as good as her intentions may have been, brought an abrupt frown to the former Gryffindor's face. A prison? St. Mungo's? "Pardon me, Professor; I consider this place no prison. The people are lovely—you wouldn't find kinder people than the employees of this establishment," she assured. "But nevertheless, I am enjoying my employment." At least while she awaited her chance to train to be a healer! Only then would she be truly happy.
"My health is perfectly fine! These damned mediwizards, though, think quite the opposite!" The old woman heaved once, wheezing despite having walked so little. It seemed they were rather aimlessly walking, much to Violet's displeasure. Surely this girl knew where Violet ought to be going?
"And Hogwarts will be seeing me very soon!— the Headmaster will be given very little choice but to reinstate me," she croaked, suddenly whispering to herself in a very cross tone: "Or I will have half a mind to turn him into the slimey ferret he is!" Of course, Wiltingham had nothing against Professor Black. In truth, whenever Violet found herself in such a mood, she'd even sling an insult at a painting.
"Not— not a prison?" she gasped, those luminous eyes of hers swimming to bulge-ily stare at Miss Scrimgeour. "My dear you are quite mistaken! At my age this very place is a promise of death, or even worse complacency!" Wiltingham huffed angrily before fluttering her eyelids and changing her salted tone to one of sweetness: "But I am quite glad you've found employment somewhere you enjoy."
![[-]](https://old.charmingrp.com/images/collapse.png)
![[Image: rIPEOxP.png]](https://i.imgur.com/rIPEOxP.png)
![[Image: DFw5U7K.png]](https://i.imgur.com/DFw5U7K.png)
