<![CDATA[Knockturn Bound - All Forums]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/ Fri, 17 Apr 2026 14:21:51 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[BREAKING! Merrow Found Guilty]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=965 Mon, 30 Mar 2026 11:52:01 +0000 Beatrix Ventnor]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=965
1 Mar 1922
Merrow Found Guilty,
Sentenced to Twenty Years in Azkaban
By Beatrix Ventnor, Reporter
The highly anticipated trial of Minister of Magic Wylder Merrow began this morning and ended with a verdict and sentencing that has left the Wizarding World in a rather unstable position.
The trial was the final of four in regards to the dark events that happened in March 1921 on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That night saw the capture and torture of three students by Arthur Thayer, astronomy professor, which resulted in his death.
Among the witnesses, besides the three students, were former Headmistress Ruby Haswell, Deputy Headmaster Gideon Blackwood, Professor Maddox Barlowe, and Minister Merrow. Blackwood and Barlowe were found not guilty of all charges brought against them by the Wizengamot.
Haswell was found guilty of Child Endangerment and sentenced to two years in Azkaban for the role she played in not protecting the students at the school. It was a verdict that drew considerable debate among readers of the Daily Prophet.
Upon her sentencing, Galen MacLean was appointed the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.
[Image: 452_wyldergif2.gif]
Merrow was accused of Manslaughter, Child Endangerment, Treason, and Conspiracy. The Prosecution introduced evidence of collusion with Thayer that involved the previous Minister’s Gringotts account receiving payments from the now deceased professor.
Merrow was found not guilty of Manslaughter, but guilty on all other charges.
He was sentenced to twenty years at Azkaban.
Undersecretary Gerald Nunn has taken the position of Interim Minister of Magic. An election for Merrow’s successor will begin in late 1922 or early 1923.
What the events of the past year have made clear, if nothing else, is that the structures Wizarding Britain has long relied upon are not immune to corruption. A professor. A Minister. The halls of Hogwarts itself. Whether the verdicts delivered today restore any measure of public confidence remains, at best, uncertain. An unstable world awaits whoever steps into the role next.
]]>
1 Mar 1922
Merrow Found Guilty,
Sentenced to Twenty Years in Azkaban
By Beatrix Ventnor, Reporter
The highly anticipated trial of Minister of Magic Wylder Merrow began this morning and ended with a verdict and sentencing that has left the Wizarding World in a rather unstable position.
The trial was the final of four in regards to the dark events that happened in March 1921 on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That night saw the capture and torture of three students by Arthur Thayer, astronomy professor, which resulted in his death.
Among the witnesses, besides the three students, were former Headmistress Ruby Haswell, Deputy Headmaster Gideon Blackwood, Professor Maddox Barlowe, and Minister Merrow. Blackwood and Barlowe were found not guilty of all charges brought against them by the Wizengamot.
Haswell was found guilty of Child Endangerment and sentenced to two years in Azkaban for the role she played in not protecting the students at the school. It was a verdict that drew considerable debate among readers of the Daily Prophet.
Upon her sentencing, Galen MacLean was appointed the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.
[Image: 452_wyldergif2.gif]
Merrow was accused of Manslaughter, Child Endangerment, Treason, and Conspiracy. The Prosecution introduced evidence of collusion with Thayer that involved the previous Minister’s Gringotts account receiving payments from the now deceased professor.
Merrow was found not guilty of Manslaughter, but guilty on all other charges.
He was sentenced to twenty years at Azkaban.
Undersecretary Gerald Nunn has taken the position of Interim Minister of Magic. An election for Merrow’s successor will begin in late 1922 or early 1923.
What the events of the past year have made clear, if nothing else, is that the structures Wizarding Britain has long relied upon are not immune to corruption. A professor. A Minister. The halls of Hogwarts itself. Whether the verdicts delivered today restore any measure of public confidence remains, at best, uncertain. An unstable world awaits whoever steps into the role next.
]]> <![CDATA[3rd Floor: Home for Now: Open]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=964 Sun, 29 Mar 2026 00:43:41 +0000 Everleigh Ravenstone]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=964 5th July 1922


The room was simple. Sterile.

White walls. White floor. White linens. Everything was white. From the wood trim to the bedframe, the painted rocking chair and the bedside table.

Thankfully, Ever’s family brought the color. A rainbow splash at the end of her bed came in the form of a quilt. Her childhood stuffed animals sat against the headboard, keeping an eye on the scattered girl inside the room. Reginald the teddy bear, or Reggy if he was being spicy. Patty the calico cat was queen of the group, holding court over the lesser stuffies. And Larry the panda. Why Larry? No one knew.

Ever sat in her favorite spot in the room, if she had the emotional wherewithal to have a favorite anything, but it was where the healers typically found her when they came in for therapy and bed checks. The window seat overlooked a small garden plot, filled with colorful flowers and a bench to sit in the sun. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twitching rhythmically against the fabric of her hospital gown. This wasn’t your typical tie in the back gown, but a long nightgown with a matching robe.

Also white.

She wasn't allowed her quills anymore, “Safety protocols, darling,” the Healer with the sharp eyes had said. Now, she only had charcoal sticks that left her fingers blackened, like she’d been reaching into a fireplace that wasn't there. On days where she felt like drawing, a white towel was brought in, otherwise there was a lot less white in the room after she was done.

The air in the ward didn’t move. No windows opened and there were numerous charms in place to keep the magical outburst to a minimum. To Ever, it felt like being wrapped in a tight blanket, smothered, too tight, almost itchy. It was quiet in her room, too quiet. She could sometimes hear the screams of other patients, but the walls and magical wards made it seem like a dream, a whisper, not something happening in the present.

The older man, the important one, came often. He talked about progress and therapy, words that went in one ear and right out the other. He encouraged her to write, to talk, to draw. When he came in to talk, a very one sided conversation, Ever sat in the rocking chair and listened. Nothing stuck, little was comprehended.

Potions were tried. The bitter taste stuck on her tongue. On the busy days she would be taken to a treatment room where a potion would be given then sleep would come. On those days she would wake in her bed with her brain pounding in her skull.

Alice didn’t live with her. That hurt the most, even if Ever couldn't find the words to say it. Her sister, her anchor, came and things felt right. There wasn’t words for it, but everything felt lighter when Alice was there.

“She isn’t safe to be around long term,” the Healer had said. On more than one occasion Ever’s magic had exploded during a more rigorous treatment. Memories coming on fast, causing violent behavior or magical outbursts.

There were times during the day where Ever was allowed in the common area. This space was more colorful than her white room. There were toys for the younger kids, bookcases with everything from picture books to novels. Easels sat against one wall, paints and colored chalk to make drawings. Her time in the common room was much like her time in her room. No talking. No interacting. A lot of sitting.

The healers tried to get her to participate, but that would require want and emotion, which she had none. Time would tell if she would get better. If the healers would be able to open her mind and extract the painful memories locking her in a mental prison.]]> 5th July 1922


The room was simple. Sterile.

White walls. White floor. White linens. Everything was white. From the wood trim to the bedframe, the painted rocking chair and the bedside table.

Thankfully, Ever’s family brought the color. A rainbow splash at the end of her bed came in the form of a quilt. Her childhood stuffed animals sat against the headboard, keeping an eye on the scattered girl inside the room. Reginald the teddy bear, or Reggy if he was being spicy. Patty the calico cat was queen of the group, holding court over the lesser stuffies. And Larry the panda. Why Larry? No one knew.

Ever sat in her favorite spot in the room, if she had the emotional wherewithal to have a favorite anything, but it was where the healers typically found her when they came in for therapy and bed checks. The window seat overlooked a small garden plot, filled with colorful flowers and a bench to sit in the sun. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twitching rhythmically against the fabric of her hospital gown. This wasn’t your typical tie in the back gown, but a long nightgown with a matching robe.

Also white.

She wasn't allowed her quills anymore, “Safety protocols, darling,” the Healer with the sharp eyes had said. Now, she only had charcoal sticks that left her fingers blackened, like she’d been reaching into a fireplace that wasn't there. On days where she felt like drawing, a white towel was brought in, otherwise there was a lot less white in the room after she was done.

The air in the ward didn’t move. No windows opened and there were numerous charms in place to keep the magical outburst to a minimum. To Ever, it felt like being wrapped in a tight blanket, smothered, too tight, almost itchy. It was quiet in her room, too quiet. She could sometimes hear the screams of other patients, but the walls and magical wards made it seem like a dream, a whisper, not something happening in the present.

The older man, the important one, came often. He talked about progress and therapy, words that went in one ear and right out the other. He encouraged her to write, to talk, to draw. When he came in to talk, a very one sided conversation, Ever sat in the rocking chair and listened. Nothing stuck, little was comprehended.

Potions were tried. The bitter taste stuck on her tongue. On the busy days she would be taken to a treatment room where a potion would be given then sleep would come. On those days she would wake in her bed with her brain pounding in her skull.

Alice didn’t live with her. That hurt the most, even if Ever couldn't find the words to say it. Her sister, her anchor, came and things felt right. There wasn’t words for it, but everything felt lighter when Alice was there.

“She isn’t safe to be around long term,” the Healer had said. On more than one occasion Ever’s magic had exploded during a more rigorous treatment. Memories coming on fast, causing violent behavior or magical outbursts.

There were times during the day where Ever was allowed in the common area. This space was more colorful than her white room. There were toys for the younger kids, bookcases with everything from picture books to novels. Easels sat against one wall, paints and colored chalk to make drawings. Her time in the common room was much like her time in her room. No talking. No interacting. A lot of sitting.

The healers tried to get her to participate, but that would require want and emotion, which she had none. Time would tell if she would get better. If the healers would be able to open her mind and extract the painful memories locking her in a mental prison.]]> <![CDATA[WW Adult Application: Beatrix Claire Ventnor]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=963 Sat, 28 Mar 2026 19:43:09 +0000 Beatrix Ventnor]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=963 [Image: wizardingworld.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Beatrix Claire Ventnor

Type of Character:
Adult

Age:
33

Date of Birth:
9 January 1889

Blood Status:
Pureblood

Residence:
Godalming, Surrey, England

Family:
Father: Septimus Haswell – prefers decorum and stability over ideology.
Mother: Honoria Haswell (née Mulcaster) – knows how to command a room.
Brother: Alderic Haswell – very rigid, wanted to try to get the Ministry to implement "heritage tests."
Sister: Ruby Haswell – former Headmistress of Hogwarts, currently serving a two year sentence in Azkaban.
Husband: Roland Ventnor – broom component manufacturer, considerably older, arranged marriage.
Son: Reginald "Reggie" Ventnor
Daughter: Lark Ventnor
Son: Moss Ventnor (registered as Moss; Roland believes the name to be Mossimo)

Occupation:
Daily Prophet Reporter

Personality & History

Personality:
Beatrix Ventnor is very good at being liked, which is not quite the same thing as being known.

She’s warm, funny, and remembers everyone’s children’s names and the right moment to laugh and the right moment to squeeze someone’s hand and say nothing at all. None of this is a performance as she genuinely likes people and finds them interesting, their small vanities and contradictions more amusing than anything else. If she’s honest, though, being good at reading people is a convenient thing to be good at; people who are busy being charmed are not especially busy paying attention. She’s rarely ever charmed.

As the youngest in a loud family, she learned early that you could learn more from the sidelines than from the center of things. Bea notices what people do not say, and when a room shifts. She reads people the way other Ravenclaws read books, which is to say thoroughly and with genuine interest and sometimes well past the point she should have put them down and gone to sleep.

What she is less good at though, or was until recently, is knowing what to do with any of that. For a long time, observation was its own end. She watched and understood and she smiled and she was a great hostess. It was a comfortable life. It still is, technically.

But Beatrix has discovered that she has opinions. Where she once pushed them down, writing them off as nonsense, now she can’t ignore them. They don’t sit quietly in the back of her mind anymore. She isn’t totally sure what to do with them as she is still learning the shape of this version of herself, but she is not willing to go back to not having them.

Her husband finds her charming, her children find her warm and caring. The rest of the world? Well, that is to be determined.

History:
As the youngest Haswell child by a considerable margin, Beatrix grew up in the same way that most last children do – watching those older than her from the sidelines. Her brother Alderic was already rigid and opinionated by the time she was old enough to form opinions of her own. Her sister Ruby was already out in the world, doing things, being someone. Bea was small and clever and observant and nobody was especially paying attention to any of that because there was always something louder happening nearby.

She was not unhappy. The Haswell household was comfortable, and her parents were not unkind. She was aware, however, from a young age that Ruby occupied a kind of space she could not quite reach; not through any fault of either of them, simply the mathematics of the age gap. Ruby felt less like a sister and more like a distant brilliant thing to orient herself towards. Beatrix admired her enormously, but knew her hardly at all.

Hogwarts sorted her into Ravenclaw, which surprised no one who had actually been paying attention and surprised everyone who hadn’t. She was social and warm and moved through the world with an ease that read as effortless; no one expected the charming girl at the center of every gathering to also be the one who stayed up past curfew reading. She was good at keeping those two versions of herself in separate rooms.

Beatrix graduated in 1907 and married Roland Ventnor the following year, an arrangement that suited both families considerably. Roland was stable and respectable and considerably older, and she was fond of him in the way one is fond of reliable furniture. They settled in Godalming, Surrey, and she became Mrs. Ventnor with the same composure she brought to everything else. Reginald arrived in 1912, Lark in 1914, and Moss in 1917. Each child was named with increasing creative confidence that Roland never once questioned, but made Bea smile every time.

She’d always liked writing. Long letters, mostly. The kind that people remarked on and kept, but it had never occurred to her to do anything with it until 1917, when a passing word to the right acquaintance (a connection of her husband’s, the details not especially interesting) opened a door at the Daily Prophet. They expected society columns, and she delivered them beautifully and learned everything she could about how the whole operation worked while she was at it.

By 1921, she had established her byline, and her topics were quietly, almost imperceptibly, sharpening. The galas were still there, the fashion notes… But the questions she asked were not quite as soft as they used to be, and one or two of her editors had noticed without saying anything because she delivered the kind of columns that people talked about. So why rock the boat?

And then Ruby was sentenced to Azkaban.

Beatrix had spent thirty-three years not understanding the political world her siblings moved through. She found it abstract and frankly quite dull, and she was content to smile and refill the tea and think about something else.

With Ruby’s sentence, however, she couldn’t do that anymore. Something within her cracked open the afternoon the verdict came down, and she had not been able to close it again. She didn’t know her sister, not really, and definitely not as well as she should have; not as well as she always assumed there would be time for eventually.

Now Ruby is in Azkaban and Bea is left holding a grief she can’t quite name and a need to understand that she doesn’t know what to do with except write. Roland finds it touching, thinking that she is worried about her family name. And while that should bother her, every time she calls their youngest son Mossimo, she feels reinvigorated to make a difference.

Prompt Response:
The quill didn’t find its place in her bag; instead, Beatrix could feel it fall towards the floor with the precision of a journalist whose writing utensil is an extension of themselves. It barely touched the pavement before it was back in her hand, safely tucked in her bag.

When Beatrix looked up as she continued moving, a set of eyes were locked on her and with it an expression of disbelief. Wide brown eyes, a dropped jaw, blinking. She knew this look well, as all muggles had the same look when they saw something they didn’t quite understand.

“I’m sorry?” she said, not even responding to anything the man had said, but it bought her about two seconds of thinking time.

“It–” he gestured to the bag, where the tip of the feather could be seen peeking out of the top. “It went back up…”

Beatrix looked down at her bag, seeing the feather, then she looked at him with the smile she reserved for her husband’s business associates – warm, slightly puzzled, utterly unruffled.

“I have very quick hands,” she said. “My children are forever dropping things.”

The man opened his mouth again, as if to protest and argue that he knew what he saw. Of course he did. They all did.

“Are you quite alright?” she asked, tilting her head to the side slightly. “You look rather pale. Have you eaten today?”

She found it difficult to maintain an accusation when someone was expressing concern over your blood sugar. Beatrix waited, the picture of a perfectly ordinary woman on a perfectly ordinary London street, while something behind her sternum beat just slightly faster than usual.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
Roisin Byrne, etc.

How did you find us?
no clue]]> [Image: wizardingworld.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Beatrix Claire Ventnor

Type of Character:
Adult

Age:
33

Date of Birth:
9 January 1889

Blood Status:
Pureblood

Residence:
Godalming, Surrey, England

Family:
Father: Septimus Haswell – prefers decorum and stability over ideology.
Mother: Honoria Haswell (née Mulcaster) – knows how to command a room.
Brother: Alderic Haswell – very rigid, wanted to try to get the Ministry to implement "heritage tests."
Sister: Ruby Haswell – former Headmistress of Hogwarts, currently serving a two year sentence in Azkaban.
Husband: Roland Ventnor – broom component manufacturer, considerably older, arranged marriage.
Son: Reginald "Reggie" Ventnor
Daughter: Lark Ventnor
Son: Moss Ventnor (registered as Moss; Roland believes the name to be Mossimo)

Occupation:
Daily Prophet Reporter

Personality & History

Personality:
Beatrix Ventnor is very good at being liked, which is not quite the same thing as being known.

She’s warm, funny, and remembers everyone’s children’s names and the right moment to laugh and the right moment to squeeze someone’s hand and say nothing at all. None of this is a performance as she genuinely likes people and finds them interesting, their small vanities and contradictions more amusing than anything else. If she’s honest, though, being good at reading people is a convenient thing to be good at; people who are busy being charmed are not especially busy paying attention. She’s rarely ever charmed.

As the youngest in a loud family, she learned early that you could learn more from the sidelines than from the center of things. Bea notices what people do not say, and when a room shifts. She reads people the way other Ravenclaws read books, which is to say thoroughly and with genuine interest and sometimes well past the point she should have put them down and gone to sleep.

What she is less good at though, or was until recently, is knowing what to do with any of that. For a long time, observation was its own end. She watched and understood and she smiled and she was a great hostess. It was a comfortable life. It still is, technically.

But Beatrix has discovered that she has opinions. Where she once pushed them down, writing them off as nonsense, now she can’t ignore them. They don’t sit quietly in the back of her mind anymore. She isn’t totally sure what to do with them as she is still learning the shape of this version of herself, but she is not willing to go back to not having them.

Her husband finds her charming, her children find her warm and caring. The rest of the world? Well, that is to be determined.

History:
As the youngest Haswell child by a considerable margin, Beatrix grew up in the same way that most last children do – watching those older than her from the sidelines. Her brother Alderic was already rigid and opinionated by the time she was old enough to form opinions of her own. Her sister Ruby was already out in the world, doing things, being someone. Bea was small and clever and observant and nobody was especially paying attention to any of that because there was always something louder happening nearby.

She was not unhappy. The Haswell household was comfortable, and her parents were not unkind. She was aware, however, from a young age that Ruby occupied a kind of space she could not quite reach; not through any fault of either of them, simply the mathematics of the age gap. Ruby felt less like a sister and more like a distant brilliant thing to orient herself towards. Beatrix admired her enormously, but knew her hardly at all.

Hogwarts sorted her into Ravenclaw, which surprised no one who had actually been paying attention and surprised everyone who hadn’t. She was social and warm and moved through the world with an ease that read as effortless; no one expected the charming girl at the center of every gathering to also be the one who stayed up past curfew reading. She was good at keeping those two versions of herself in separate rooms.

Beatrix graduated in 1907 and married Roland Ventnor the following year, an arrangement that suited both families considerably. Roland was stable and respectable and considerably older, and she was fond of him in the way one is fond of reliable furniture. They settled in Godalming, Surrey, and she became Mrs. Ventnor with the same composure she brought to everything else. Reginald arrived in 1912, Lark in 1914, and Moss in 1917. Each child was named with increasing creative confidence that Roland never once questioned, but made Bea smile every time.

She’d always liked writing. Long letters, mostly. The kind that people remarked on and kept, but it had never occurred to her to do anything with it until 1917, when a passing word to the right acquaintance (a connection of her husband’s, the details not especially interesting) opened a door at the Daily Prophet. They expected society columns, and she delivered them beautifully and learned everything she could about how the whole operation worked while she was at it.

By 1921, she had established her byline, and her topics were quietly, almost imperceptibly, sharpening. The galas were still there, the fashion notes… But the questions she asked were not quite as soft as they used to be, and one or two of her editors had noticed without saying anything because she delivered the kind of columns that people talked about. So why rock the boat?

And then Ruby was sentenced to Azkaban.

Beatrix had spent thirty-three years not understanding the political world her siblings moved through. She found it abstract and frankly quite dull, and she was content to smile and refill the tea and think about something else.

With Ruby’s sentence, however, she couldn’t do that anymore. Something within her cracked open the afternoon the verdict came down, and she had not been able to close it again. She didn’t know her sister, not really, and definitely not as well as she should have; not as well as she always assumed there would be time for eventually.

Now Ruby is in Azkaban and Bea is left holding a grief she can’t quite name and a need to understand that she doesn’t know what to do with except write. Roland finds it touching, thinking that she is worried about her family name. And while that should bother her, every time she calls their youngest son Mossimo, she feels reinvigorated to make a difference.

Prompt Response:
The quill didn’t find its place in her bag; instead, Beatrix could feel it fall towards the floor with the precision of a journalist whose writing utensil is an extension of themselves. It barely touched the pavement before it was back in her hand, safely tucked in her bag.

When Beatrix looked up as she continued moving, a set of eyes were locked on her and with it an expression of disbelief. Wide brown eyes, a dropped jaw, blinking. She knew this look well, as all muggles had the same look when they saw something they didn’t quite understand.

“I’m sorry?” she said, not even responding to anything the man had said, but it bought her about two seconds of thinking time.

“It–” he gestured to the bag, where the tip of the feather could be seen peeking out of the top. “It went back up…”

Beatrix looked down at her bag, seeing the feather, then she looked at him with the smile she reserved for her husband’s business associates – warm, slightly puzzled, utterly unruffled.

“I have very quick hands,” she said. “My children are forever dropping things.”

The man opened his mouth again, as if to protest and argue that he knew what he saw. Of course he did. They all did.

“Are you quite alright?” she asked, tilting her head to the side slightly. “You look rather pale. Have you eaten today?”

She found it difficult to maintain an accusation when someone was expressing concern over your blood sugar. Beatrix waited, the picture of a perfectly ordinary woman on a perfectly ordinary London street, while something behind her sternum beat just slightly faster than usual.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
Roisin Byrne, etc.

How did you find us?
no clue]]> <![CDATA[The Zdravkova Family]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=962 Thu, 26 Mar 2026 02:40:11 +0000 Liliya Zdravkova]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=962
The Zdravkova Family

Pureblood ~ Russian ~ Dark Elegance ~ Power through Secrets
Lexicon

Available:

Lev Oleg Igor Zdravkova
age 22 ~ the golden son ~ recommended FC: Grant Vosburgh

[Image: 13962a26-be7c-4ff6-9f88-a49991927041__7e...9972_t.jpg]
Durmstrang Alumni. Oldest son of Oleg Zdravkova, one younger sister (Danika). Four half-siblings: Dragomir, Wiosna, Serik, Natalya. Composed, privately cheeky, rivalry with Dragomir simmering underneath perfect manners. Driven, dutyful, selectively cutting. The picture of Zdravkova loyalty and strategy: family first. Engaged to his cousin Liliya, to take over the British branch of the family business one day. Possessiveness that's subtle but ironclad. His father's favourite and most benefited. Holds himself tall and confident, talented business man. Aspires for more, wants to be on top. Slavic pride, Slytherin energy, sharp tongue but charming smile.

Plot potential: Slow-gained, slow-burn love and trust from Liliya ~ business rivalry with Dragomir once he graduates (1923) ~ political games

Wiosna Zdravkova
age 14 ~ old head on young shoulders

[Image: c71221f495f5609cdfeb6fc8d299f1ff.jpg]
Incoming fourth year, transfer from Durmstrang because of her family's move to Britain during summer of 1922. Second-born of four siblings, one older brother (Dragomir), two younger siblings (Serik, Natalya). Mommy's favourite, spoiled, elegant, impeccably classy. Intelligent, quick-witted, potential Ravenclaw. Sophisticated, level-headed, precocious. Always three steps ahead, cool composure, cutting when needed but never raises her voice. Close to her older brother, his anchor in hot-headed situations, her most trusted confidant. Talented witch, mind over heart.

Serik Zdravkova
age 12 ~ golden retriever with wolf teeth

[Image: 932102230ca3663701c780b24e7e719a.jpg]
Incoming second year, transfer from Durmstrang because of his family's move to Britain during summer of 1922. Third-born of four siblings, two older siblings (Dragomir, Wiosna), one younger sister (Natalya). Looks up to his older brother, emulates him. Lacks the discipline though, loses sight of things and falls victim to his rowdiness and trouble-making tendencies. Easily bored, easily distracted, always chasing the next thrill. Streaked with inherited and encouraged Zdravkova coldness and cruelty when provoked. Potential Gryffindor or Slytherin. Loves to fight and adventure. Life of the party. Effortlessly rich. Potential to run into familial trouble down the road when his brother can't protect him from their father's wrath anymore, might become rebellious and act out.

Natalya Zdravkova
age 10 ~ delicate bloom in a world of frost ~ recommended FC: Nastya Babich

[Image: 2c8788194dd7cb311b35a2b8e1408c32.jpg]
Incoming first year for 1923 term. Last-born of four siblings, three older siblings (Dragomir, Wiosna, Serik). Romantic nature, dreamy, trusting and a little naïve. Delicate, does ballet, plays piano. Rosy cheeks, soft eyes, deeply emotional. Hidden insecurities, standing in the shadow of her older sister, overseen by her mother. Tries to be good enough but receives sharp looks instead of warm ones. Humble, gentle. Dearly loved by her older siblings. Potential Hufflepuff. Surprise Slytherin? Practices ballet positions in quiet corridors when she thinks no one's watching. Endearing but vulnerable to the purebloods' cutthroat nature. Potential to develop into a wolf in sheep's clothes.


Note: All ages can be tweaked! Nothing is set in stone!


Played:

Liliya Zdravkova
age 18 ~ the ice princess

[Image: be28ac04f8af13c2f2ae8af91747c235.jpg]
Direct, unapologetic, ruthless. Says what she thinks, and if she doesn't, you'll know anyway. Judgemental eyes, confident gait. Doesn't care what you think. Intelligent, skilled duellist, book smart. Cold heart with a warm, molten core, but encased by layers of ice. Deep affection for those that find a way in, fiercely loyal to her family. Has an unruly chaos living in her chest that lashes out in moments of weakness or carelessness. Desires quietly, pragmatist.
Eager to prove herself, aspiring Legilimens, works for the Zdravkova business, branch Alteration. Engaged to her cousin Lev whom she respects but feels unsure about still.

Dragomir Zdravkova
age 17 ~ the soldier

[Image: 7deb1e2a99668b07e7ad95d63e0f0c96.jpg]
Incoming seventh year, oldest brother of four siblings. Arranged to Matilda Nordstrom. Proud, confident, ambitious, intense. The loyal son, the valiant brother. Persistent, roguish, gallant, noble. In rare moments unexpectedly soft, the protective friend. Loves to provoke and tease, will start a fight if he wants to, will chase what he wants until he gets it. Can be rowdy and boisterous, but holds great respect for figures of authority and power. Has a strong sense for duty and honour, proudly dedicated to his family, will go to great length to show his loyalty and devotion. Fiercely protective of the ones he cares for, unafraid to stand up against people he considers threats or enemies.


Interested? Please reach out to Maevie Golding/@eiranorth via PM or Discord to plot!
]]>
The Zdravkova Family

Pureblood ~ Russian ~ Dark Elegance ~ Power through Secrets
Lexicon

Available:

Lev Oleg Igor Zdravkova
age 22 ~ the golden son ~ recommended FC: Grant Vosburgh

[Image: 13962a26-be7c-4ff6-9f88-a49991927041__7e...9972_t.jpg]
Durmstrang Alumni. Oldest son of Oleg Zdravkova, one younger sister (Danika). Four half-siblings: Dragomir, Wiosna, Serik, Natalya. Composed, privately cheeky, rivalry with Dragomir simmering underneath perfect manners. Driven, dutyful, selectively cutting. The picture of Zdravkova loyalty and strategy: family first. Engaged to his cousin Liliya, to take over the British branch of the family business one day. Possessiveness that's subtle but ironclad. His father's favourite and most benefited. Holds himself tall and confident, talented business man. Aspires for more, wants to be on top. Slavic pride, Slytherin energy, sharp tongue but charming smile.

Plot potential: Slow-gained, slow-burn love and trust from Liliya ~ business rivalry with Dragomir once he graduates (1923) ~ political games

Wiosna Zdravkova
age 14 ~ old head on young shoulders

[Image: c71221f495f5609cdfeb6fc8d299f1ff.jpg]
Incoming fourth year, transfer from Durmstrang because of her family's move to Britain during summer of 1922. Second-born of four siblings, one older brother (Dragomir), two younger siblings (Serik, Natalya). Mommy's favourite, spoiled, elegant, impeccably classy. Intelligent, quick-witted, potential Ravenclaw. Sophisticated, level-headed, precocious. Always three steps ahead, cool composure, cutting when needed but never raises her voice. Close to her older brother, his anchor in hot-headed situations, her most trusted confidant. Talented witch, mind over heart.

Serik Zdravkova
age 12 ~ golden retriever with wolf teeth

[Image: 932102230ca3663701c780b24e7e719a.jpg]
Incoming second year, transfer from Durmstrang because of his family's move to Britain during summer of 1922. Third-born of four siblings, two older siblings (Dragomir, Wiosna), one younger sister (Natalya). Looks up to his older brother, emulates him. Lacks the discipline though, loses sight of things and falls victim to his rowdiness and trouble-making tendencies. Easily bored, easily distracted, always chasing the next thrill. Streaked with inherited and encouraged Zdravkova coldness and cruelty when provoked. Potential Gryffindor or Slytherin. Loves to fight and adventure. Life of the party. Effortlessly rich. Potential to run into familial trouble down the road when his brother can't protect him from their father's wrath anymore, might become rebellious and act out.

Natalya Zdravkova
age 10 ~ delicate bloom in a world of frost ~ recommended FC: Nastya Babich

[Image: 2c8788194dd7cb311b35a2b8e1408c32.jpg]
Incoming first year for 1923 term. Last-born of four siblings, three older siblings (Dragomir, Wiosna, Serik). Romantic nature, dreamy, trusting and a little naïve. Delicate, does ballet, plays piano. Rosy cheeks, soft eyes, deeply emotional. Hidden insecurities, standing in the shadow of her older sister, overseen by her mother. Tries to be good enough but receives sharp looks instead of warm ones. Humble, gentle. Dearly loved by her older siblings. Potential Hufflepuff. Surprise Slytherin? Practices ballet positions in quiet corridors when she thinks no one's watching. Endearing but vulnerable to the purebloods' cutthroat nature. Potential to develop into a wolf in sheep's clothes.


Note: All ages can be tweaked! Nothing is set in stone!


Played:

Liliya Zdravkova
age 18 ~ the ice princess

[Image: be28ac04f8af13c2f2ae8af91747c235.jpg]
Direct, unapologetic, ruthless. Says what she thinks, and if she doesn't, you'll know anyway. Judgemental eyes, confident gait. Doesn't care what you think. Intelligent, skilled duellist, book smart. Cold heart with a warm, molten core, but encased by layers of ice. Deep affection for those that find a way in, fiercely loyal to her family. Has an unruly chaos living in her chest that lashes out in moments of weakness or carelessness. Desires quietly, pragmatist.
Eager to prove herself, aspiring Legilimens, works for the Zdravkova business, branch Alteration. Engaged to her cousin Lev whom she respects but feels unsure about still.

Dragomir Zdravkova
age 17 ~ the soldier

[Image: 7deb1e2a99668b07e7ad95d63e0f0c96.jpg]
Incoming seventh year, oldest brother of four siblings. Arranged to Matilda Nordstrom. Proud, confident, ambitious, intense. The loyal son, the valiant brother. Persistent, roguish, gallant, noble. In rare moments unexpectedly soft, the protective friend. Loves to provoke and tease, will start a fight if he wants to, will chase what he wants until he gets it. Can be rowdy and boisterous, but holds great respect for figures of authority and power. Has a strong sense for duty and honour, proudly dedicated to his family, will go to great length to show his loyalty and devotion. Fiercely protective of the ones he cares for, unafraid to stand up against people he considers threats or enemies.


Interested? Please reach out to Maevie Golding/@eiranorth via PM or Discord to plot!
]]> <![CDATA[Gravenmere Court - The 16th Birthday of Ellen Graymere | Open]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=951 Wed, 25 Mar 2026 16:01:19 +0000 Ellen Graymere]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=951 4th August, 1922
8:00 AM.


The invitations had been sent out three weeks in advance, addressed by hand, each name chosen with the particular care that Darenne Graymere née de Lac brought to all social manoeuvres. No expense had been spared. None ever was.

The invitation, when it arrived, came in a heavy envelope of cream laid paper, the Graymere heron watermarked faintly at the lower right corner. The seal was dark green wax, pressed with the family crest: the heron, the oak sprigs, the old words.

Inside, two cards:


⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Mr. & Mrs. Walter Graymere
request the pleasure of your company
at a Ball given in honour of their daughter

Miss Ellen Elizabeth Graymere
on the occasion of her Sixteenth Birthday

Saturday, the Fourth of August
Nineteen Twenty-Two

Eight o'clock in the Evening

Gravenmere Court
Cornwall

Dancing & Supper

R.S.V.P.
Mrs. W. Graymere
Gravenmere Court, Cornwall

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Dress: Formal Evening

Ladies are kindly asked to observe a palette
of jewel tones for the evening.
White is reserved for the guest of honour.

Gentlemen: dress robes or evening dress.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Sixteen years. A daughter. A debut.

The day had been circled on the household calendar for months.

By eight o'clock, Gravenmere Court was already at war with itself.

Not literally, of course. The pale limestone walls still caught the morning light in their usual way, throwing it back soft and warm across the lawns that rolled, green and close-cropped, to the lake's edge. The lake itself lay flat and silver under an August sky that had not yet decided between cloud and blue. A pair of herons stood motionless in the shallows near the eastern boathouse, unbothered by the commotion behind them.

Because behind them, the house was in uproar.

The front doors stood propped open with iron doorstops shaped like sleeping foxes, and through them passed a steady procession. Crates of glassware, conjured but carefully so. Darenne had opinions about the weight of a champagne coupe, the way the stem should sit between the fingers, and no charm off a shelf would satisfy her. Bundles of cut flowers arrived by Floo in the service hearth every quarter hour; white peonies and pale roses, sweet pea in ivory and blush, trailing jasmine that perfumed the kitchen corridor until one of the house-elves sneezed so violently it sent a stack of pressed linen napkins off the counter and across the flagstones.

In the ballroom, two house-elves stood on stepladders that were themselves standing on enchanted platforms, hanging garlands of white and green along the cornicing. A third directed them from below with the intensity of a conductor at rehearsal, ears flat with concentration, one long finger jabbing upward—higher, higher, to the left, Lally, the LEFT—while a fourth polished the parquet floor on hands and knees with a cloth the size of a bedsheet, working in long, devoted strokes until the wood held the reflection of the chandeliers above like a still pond.

The chandeliers. There were three of them, old crystal, Graymere pieces that had hung in this room for two hundred years. They had been lowered on their chains the previous evening and cleaned prism by prism. Now they were rising again, slowly, chiming faintly as they went, each one trailing a soft rain of refracted light across the walls.

In the kitchen, the day had started at five.

Cook, a broad, squib woman named Heddy who had held her post for nineteen years had commandeered every surface. The long oak table that normally served for staff meals had been cleared and floured for pastry. Two enchanted rolling pins worked side by side in a steady, mechanical rhythm, flattening sheets of butter-laminated dough that would become vol-au-vents by evening. On the great iron range, a stockpot the size of a washtub simmered with lobster shells, fennel, and a generous pour of white wine, its steam rising to join the permanent haze that lived beneath the kitchen ceiling. Racks of petit fours cooled on every available ledge. A sugar-work mould in the shape of the Graymere heron sat waiting on the marble slab, its cavity brushed with oil, ready for the spun-sugar centrepiece that Heddy would not attempt until four o'clock, because humidity was the enemy and she would choose her moment.

A delivery of oysters from the coast had arrived in a crate of crushed ice and wet seaweed at half-six, and a boy from the village had brought the last of the hothouse peaches in a flat wooden tray, each one nested in tissue paper, blushed gold and red, smelling of August itself.

The dining room had been extended.

By enchantment, of course. The result was a room that felt generous without feeling cavernous, large enough for the round supper tables she had specified; ten of them, eight guests each, with room for the servants to circulate but still intimate enough that conversation could carry across the candlelight.

The tables themselves were bare for now. The linen would go down at noon, the silver at two, the flowers and place cards at four. Specific instructions regarding the seating had also been given by Darenne; the McCawleys beside the Daughtrys, NOT near the Borgheses under any circumstances, and Mother at my right. Added later, move the Laurence boy to Ellen's table. One placement, near the middle of the arrangement, had been especially noted: Nordstrom — Zdravkova. Nothing else was noted beside it. It did not need to be.

As the clock inched toward ten, a house-elf appeared at Darenne's elbow with a soft crack, holding a swatch of green silk and a sprig of jasmine, and she held the two together at arm's length, turned them toward the window light, then set the jasmine aside and pointed at the silk. The elf vanished.

In Ellen's bedroom, the gown hung on a padded dress form near the window. White silk charmeuse, fluid, with a luster that shifted between warm ivory and cool silver as the curtain stirred in the draft. The waistline sat low on the hip. The neckline drew a soft curve across the collarbone. Sleeveless, bare from the shoulder. The hemline fell to mid-calf, clean and straight, and the beadwork began at the bodice: seed pearls and crystal arranged in geometric patterns, dense at the top and thinning as they descended, so the skirt could move without weight. It was a Paris gown, Brodeur et Fils, Rue Cambon, and it looked it.

Beside the form, laid out on a cloth-draped table: white gloves that buttoned past the elbow. Satin shoes, low-heeled. And a velvet case, open, containing a single strand of pearls. De Lac pearls.

In the kitchen, Heddy cracked two dozen eggs into a copper bowl without looking up, and the morning pressed on.

By noon, the linen went down on the supper tables. White damask, pressed to a shine, each cloth laid with the seams aligned to the table's center. By two, the silver followed: forks, knives, spoons arranged by course in the Continental style that Darenne preferred, each setting measured finger-width apart. Crystal stemware; champagne coupes, wine glasses, water goblets all caught the light from the windows and threw tiny rainbows across the damask.

By three, the flowers arrived in their final form. Low arrangements of white peonies and pale roses in silver bowls, one per table, fragrant but not overwhelming, set low enough that guests could see one another across the settings. Trailing jasmine wound through the candelabras that stood at intervals along the room's periphery. The scent was green and sweet, faintly honeyed, mingling with the beeswax of candles that would not be lit for hours yet.

The ballroom floor had dried to a mirror. The garlands were up. The chandeliers hung in their places, still and glittering, prisms throwing light in slow rotations as the summer air moved through the open windows. At the far end of the room, a low platform had been erected for the musician, a string orchestra out of London, six players, their instruments still cased and stacked beside the music stands. They would arrive at five to tune and rehearse.

Outside, the grounds were being dressed as thoroughly as the house. The lakeside tea pavilion had been hung with white muslin and strung with glass lanterns, unlit, that would float at head-height once darkness fell. The lawns between the house and the water had been mown that morning, the cut grass smell still hanging in the warm air. The long gravel path from the front entrance had been raked clean, and the gravel itself was fresh-pale, fine-crushed stone that crunched cleanly underfoot.

At five, the orchestra arrived.

Six men in black evening dress, carrying their own cases, led through the service entrance by a house-elf who moved at twice their pace and kept glancing back as if herding cattle. They filed onto the platform at the far end of the ballroom, unpacked without fuss, and began to tune. The sound filled the empty room in disjointed pieces; a cello finding its open strings, a violin running a scale, the pianist striking the same chord three times, adjusting, striking again. By half-five, they had settled into a low, aimless warm-up that drifted through the house like a rumor of what was coming.

At six, the candles were lit.

Not by hand. A single house-elf walked the length of the ballroom with one finger raised, and the wicks caught in sequence, a ripple of small flames running along the walls, climbing the candelabras, reaching the chandeliers last. The effect was immediate. The room, which had spent the day in the honest light of August, softened. Crystal multiplied the flames. The polished floor doubled them. The garlands of white and green, which had looked merely fresh in daylight, turned luminous, and the jasmine released a deeper wave of scent in the warmth.

Outside, the glass lanterns along the lakeside pavilion rose from their hooks and hung suspended, glowing faintly as the sky began its slow turn from blue to gold. The lake caught the colour and held it, flat and still, the treeline on the far shore reduced to a dark ribbon. Midges drifted above the water in loose clouds. The air was warm and close, the kind of August evening that held its heat well past dark.

The first carriages appeared on the drive at seven.

They came by road and by magic both. Some rolled up the gravel behind matched pairs, the carriage wheels crunching softly, the horses sleek and dark. But others arrived in motorcars. Low, polished machines in black and burgundy and cream, their engines cutting out one by one as they drew to a halt before the entrance, the smell of petrol wafting briefly through the cut-grass scent of the lawns. The newer families, the progressive ones, the Continental connections who had adopted Muggle technologies as status symbols rather than things to be shunned. A sleek silver Hispano-Suiza purred to a stop behind a more traditional carriage, its chauffeur stepping out to open the door for a witch in emerald silk who descended without a glance at the older, horse-drawn arrivals.

Other guests came by Floo, stepping out of the great fireplace in the entrance hall and brushing soot from their shoulders. A few arrived by Apparition at the designated point beyond the garden wall, walking the remaining distance in evening dress as if they had travelled on foot all along.

The entrance hall filled first, voices and footsteps layering over one another, the particular sound of a social gathering finding its pitch. Names were exchanged, hands were clasped, cheeks were kissed in the Continental fashion by those who favored it. House-elves moved through the crowd at waist-height with silver trays of champagne coupes, the wine inside pale and fizzing, cold enough that the glass misted under every grip.

Older witches could be seen wearing traditional robes in dark velvets and rich silks, their hair pinned up, evidently still Edwardian or even Victorian in structure. But among the younger set, the influence of the new decade was visible. A cluster of girls in their late teens stood near the ballroom doors, their dresses straight and narrow, waists dropped to the hip, hems hovering just above the ankle. Beaded fringe caught the light. One wore her hair in a sharp, shining bob; another had hers shingled at the back, exposed beneath a headband of crystal and pearl. The effect was youthful, almost boyish, a deliberate rejection of the hourglass silhouettes their mothers still favored. It was not just the women. There were plenty of younger men wore Muggle evening dress too, all white tie and tailcoats.

Nobody commented on it, at least not within earshot of their hosts.

The Graymeres received their guests at the foot of the main staircase. Walter in dark dress robes, well-fitted. His wife..

Darenne stood beside him in pale gold silk chiffon that seemed to hold the light rather than merely reflect it. The bodice was sleeveless and columnar, encrusted with a meticulous lattice of seed pearls and micro-beads that created a subtle, liquid shimmer with every small movement, muted floral motifs in dusty rose and sage green embroidered throughout. A heavily beaded sash sat at the dropped waist, and from it the skirt descended in a frothy, multi-layered waterfall of metallic lace and scalloped tulle. A long, blush-toned sautoir necklace draped past her hip. White opera-length gloves covered her arms. Her hair was swept up, not in the tight arrangements of the previous generation, but in a softer, looser style that let a few strands curve against her neck.

She looked modern. She looked expensive. She looked, in short, exactly as she intended. As always.

William, nineteen, tall, his father's coloring, standing where he'd been placed and doing what was asked of him. But unlike his father, he wore muggle evening dress.

The girl of the hour, Ellen, had not yet descended.


(OOC: Thank you all for coming!! This took so long to write, but it was worth it! Welcome to my character's sixteenth birthday bash!

So, your character has received a formal invitation (enclosed above) and has arrived at the estate. Guests are being received in the entrance hall, where champagne is already circulating. The ballroom, dining room, and lakeside grounds are all open and dressed for the occasion.

ORDER OF EVENTS:

⊹ Arrival & Reception. Guests mingle in the entrance hall and filter into the ballroom. Champagne, conversation, and first impressions. *This is where we start.*

⊹ The First Dance. Ellen's first dance of the evening. The orchestra is live and will move from waltzes into more modern numbers as the night progresses.

⊹ Open Dancing & Socialising. The floor opens. Dance cards are in play.

⊹ Supper. A formal seated meal. Seating has been arranged by the hostess.

⊹ After Supper. The evening loosens. The lakeside pavilion and grounds are available.

HOW THIS WILL WORK: I will advance us to the next stage of the evening once everyone has had a chance to settle into the current one. There is no rush. Take your time with arrivals, introductions, and interactions. When the scene is ready to move, I'll post a transition.

FOR YOUR FIRST POST: Arrive. Step out of your carriage, out of the Floo, off the Apparition point, however your character travels. Enter the house. React to the setting. Find someone to talk to, or don't.

That's all! Settle in and let's have fun!)]]> 4th August, 1922
8:00 AM.


The invitations had been sent out three weeks in advance, addressed by hand, each name chosen with the particular care that Darenne Graymere née de Lac brought to all social manoeuvres. No expense had been spared. None ever was.

The invitation, when it arrived, came in a heavy envelope of cream laid paper, the Graymere heron watermarked faintly at the lower right corner. The seal was dark green wax, pressed with the family crest: the heron, the oak sprigs, the old words.

Inside, two cards:


⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Mr. & Mrs. Walter Graymere
request the pleasure of your company
at a Ball given in honour of their daughter

Miss Ellen Elizabeth Graymere
on the occasion of her Sixteenth Birthday

Saturday, the Fourth of August
Nineteen Twenty-Two

Eight o'clock in the Evening

Gravenmere Court
Cornwall

Dancing & Supper

R.S.V.P.
Mrs. W. Graymere
Gravenmere Court, Cornwall

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Dress: Formal Evening

Ladies are kindly asked to observe a palette
of jewel tones for the evening.
White is reserved for the guest of honour.

Gentlemen: dress robes or evening dress.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Sixteen years. A daughter. A debut.

The day had been circled on the household calendar for months.

By eight o'clock, Gravenmere Court was already at war with itself.

Not literally, of course. The pale limestone walls still caught the morning light in their usual way, throwing it back soft and warm across the lawns that rolled, green and close-cropped, to the lake's edge. The lake itself lay flat and silver under an August sky that had not yet decided between cloud and blue. A pair of herons stood motionless in the shallows near the eastern boathouse, unbothered by the commotion behind them.

Because behind them, the house was in uproar.

The front doors stood propped open with iron doorstops shaped like sleeping foxes, and through them passed a steady procession. Crates of glassware, conjured but carefully so. Darenne had opinions about the weight of a champagne coupe, the way the stem should sit between the fingers, and no charm off a shelf would satisfy her. Bundles of cut flowers arrived by Floo in the service hearth every quarter hour; white peonies and pale roses, sweet pea in ivory and blush, trailing jasmine that perfumed the kitchen corridor until one of the house-elves sneezed so violently it sent a stack of pressed linen napkins off the counter and across the flagstones.

In the ballroom, two house-elves stood on stepladders that were themselves standing on enchanted platforms, hanging garlands of white and green along the cornicing. A third directed them from below with the intensity of a conductor at rehearsal, ears flat with concentration, one long finger jabbing upward—higher, higher, to the left, Lally, the LEFT—while a fourth polished the parquet floor on hands and knees with a cloth the size of a bedsheet, working in long, devoted strokes until the wood held the reflection of the chandeliers above like a still pond.

The chandeliers. There were three of them, old crystal, Graymere pieces that had hung in this room for two hundred years. They had been lowered on their chains the previous evening and cleaned prism by prism. Now they were rising again, slowly, chiming faintly as they went, each one trailing a soft rain of refracted light across the walls.

In the kitchen, the day had started at five.

Cook, a broad, squib woman named Heddy who had held her post for nineteen years had commandeered every surface. The long oak table that normally served for staff meals had been cleared and floured for pastry. Two enchanted rolling pins worked side by side in a steady, mechanical rhythm, flattening sheets of butter-laminated dough that would become vol-au-vents by evening. On the great iron range, a stockpot the size of a washtub simmered with lobster shells, fennel, and a generous pour of white wine, its steam rising to join the permanent haze that lived beneath the kitchen ceiling. Racks of petit fours cooled on every available ledge. A sugar-work mould in the shape of the Graymere heron sat waiting on the marble slab, its cavity brushed with oil, ready for the spun-sugar centrepiece that Heddy would not attempt until four o'clock, because humidity was the enemy and she would choose her moment.

A delivery of oysters from the coast had arrived in a crate of crushed ice and wet seaweed at half-six, and a boy from the village had brought the last of the hothouse peaches in a flat wooden tray, each one nested in tissue paper, blushed gold and red, smelling of August itself.

The dining room had been extended.

By enchantment, of course. The result was a room that felt generous without feeling cavernous, large enough for the round supper tables she had specified; ten of them, eight guests each, with room for the servants to circulate but still intimate enough that conversation could carry across the candlelight.

The tables themselves were bare for now. The linen would go down at noon, the silver at two, the flowers and place cards at four. Specific instructions regarding the seating had also been given by Darenne; the McCawleys beside the Daughtrys, NOT near the Borgheses under any circumstances, and Mother at my right. Added later, move the Laurence boy to Ellen's table. One placement, near the middle of the arrangement, had been especially noted: Nordstrom — Zdravkova. Nothing else was noted beside it. It did not need to be.

As the clock inched toward ten, a house-elf appeared at Darenne's elbow with a soft crack, holding a swatch of green silk and a sprig of jasmine, and she held the two together at arm's length, turned them toward the window light, then set the jasmine aside and pointed at the silk. The elf vanished.

In Ellen's bedroom, the gown hung on a padded dress form near the window. White silk charmeuse, fluid, with a luster that shifted between warm ivory and cool silver as the curtain stirred in the draft. The waistline sat low on the hip. The neckline drew a soft curve across the collarbone. Sleeveless, bare from the shoulder. The hemline fell to mid-calf, clean and straight, and the beadwork began at the bodice: seed pearls and crystal arranged in geometric patterns, dense at the top and thinning as they descended, so the skirt could move without weight. It was a Paris gown, Brodeur et Fils, Rue Cambon, and it looked it.

Beside the form, laid out on a cloth-draped table: white gloves that buttoned past the elbow. Satin shoes, low-heeled. And a velvet case, open, containing a single strand of pearls. De Lac pearls.

In the kitchen, Heddy cracked two dozen eggs into a copper bowl without looking up, and the morning pressed on.

By noon, the linen went down on the supper tables. White damask, pressed to a shine, each cloth laid with the seams aligned to the table's center. By two, the silver followed: forks, knives, spoons arranged by course in the Continental style that Darenne preferred, each setting measured finger-width apart. Crystal stemware; champagne coupes, wine glasses, water goblets all caught the light from the windows and threw tiny rainbows across the damask.

By three, the flowers arrived in their final form. Low arrangements of white peonies and pale roses in silver bowls, one per table, fragrant but not overwhelming, set low enough that guests could see one another across the settings. Trailing jasmine wound through the candelabras that stood at intervals along the room's periphery. The scent was green and sweet, faintly honeyed, mingling with the beeswax of candles that would not be lit for hours yet.

The ballroom floor had dried to a mirror. The garlands were up. The chandeliers hung in their places, still and glittering, prisms throwing light in slow rotations as the summer air moved through the open windows. At the far end of the room, a low platform had been erected for the musician, a string orchestra out of London, six players, their instruments still cased and stacked beside the music stands. They would arrive at five to tune and rehearse.

Outside, the grounds were being dressed as thoroughly as the house. The lakeside tea pavilion had been hung with white muslin and strung with glass lanterns, unlit, that would float at head-height once darkness fell. The lawns between the house and the water had been mown that morning, the cut grass smell still hanging in the warm air. The long gravel path from the front entrance had been raked clean, and the gravel itself was fresh-pale, fine-crushed stone that crunched cleanly underfoot.

At five, the orchestra arrived.

Six men in black evening dress, carrying their own cases, led through the service entrance by a house-elf who moved at twice their pace and kept glancing back as if herding cattle. They filed onto the platform at the far end of the ballroom, unpacked without fuss, and began to tune. The sound filled the empty room in disjointed pieces; a cello finding its open strings, a violin running a scale, the pianist striking the same chord three times, adjusting, striking again. By half-five, they had settled into a low, aimless warm-up that drifted through the house like a rumor of what was coming.

At six, the candles were lit.

Not by hand. A single house-elf walked the length of the ballroom with one finger raised, and the wicks caught in sequence, a ripple of small flames running along the walls, climbing the candelabras, reaching the chandeliers last. The effect was immediate. The room, which had spent the day in the honest light of August, softened. Crystal multiplied the flames. The polished floor doubled them. The garlands of white and green, which had looked merely fresh in daylight, turned luminous, and the jasmine released a deeper wave of scent in the warmth.

Outside, the glass lanterns along the lakeside pavilion rose from their hooks and hung suspended, glowing faintly as the sky began its slow turn from blue to gold. The lake caught the colour and held it, flat and still, the treeline on the far shore reduced to a dark ribbon. Midges drifted above the water in loose clouds. The air was warm and close, the kind of August evening that held its heat well past dark.

The first carriages appeared on the drive at seven.

They came by road and by magic both. Some rolled up the gravel behind matched pairs, the carriage wheels crunching softly, the horses sleek and dark. But others arrived in motorcars. Low, polished machines in black and burgundy and cream, their engines cutting out one by one as they drew to a halt before the entrance, the smell of petrol wafting briefly through the cut-grass scent of the lawns. The newer families, the progressive ones, the Continental connections who had adopted Muggle technologies as status symbols rather than things to be shunned. A sleek silver Hispano-Suiza purred to a stop behind a more traditional carriage, its chauffeur stepping out to open the door for a witch in emerald silk who descended without a glance at the older, horse-drawn arrivals.

Other guests came by Floo, stepping out of the great fireplace in the entrance hall and brushing soot from their shoulders. A few arrived by Apparition at the designated point beyond the garden wall, walking the remaining distance in evening dress as if they had travelled on foot all along.

The entrance hall filled first, voices and footsteps layering over one another, the particular sound of a social gathering finding its pitch. Names were exchanged, hands were clasped, cheeks were kissed in the Continental fashion by those who favored it. House-elves moved through the crowd at waist-height with silver trays of champagne coupes, the wine inside pale and fizzing, cold enough that the glass misted under every grip.

Older witches could be seen wearing traditional robes in dark velvets and rich silks, their hair pinned up, evidently still Edwardian or even Victorian in structure. But among the younger set, the influence of the new decade was visible. A cluster of girls in their late teens stood near the ballroom doors, their dresses straight and narrow, waists dropped to the hip, hems hovering just above the ankle. Beaded fringe caught the light. One wore her hair in a sharp, shining bob; another had hers shingled at the back, exposed beneath a headband of crystal and pearl. The effect was youthful, almost boyish, a deliberate rejection of the hourglass silhouettes their mothers still favored. It was not just the women. There were plenty of younger men wore Muggle evening dress too, all white tie and tailcoats.

Nobody commented on it, at least not within earshot of their hosts.

The Graymeres received their guests at the foot of the main staircase. Walter in dark dress robes, well-fitted. His wife..

Darenne stood beside him in pale gold silk chiffon that seemed to hold the light rather than merely reflect it. The bodice was sleeveless and columnar, encrusted with a meticulous lattice of seed pearls and micro-beads that created a subtle, liquid shimmer with every small movement, muted floral motifs in dusty rose and sage green embroidered throughout. A heavily beaded sash sat at the dropped waist, and from it the skirt descended in a frothy, multi-layered waterfall of metallic lace and scalloped tulle. A long, blush-toned sautoir necklace draped past her hip. White opera-length gloves covered her arms. Her hair was swept up, not in the tight arrangements of the previous generation, but in a softer, looser style that let a few strands curve against her neck.

She looked modern. She looked expensive. She looked, in short, exactly as she intended. As always.

William, nineteen, tall, his father's coloring, standing where he'd been placed and doing what was asked of him. But unlike his father, he wore muggle evening dress.

The girl of the hour, Ellen, had not yet descended.


(OOC: Thank you all for coming!! This took so long to write, but it was worth it! Welcome to my character's sixteenth birthday bash!

So, your character has received a formal invitation (enclosed above) and has arrived at the estate. Guests are being received in the entrance hall, where champagne is already circulating. The ballroom, dining room, and lakeside grounds are all open and dressed for the occasion.

ORDER OF EVENTS:

⊹ Arrival & Reception. Guests mingle in the entrance hall and filter into the ballroom. Champagne, conversation, and first impressions. *This is where we start.*

⊹ The First Dance. Ellen's first dance of the evening. The orchestra is live and will move from waltzes into more modern numbers as the night progresses.

⊹ Open Dancing & Socialising. The floor opens. Dance cards are in play.

⊹ Supper. A formal seated meal. Seating has been arranged by the hostess.

⊹ After Supper. The evening loosens. The lakeside pavilion and grounds are available.

HOW THIS WILL WORK: I will advance us to the next stage of the evening once everyone has had a chance to settle into the current one. There is no rush. Take your time with arrivals, introductions, and interactions. When the scene is ready to move, I'll post a transition.

FOR YOUR FIRST POST: Arrive. Step out of your carriage, out of the Floo, off the Apparition point, however your character travels. Enter the house. React to the setting. Find someone to talk to, or don't.

That's all! Settle in and let's have fun!)]]> <![CDATA[Student Application: Dragomir Zdravkova]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=961 Tue, 24 Mar 2026 21:12:38 +0000 Dragomir Zdravkova]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=961 [Image: hogwarts.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Dragomir Zdravkova

Age:
17

Date of Birth:
11 May 1905

Blood Status:
Pureblood

Residence:
Harewood House, West Yorkshire, England

Family:
Father: Oleg Sergej Igor Zdravkova
Mother: Ruslana Zdravkova
Half-siblings: Lev, Danika
Siblings: Wiosna, Serik, Natalya
Mentionable cousin: Liliya

Personality & House Preference

Personality:
>> proud, confident, ambitious, intense ~ the loyal son, the valiant brother

>> persistent, roguish, gallant, noble ~ in rare moments unexpectedly soft, the protective friend

>> loves to provoke and tease, will start a fight if he wants to, will chase what he wants until he gets it

>> can be rowdy and boisterous, but holds great respect for figures of authority and power

>> has a strong sense for duty and honour, proudly dedicated to his family, will go to great length to show his loyalty and devotion

>> fiercely protective of the ones he cares for, unafraid to stand up against people he considers threats or enemies.

History:
Drago grew up in Russia alongside his siblings, sharing a home at Winter Palace where the entire Zdravkova clan resides. He is the oldest in a line of four siblings, but has two older half-siblings, the product of his father's first marriage. When his first wife died, Oleg decided to marry again, totalling an offspring of six.

There is relative harmony within the respective sibling clusters but a low simmering animosity between the two. Drago and Lev in particular never got along well, provoked by Lev's dislike for his step-mother after his birth mother's death, and extending to his half-siblings, especially the firstborn boy, Drago. It was a childhood that consisted of provocation and taunting, developing into an interfamilial rivalry as the years passed by. What always simmers beneath it all, is Drago's place as second in line, a thorn to his side that he will never be able to pluck free.

Drago grew into the role of protector early on, putting himself in between the wrath of his father and his siblings when the man fell into one of his angry moods again, taking the brunt of the rage that frequented their home. Still, Drago's admiration for Oleg never weakened. Despite the abuse, his devotion to the family name and business never wavers, the loyalty branded into his blood. His desire to prove himself and serve, to impress his father and do his duty in the name of Zdravkova directs his every move.

When his grandfather and Head of Family orders Oleg's entire branch to move to Britain and integrate themselves into society, to built a new empire, Drago takes on the tasks set before him with fervour. He will spent his last year of education at Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang, make important connections and represent the glory of his name to this new world. When his father tells him he is to be arranged to a girl of a high-ranking British pureblood family, Drago accepts this demand as well, without question.

House Preference:
kinda sounds like Gryffindor, don't it :3

Year Preference:
7th

Prompt Response:
The Great Hall was buzzing and pulsing with the chatter of hundreds of students, much less compliant and restrained than what Drago was used to from Durmstrang. There, people held themselves differently he had found. Taller, more proud. Controlled and obedient in a way these children at Hogwarts would probably call cold.

It felt like a different world.

His eyes travelled over the faces closest to him, sat across and around at a distance as though he was surrounded by an invisible barrier, circular and leaving the seats right next to him empty. Drago didn't mind. He was content with quietly observing while he ate alone, marking faces and attaching them to names.

One of them, Eddie, had caught his attention. By far the most obnoxious, telling a story to the friends gathered around him, visibly gorging himself on the attention he received. Drago let his gaze linger on the sandy-haired boy.

"You should have seen his face when I had him dangling by his foot." Eddie's expression contorted into one of desperation and panic, re-enacting what Drago assumed had been the victim of the boy's bullying. "Let me down, let me down, wah-wah."

A roar of laughter followed.

Drago's face remained blank, almost bored, eyes unwavering as they kept themselves attached to Eddie.

"What a fucking loser," the younger boy finished off, pleased with the effect his story has had, grinning to himself. Only then did he notice the piercing gaze from down the table. He nudged the person next to him, nodding in Drago's direction.

"Oi, look. That one looks like his got a fart lodged up the wrong way." More snickering.

Drago didn't react, stoically staring on.

"Hey, weirdo!", Eddie called with a smug grin. "The bathroom's down the hallway." The group of fourth years snorted, expectantly watching Drago for his reaction.

He let a moment pass, tension stretching taut. When he got up, he did it calmly, almost casual. He made his way over until stood right across from Eddie.

He reached out without warning, placing a broad hand on the top of the other's head before he could react, and slammed his face straight into the place set before him. "You should be more respectful." It was all he said before turning to leave.

The painful whine turned angry cursing followed him all the way out of the hall.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
Maevie Golding, Harper Campbell, Liliya Zdravkova

How did you find us?
an angel proclaimed it to me]]> [Image: hogwarts.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Dragomir Zdravkova

Age:
17

Date of Birth:
11 May 1905

Blood Status:
Pureblood

Residence:
Harewood House, West Yorkshire, England

Family:
Father: Oleg Sergej Igor Zdravkova
Mother: Ruslana Zdravkova
Half-siblings: Lev, Danika
Siblings: Wiosna, Serik, Natalya
Mentionable cousin: Liliya

Personality & House Preference

Personality:
>> proud, confident, ambitious, intense ~ the loyal son, the valiant brother

>> persistent, roguish, gallant, noble ~ in rare moments unexpectedly soft, the protective friend

>> loves to provoke and tease, will start a fight if he wants to, will chase what he wants until he gets it

>> can be rowdy and boisterous, but holds great respect for figures of authority and power

>> has a strong sense for duty and honour, proudly dedicated to his family, will go to great length to show his loyalty and devotion

>> fiercely protective of the ones he cares for, unafraid to stand up against people he considers threats or enemies.

History:
Drago grew up in Russia alongside his siblings, sharing a home at Winter Palace where the entire Zdravkova clan resides. He is the oldest in a line of four siblings, but has two older half-siblings, the product of his father's first marriage. When his first wife died, Oleg decided to marry again, totalling an offspring of six.

There is relative harmony within the respective sibling clusters but a low simmering animosity between the two. Drago and Lev in particular never got along well, provoked by Lev's dislike for his step-mother after his birth mother's death, and extending to his half-siblings, especially the firstborn boy, Drago. It was a childhood that consisted of provocation and taunting, developing into an interfamilial rivalry as the years passed by. What always simmers beneath it all, is Drago's place as second in line, a thorn to his side that he will never be able to pluck free.

Drago grew into the role of protector early on, putting himself in between the wrath of his father and his siblings when the man fell into one of his angry moods again, taking the brunt of the rage that frequented their home. Still, Drago's admiration for Oleg never weakened. Despite the abuse, his devotion to the family name and business never wavers, the loyalty branded into his blood. His desire to prove himself and serve, to impress his father and do his duty in the name of Zdravkova directs his every move.

When his grandfather and Head of Family orders Oleg's entire branch to move to Britain and integrate themselves into society, to built a new empire, Drago takes on the tasks set before him with fervour. He will spent his last year of education at Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang, make important connections and represent the glory of his name to this new world. When his father tells him he is to be arranged to a girl of a high-ranking British pureblood family, Drago accepts this demand as well, without question.

House Preference:
kinda sounds like Gryffindor, don't it :3

Year Preference:
7th

Prompt Response:
The Great Hall was buzzing and pulsing with the chatter of hundreds of students, much less compliant and restrained than what Drago was used to from Durmstrang. There, people held themselves differently he had found. Taller, more proud. Controlled and obedient in a way these children at Hogwarts would probably call cold.

It felt like a different world.

His eyes travelled over the faces closest to him, sat across and around at a distance as though he was surrounded by an invisible barrier, circular and leaving the seats right next to him empty. Drago didn't mind. He was content with quietly observing while he ate alone, marking faces and attaching them to names.

One of them, Eddie, had caught his attention. By far the most obnoxious, telling a story to the friends gathered around him, visibly gorging himself on the attention he received. Drago let his gaze linger on the sandy-haired boy.

"You should have seen his face when I had him dangling by his foot." Eddie's expression contorted into one of desperation and panic, re-enacting what Drago assumed had been the victim of the boy's bullying. "Let me down, let me down, wah-wah."

A roar of laughter followed.

Drago's face remained blank, almost bored, eyes unwavering as they kept themselves attached to Eddie.

"What a fucking loser," the younger boy finished off, pleased with the effect his story has had, grinning to himself. Only then did he notice the piercing gaze from down the table. He nudged the person next to him, nodding in Drago's direction.

"Oi, look. That one looks like his got a fart lodged up the wrong way." More snickering.

Drago didn't react, stoically staring on.

"Hey, weirdo!", Eddie called with a smug grin. "The bathroom's down the hallway." The group of fourth years snorted, expectantly watching Drago for his reaction.

He let a moment pass, tension stretching taut. When he got up, he did it calmly, almost casual. He made his way over until stood right across from Eddie.

He reached out without warning, placing a broad hand on the top of the other's head before he could react, and slammed his face straight into the place set before him. "You should be more respectful." It was all he said before turning to leave.

The painful whine turned angry cursing followed him all the way out of the hall.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
Maevie Golding, Harper Campbell, Liliya Zdravkova

How did you find us?
an angel proclaimed it to me]]> <![CDATA[Library Assistant Passing List 1921-1922]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=960 Mon, 23 Mar 2026 21:10:31 +0000 Julia Barlowe]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=960 Passing Students

Morgan Barlowe
Ruth Elliot
Benji Laurence
Matilda Nordstrom

]]> Passing Students

Morgan Barlowe
Ruth Elliot
Benji Laurence
Matilda Nordstrom

]]> <![CDATA[Applied Magic: Passing List]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=957 Mon, 23 Mar 2026 00:44:21 +0000 Gideon Blackwood]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=957
CLASS UPDATES



GRADES ARE UP
*If you didn't pass the class, please see the Extra Credit opportunities.

Passing Students
Ruth Elliot
Matilda Nordstrom
Maevie Golding
Benji Laurence
Alice Ravenstone
Morgan Barlowe
Tulip Asquith
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ellen Graymere

Honour Roll
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Ruth Elliot
Benji Laurence
Alice or Morgan

]]>
CLASS UPDATES



GRADES ARE UP
*If you didn't pass the class, please see the Extra Credit opportunities.

Passing Students
Ruth Elliot
Matilda Nordstrom
Maevie Golding
Benji Laurence
Alice Ravenstone
Morgan Barlowe
Tulip Asquith
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ellen Graymere

Honour Roll
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Ruth Elliot
Benji Laurence
Alice or Morgan

]]> <![CDATA[DADA: Passing List]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=956 Mon, 23 Mar 2026 00:25:22 +0000 Roisin Byrne]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=956
Defense Against
the Dark Arts

Passing List


Benji Laurence
Ellen Graymere
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ruth Elliot




[Image: 209_HonourRoll.png]

Benji Laurence
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ruth Elliot




Courage is built, not born.

]]>
Defense Against
the Dark Arts

Passing List


Benji Laurence
Ellen Graymere
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ruth Elliot




[Image: 209_HonourRoll.png]

Benji Laurence
Maevie Golding
Matilda Nordstrom
Oilibhéar Ó Coigligh
Ruth Elliot




Courage is built, not born.

]]> <![CDATA[Hospital Wing Passing List]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=953 Sun, 22 Mar 2026 23:26:36 +0000 Ruth Elliot]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=953 Passing Students

Ruth Elliot
Matilda Nordstrom

]]> Passing Students

Ruth Elliot
Matilda Nordstrom

]]> <![CDATA[The Pleasure's Mine || Avery]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=950 Sun, 22 Mar 2026 11:32:58 +0000 Kathryn Laurence]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=950 Thursday, July 13, 1922
Outdoor seating area
2:45 PM
Her mother would only be a few minutes.

It was just a little business at the bank.

She should enjoy a treat while she waited.

Kathryn would do no such thing. The little girl sat with the double-scoop sundae before her on the table. There was a banana on either side (she didn't like bananas), chocolate syrup on top (sacrilege), nuts and coloured sprinkles (she wasn't a child and refused to become fat), and a cherry on the very top as if to add the ultimate insult to injury.

It was a treat to be sure, one the shop owner had suggested when no amount of prompting could get either him or his assistant to coax any words out of her for an order.

Perhaps gently nudging her toward the ice cream shop without clear instructions on what she was meant to consume wasn't such a good idea after all. No doubt, her mother had only been trying to make the wait easier. Kathryn didn't care for the goblins inside Gringotts, and they didn't much care for the look of disdain she did little to hide whenever she'd been taken inside. It was in everyone's best interest that Kate ...be otherwise occupied, and the bank was within view, making it an obvious choice of place for her to wait.

Julia had nothing to worry about necessarily. Kathryn wasn't the adventurous sort and wouldn't go wandering off. She was sure her mother didn't waste any worry as she'd headed inside. On the contrary, while her ice cream melted in the afternoon sun, blue eyes remained locked on the bank and the little girl remained firmly planted in her seat. She waited with stoic patience for the woman to resurface, her gaze occasionally drifting to the crowds passing by.

There were a lot of eager children, ready to begin their Hogwarts journey.

She'd already been living in the castle for two years. Any magic it may have held was long gone. Kate hadn't seen every inch of it and knew nothing of the 'mysteries' some children back in the bookshop had been muttering about, but she knew those stone walls. She knew the elves. She knew the pitch, the lake, and the heads of houses. There was little left to the imagination, and she wasn't particularly curious to begin with.

There were a few who walked with their parents, looking around as if they'd never seen magic. Then there were those who boldly barrelled their way through the crowds.

She wrinkled her nose at a little boy who'd been running backward, polluting the street with his yells, before stumbling into a well-dressed gentleman.

Hooligan.

May his fate take him to Beauxbatons.]]> Thursday, July 13, 1922
Outdoor seating area
2:45 PM
Her mother would only be a few minutes.

It was just a little business at the bank.

She should enjoy a treat while she waited.

Kathryn would do no such thing. The little girl sat with the double-scoop sundae before her on the table. There was a banana on either side (she didn't like bananas), chocolate syrup on top (sacrilege), nuts and coloured sprinkles (she wasn't a child and refused to become fat), and a cherry on the very top as if to add the ultimate insult to injury.

It was a treat to be sure, one the shop owner had suggested when no amount of prompting could get either him or his assistant to coax any words out of her for an order.

Perhaps gently nudging her toward the ice cream shop without clear instructions on what she was meant to consume wasn't such a good idea after all. No doubt, her mother had only been trying to make the wait easier. Kathryn didn't care for the goblins inside Gringotts, and they didn't much care for the look of disdain she did little to hide whenever she'd been taken inside. It was in everyone's best interest that Kate ...be otherwise occupied, and the bank was within view, making it an obvious choice of place for her to wait.

Julia had nothing to worry about necessarily. Kathryn wasn't the adventurous sort and wouldn't go wandering off. She was sure her mother didn't waste any worry as she'd headed inside. On the contrary, while her ice cream melted in the afternoon sun, blue eyes remained locked on the bank and the little girl remained firmly planted in her seat. She waited with stoic patience for the woman to resurface, her gaze occasionally drifting to the crowds passing by.

There were a lot of eager children, ready to begin their Hogwarts journey.

She'd already been living in the castle for two years. Any magic it may have held was long gone. Kate hadn't seen every inch of it and knew nothing of the 'mysteries' some children back in the bookshop had been muttering about, but she knew those stone walls. She knew the elves. She knew the pitch, the lake, and the heads of houses. There was little left to the imagination, and she wasn't particularly curious to begin with.

There were a few who walked with their parents, looking around as if they'd never seen magic. Then there were those who boldly barrelled their way through the crowds.

She wrinkled her nose at a little boy who'd been running backward, polluting the street with his yells, before stumbling into a well-dressed gentleman.

Hooligan.

May his fate take him to Beauxbatons.]]> <![CDATA[Arundel Castle - Gentle Parenting || Bae]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=949 Sun, 22 Mar 2026 08:04:45 +0000 Ruth Elliot]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=949 Thursday, June 8, 1922
Adira's Room
12:30 PM
"Evander Harrison, so help me if you don't let me love you, you're going to turn up missing!"

Her threats were wasted on the overly rambunctious toddler. It didn't matter how much she furrowed her brows or puffed her cheeks. Those only seemed to entertain him. Rae stomped across the room with Adira on her hip, trying to finally grab hold of the boy so she could have a pair of cuddles. Real babies were better than dolls, and Ruth Anaya was having the time of her life babysitting for the afternoon. But that joy could go so much further if Evander didn't manage to convince himself they were playing a game of 'keep away'.

"A little help here?" she complained, lolling her head in her boyfriend's direction when Evander took off clear across the room giggling again.

THEY were meant to be babysitting, playing their part in maintaining order in the castle while she was there. Benji was about as helpful as he'd been with the dolls. Thankfully, he understood that these were real and that some effort would be needed.

For all the good it had done them.

If she didn't know any better, she'd think the boy was doing everything he could to distance himself from the image of childcare. It was as if he didn't believe her when she assured him she wasn't trying to become a mother. She was sure that, in his mind, he'd managed to convince himself that the moment he played along, she would be pawing at his clothes, insisting they could work things out.

She wouldn't. She was a new girl. Changed by circumstances. Rae had learned to keep her hands to herself and her expectations non-existent.

Some of that required pouring her energy into other things, like wrangling toddlers that would be needing a bath soon now that lunch was over. Rae was perfectly occupied and hadn't forgotten the 'warning' she'd received at the end of the school year.

Subtle as her father was, he'd thrown away all illusions of diplomacy in his owl. She'd be spending two weeks at the castle, and in that time, he expected her to remain "unencumbered". When he picked her up at the docks on the 17th of June, he expected her womb to remain empty and her body untouched. As if she'd needed him rubbing salt in wounds that had only recently stopped being raw.

Roger Burke could mind his business. He and his family had already done enough.

"Just five minutes, Evander. Come to Rae. I've got...I've got...candy!" She did not. "Benji has candy, and he'll let you have some if you come and give me and Adi the biggest hug in the universe."

It was time for Cuddrun to become a true magician and magic up some from where he could. She had a toddler to woo.]]> Thursday, June 8, 1922
Adira's Room
12:30 PM
"Evander Harrison, so help me if you don't let me love you, you're going to turn up missing!"

Her threats were wasted on the overly rambunctious toddler. It didn't matter how much she furrowed her brows or puffed her cheeks. Those only seemed to entertain him. Rae stomped across the room with Adira on her hip, trying to finally grab hold of the boy so she could have a pair of cuddles. Real babies were better than dolls, and Ruth Anaya was having the time of her life babysitting for the afternoon. But that joy could go so much further if Evander didn't manage to convince himself they were playing a game of 'keep away'.

"A little help here?" she complained, lolling her head in her boyfriend's direction when Evander took off clear across the room giggling again.

THEY were meant to be babysitting, playing their part in maintaining order in the castle while she was there. Benji was about as helpful as he'd been with the dolls. Thankfully, he understood that these were real and that some effort would be needed.

For all the good it had done them.

If she didn't know any better, she'd think the boy was doing everything he could to distance himself from the image of childcare. It was as if he didn't believe her when she assured him she wasn't trying to become a mother. She was sure that, in his mind, he'd managed to convince himself that the moment he played along, she would be pawing at his clothes, insisting they could work things out.

She wouldn't. She was a new girl. Changed by circumstances. Rae had learned to keep her hands to herself and her expectations non-existent.

Some of that required pouring her energy into other things, like wrangling toddlers that would be needing a bath soon now that lunch was over. Rae was perfectly occupied and hadn't forgotten the 'warning' she'd received at the end of the school year.

Subtle as her father was, he'd thrown away all illusions of diplomacy in his owl. She'd be spending two weeks at the castle, and in that time, he expected her to remain "unencumbered". When he picked her up at the docks on the 17th of June, he expected her womb to remain empty and her body untouched. As if she'd needed him rubbing salt in wounds that had only recently stopped being raw.

Roger Burke could mind his business. He and his family had already done enough.

"Just five minutes, Evander. Come to Rae. I've got...I've got...candy!" She did not. "Benji has candy, and he'll let you have some if you come and give me and Adi the biggest hug in the universe."

It was time for Cuddrun to become a true magician and magic up some from where he could. She had a toddler to woo.]]> <![CDATA[WW Child Application: Avery Calder Hale]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=947 Tue, 17 Mar 2026 20:49:43 +0000 Avery Hale]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=947 [Image: wizardingworld.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Avery Calder Hale

Type of Character:
Child

Age:
11

Date of Birth:
18 February 1911

Blood Status:
Muggleborn

Residence:
Kendal, Westmorland, England

Family:
Avery hails from a sheep-farm family in Northern England. His father is the fifth-generation to own the farm, to later be inherited by his older brother. His family is as follows:

- Father: Ewan Hale
- Mother: Margot (Whitby) Hale
- Older Brother: Calhoun 'Cal' Oliver Hale
- Younger Brother: Leith Alden Hale

Occupation:
Child

Personality & History

Personality:
Avery is at heart, a very inquisitive child. He needs to understand his world and surroundings innately in order for them to make sense to him. He is overly enthusiastic about people and new places, wanting to know everything about them within moments of them crossing his path.

He is, very much, a people person. He is social, often to the extent of being annoying. He asks unending questions when he is excited about someone or something, and will try to ingratiate himself to people with his own knowledge on random things - usually sheep.

While Avery finds fascination in the whimsy of his new world, he is incredibly grounded and logical which sometimes causes him headaches when things don't exactly line up in a logical way. He needs to learn, over time, how to allow things to just be and not always give into the urge to tinker and take everything apart to understand.

Growing up in a tight-knit family that was very involved in their community, Avery is incredibly friendly and outgoing. He's the type of kid that's never met a stranger, however, he tends to lead in with a softer approach before bombarding people with his bigger personality that lies beneath the exterior.

He is not exactly a creative sort, and he doesn't lay about and daydream. Rather, he is a doer. If he wants something to be, he makes it happen. If he wants to do something, he does it. He's not the sort to wait for permission or be told that something is the 'right time'. His work-ethic has made him incredibly independent and he takes things on without having to be told to do so.

Avery doesn’t romanticize hardship. Windburn, mud on boots, early mornings, and practical hands are all part of his DNA. He knows how to be useful. He’s been trusted with responsibility much earlier than many of his peers and praised for not complaining. Which means he’s learned to make himself needed and competent at the same time.

In all this, the kid has a good sense of humor. He's not above silliness, but much of his humor is quiet, dry and often lands before people even realize he's joking. He's very cerebral in that way, and will often be caught laughing at his own jokes before he's even said them out loud.

History:
Avery Calder Hale was born on a snowy morning in February 1911 in his parent's bed in their two-hundred year old farmhouse.

The boy was the second of three, his older brother Cal being only two years older and his younger brother, Leith, arriving the following year.

His parents, Ewan and Margot raised their three boys amongst the muck and grit of their farm, teaching them the importance of a good work ethic. A tight-knit family, the Hales were well-regarded in their small town of Kendal. They were always willing to offer up a helping-hand to any neighbor that needed it, and volunteered often within their church community.

Avery, being the middle-child, could have been easily overlooked between his adventurous and well-humored older brother, and his younger who was often running behind his mother's skirts. Instead, his parents took their job of raising all three of their boys seriously, and Avery never went without attention and love.

Especially close with his father, Avery was often the man's shadow. Usually found sitting atop a railing while his father sheered or tended to an ill sheep, the boy was a constant stream of questions, one after the other, often without pause. His father never scolded him; rather he'd smile and allow his son to jabber on and on, answering each question as he could get a word in edgewise. Ewan understood that Avery was a boy who needed to understand his world, in a way the other two seemed to just accept things as they were.

As the years flew by, Avery and his brothers became more proficient on the farm, able to help their father with the routine chores and duties, and even allowed to oversee the flock out in the meadows with the help of their sheep dogs.

Now, with Hogwarts on the horizon - and a newly-confused family who doesn't understand what all this hocus pocus mumbo jumbo is about - Avery is readying himself for a new world.

One that he's ill-prepared for, but ready to grab by the figurative wool anyway.

Prompt Response:
Boom!

The thunder cracked overhead as Avery stirred from his sleep, the jolt causing a slight tremor in the boy's body.

"Bleedin' Christ!"

Cal was awake too. Avery groaned, sitting up in his bed as his older brother scrambled out of his and rushed across the room to throw open the curtains. "Can't see anything, Cal. It's darker than sin out there." The boy rubbed his eyes, willing the pounding of his heart to slow against the sudden rush of adrenaline that had taken hold with the clap.

With a sigh, Avery pulled himself out of his bed. Bare feet thudded across the old wooden planks as he joined his brother out the window, watching as another streak of lightning shot across the sky.

"The sheep will be scared. Bloody creatures haven't a thought between them except instinct."

"That's not true," Avery mused, balling a fist and wiping it along the window to rid it of the cold condensation. "Chloe has lots of thoughts, I bet. She follows the beat of her own drum. Doesn't even sleep with the herd."

"Yeah because she's stupid," Cal grinned as he turned his eyes to his younger brother. "Smart sheep stay with the flock so they don't get eaten or lost. Watch. One day Chloe will be lambchops for some wolfpack."

"Will not!" Avery argued, shoving his brother slightly with his shoulder, but he returned his grin, looking back out into the dark stormy night. His smile faded slightly as he noticed one of the barns unlatched, its doors flying open with a strong gust of wind. He pointed, grabbing Cal by the sleeve. "Look! The sheep will run out if we don't get those doors closed. Should we tell Dad?"

"Nah," Cal said, turning quickly from the window and grabbing his coat, before throwing Avery's to his. "We can handle it. Come on, hurry!"

Avery hesitated for only a moment, knowing their dad would be upset if something went wrong, but threw on his coat and chased his brother out the room and down the stairs.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
:)

How did you find us?
:)]]> [Image: wizardingworld.png]
General Information

Character Name:
Avery Calder Hale

Type of Character:
Child

Age:
11

Date of Birth:
18 February 1911

Blood Status:
Muggleborn

Residence:
Kendal, Westmorland, England

Family:
Avery hails from a sheep-farm family in Northern England. His father is the fifth-generation to own the farm, to later be inherited by his older brother. His family is as follows:

- Father: Ewan Hale
- Mother: Margot (Whitby) Hale
- Older Brother: Calhoun 'Cal' Oliver Hale
- Younger Brother: Leith Alden Hale

Occupation:
Child

Personality & History

Personality:
Avery is at heart, a very inquisitive child. He needs to understand his world and surroundings innately in order for them to make sense to him. He is overly enthusiastic about people and new places, wanting to know everything about them within moments of them crossing his path.

He is, very much, a people person. He is social, often to the extent of being annoying. He asks unending questions when he is excited about someone or something, and will try to ingratiate himself to people with his own knowledge on random things - usually sheep.

While Avery finds fascination in the whimsy of his new world, he is incredibly grounded and logical which sometimes causes him headaches when things don't exactly line up in a logical way. He needs to learn, over time, how to allow things to just be and not always give into the urge to tinker and take everything apart to understand.

Growing up in a tight-knit family that was very involved in their community, Avery is incredibly friendly and outgoing. He's the type of kid that's never met a stranger, however, he tends to lead in with a softer approach before bombarding people with his bigger personality that lies beneath the exterior.

He is not exactly a creative sort, and he doesn't lay about and daydream. Rather, he is a doer. If he wants something to be, he makes it happen. If he wants to do something, he does it. He's not the sort to wait for permission or be told that something is the 'right time'. His work-ethic has made him incredibly independent and he takes things on without having to be told to do so.

Avery doesn’t romanticize hardship. Windburn, mud on boots, early mornings, and practical hands are all part of his DNA. He knows how to be useful. He’s been trusted with responsibility much earlier than many of his peers and praised for not complaining. Which means he’s learned to make himself needed and competent at the same time.

In all this, the kid has a good sense of humor. He's not above silliness, but much of his humor is quiet, dry and often lands before people even realize he's joking. He's very cerebral in that way, and will often be caught laughing at his own jokes before he's even said them out loud.

History:
Avery Calder Hale was born on a snowy morning in February 1911 in his parent's bed in their two-hundred year old farmhouse.

The boy was the second of three, his older brother Cal being only two years older and his younger brother, Leith, arriving the following year.

His parents, Ewan and Margot raised their three boys amongst the muck and grit of their farm, teaching them the importance of a good work ethic. A tight-knit family, the Hales were well-regarded in their small town of Kendal. They were always willing to offer up a helping-hand to any neighbor that needed it, and volunteered often within their church community.

Avery, being the middle-child, could have been easily overlooked between his adventurous and well-humored older brother, and his younger who was often running behind his mother's skirts. Instead, his parents took their job of raising all three of their boys seriously, and Avery never went without attention and love.

Especially close with his father, Avery was often the man's shadow. Usually found sitting atop a railing while his father sheered or tended to an ill sheep, the boy was a constant stream of questions, one after the other, often without pause. His father never scolded him; rather he'd smile and allow his son to jabber on and on, answering each question as he could get a word in edgewise. Ewan understood that Avery was a boy who needed to understand his world, in a way the other two seemed to just accept things as they were.

As the years flew by, Avery and his brothers became more proficient on the farm, able to help their father with the routine chores and duties, and even allowed to oversee the flock out in the meadows with the help of their sheep dogs.

Now, with Hogwarts on the horizon - and a newly-confused family who doesn't understand what all this hocus pocus mumbo jumbo is about - Avery is readying himself for a new world.

One that he's ill-prepared for, but ready to grab by the figurative wool anyway.

Prompt Response:
Boom!

The thunder cracked overhead as Avery stirred from his sleep, the jolt causing a slight tremor in the boy's body.

"Bleedin' Christ!"

Cal was awake too. Avery groaned, sitting up in his bed as his older brother scrambled out of his and rushed across the room to throw open the curtains. "Can't see anything, Cal. It's darker than sin out there." The boy rubbed his eyes, willing the pounding of his heart to slow against the sudden rush of adrenaline that had taken hold with the clap.

With a sigh, Avery pulled himself out of his bed. Bare feet thudded across the old wooden planks as he joined his brother out the window, watching as another streak of lightning shot across the sky.

"The sheep will be scared. Bloody creatures haven't a thought between them except instinct."

"That's not true," Avery mused, balling a fist and wiping it along the window to rid it of the cold condensation. "Chloe has lots of thoughts, I bet. She follows the beat of her own drum. Doesn't even sleep with the herd."

"Yeah because she's stupid," Cal grinned as he turned his eyes to his younger brother. "Smart sheep stay with the flock so they don't get eaten or lost. Watch. One day Chloe will be lambchops for some wolfpack."

"Will not!" Avery argued, shoving his brother slightly with his shoulder, but he returned his grin, looking back out into the dark stormy night. His smile faded slightly as he noticed one of the barns unlatched, its doors flying open with a strong gust of wind. He pointed, grabbing Cal by the sleeve. "Look! The sheep will run out if we don't get those doors closed. Should we tell Dad?"

"Nah," Cal said, turning quickly from the window and grabbing his coat, before throwing Avery's to his. "We can handle it. Come on, hurry!"

Avery hesitated for only a moment, knowing their dad would be upset if something went wrong, but threw on his coat and chased his brother out the room and down the stairs.

Miscellaneous

Other Characters
:)

How did you find us?
:)]]> <![CDATA[Finding Peace in a Quiet Corner :: Mo & Rook]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=945 Mon, 16 Mar 2026 01:44:14 +0000 Brooks Garren]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=945 5 July 1922
Early Afternoon


The air in London was different from Ireland. Where Ireland was fresh, crisp and somehow green. London was thick, smelled like people and dirt. And while Ireland was encased in everything green, London was the definition of grey.

And Brooks loved every damn bit of it.

His mother had finally seen sense. The O’Cleary castle had been traded for a modest two bedroom apartment in a magical section of London. It wasn't Boston, but at least there wasn't so much f’eckin’ green.

It became clear soon after the birth of Kinley Nylah Garren, his baby sister, on 01 June 1922, that living with his Gran and Pa wasn’t an option. They were the hovering sort. Commenting on things that didn’t need comments. It was clear why his mother left in the first place.

They moved only a couple weeks ago, just two weeks after Kinley was born. Being a big brother was his new favorite title. He felt a sense of duty. The need to protect and love burned inside. It was going to be impossible to leave in September.

Rook shouldered his way through the Diagon Alley crowds, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't here for the sights, the food or the people. He’d burned through three books on Runes in the last week, and his brain was starting to itch like a scab that needed picking.

He ducked into Perchance A Page, the bell above the door giving a sharp ring. The shop was a labyrinth of towering shelves and narrow aisles, somewhere he could get lost for hours. Which was exactly his mission.

Rook navigated to the back of the shop, planning on working his way to the front over the summer. He was looking for something, anything, that would hold his attention. With this ability to ready fast and remember most, if the first two pages didn’t catch his interest he’d shelve the book and move on. He reached for a heavy, leather bound volume titled The Geometry of Kinetic Casting, but as he pulled it from the shelf he realized he wasn't alone in the cramped corner.

Through the gap in the books, he caught a glimpse of another student. She looked about his age, but unlike the focused, high-energy bustle of the shoppers outside, she had an air of someone who had been dragged into the shop against her will.

Rook didn't move. He adjusted his grip on the book, watching the girl for a beat. Her back was to him, so he wasn't sure what she was doing exactly. He wasn't looking for a conversation, but there was something about her that made the words come out of his mouth without thought.

"I can’t tell if you're hiding or finally found what you were looking for," he said, his voice scratchy with lack of use. His accent a mix of Boston and Irish. He didn't look up from the spine of the book he was inspecting. "Or you're lookin' for the section on sleeping potions and took a wrong turn at the history shelf."]]> 5 July 1922
Early Afternoon


The air in London was different from Ireland. Where Ireland was fresh, crisp and somehow green. London was thick, smelled like people and dirt. And while Ireland was encased in everything green, London was the definition of grey.

And Brooks loved every damn bit of it.

His mother had finally seen sense. The O’Cleary castle had been traded for a modest two bedroom apartment in a magical section of London. It wasn't Boston, but at least there wasn't so much f’eckin’ green.

It became clear soon after the birth of Kinley Nylah Garren, his baby sister, on 01 June 1922, that living with his Gran and Pa wasn’t an option. They were the hovering sort. Commenting on things that didn’t need comments. It was clear why his mother left in the first place.

They moved only a couple weeks ago, just two weeks after Kinley was born. Being a big brother was his new favorite title. He felt a sense of duty. The need to protect and love burned inside. It was going to be impossible to leave in September.

Rook shouldered his way through the Diagon Alley crowds, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't here for the sights, the food or the people. He’d burned through three books on Runes in the last week, and his brain was starting to itch like a scab that needed picking.

He ducked into Perchance A Page, the bell above the door giving a sharp ring. The shop was a labyrinth of towering shelves and narrow aisles, somewhere he could get lost for hours. Which was exactly his mission.

Rook navigated to the back of the shop, planning on working his way to the front over the summer. He was looking for something, anything, that would hold his attention. With this ability to ready fast and remember most, if the first two pages didn’t catch his interest he’d shelve the book and move on. He reached for a heavy, leather bound volume titled The Geometry of Kinetic Casting, but as he pulled it from the shelf he realized he wasn't alone in the cramped corner.

Through the gap in the books, he caught a glimpse of another student. She looked about his age, but unlike the focused, high-energy bustle of the shoppers outside, she had an air of someone who had been dragged into the shop against her will.

Rook didn't move. He adjusted his grip on the book, watching the girl for a beat. Her back was to him, so he wasn't sure what she was doing exactly. He wasn't looking for a conversation, but there was something about her that made the words come out of his mouth without thought.

"I can’t tell if you're hiding or finally found what you were looking for," he said, his voice scratchy with lack of use. His accent a mix of Boston and Irish. He didn't look up from the spine of the book he was inspecting. "Or you're lookin' for the section on sleeping potions and took a wrong turn at the history shelf."]]> <![CDATA[Arundel Castle - Big Sister Duty || Morgan]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=944 Mon, 16 Mar 2026 00:49:37 +0000 Kathryn Laurence]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=944 Monday, April 10, 1922
Kathryn's bedroom,
2:54PM
Breath in.

Hold.

Breathe out.

Kathryn counted each beat, measuring her breathing the way Madam Dubois had taught her to as she wound down from her afternoon practice. While she did, she leaned to her left, reaching for her toes. The little girl was as methodical with her hamstring stretches as she was with everything else she partook in. Once expectations had been set, she didn't need constant oversight to get them done. She had never suffered the ill effects of failing to properly wind down, but in the classes that she shared with the others, Kathryn had seen firsthand the pain that could quickly creep into someone should they fail to work their muscles correctly.

She leaned to the left, inhaling deeply again.

It was one of the quieter days inside the castle. Both her mother and Mr. Maddox were gone to settle things with the new house. Benji was the natural first choice to 'keep an eye on her', but he had business with their uncle that took precedence over watching a little girl who wasn't likely to get up to much anyway.

Aunt Edith had gone out for the afternoon, too, for a playdate of some sort for Adira and Evander. Had no one said anything, Kathryn might only have noticed her mother's absence, but even then, she wouldn't think she needed to be watched. Her plans were already set. Ballet for an hour starting at 2, then a walk in the garden promptly at three for exactly half an hour. Winding down with a book until 4:30 then a shower. Julia promised to be back by 5, in time for them to listen to some radio before dinner.

Kathryn was content to be on her own, but everyone else was of a different opinion. With no one else available, Morgan had been drafted for babysitting duty.

She hardly noticed as the smooth and delicate melodies of Debussy's Clair de Lune filled the room. Kate couldn't say where Morgan had got off to or whether she'd remained throughout the lesson. Her mind was singular in nature, focused only on the task that was now coming to an end.

Pulling her legs together, Kate positioned them for a butterfly stretch.

She heard some shuffling out in the family parlour but ignored it as she inhaled again.]]> Monday, April 10, 1922
Kathryn's bedroom,
2:54PM
Breath in.

Hold.

Breathe out.

Kathryn counted each beat, measuring her breathing the way Madam Dubois had taught her to as she wound down from her afternoon practice. While she did, she leaned to her left, reaching for her toes. The little girl was as methodical with her hamstring stretches as she was with everything else she partook in. Once expectations had been set, she didn't need constant oversight to get them done. She had never suffered the ill effects of failing to properly wind down, but in the classes that she shared with the others, Kathryn had seen firsthand the pain that could quickly creep into someone should they fail to work their muscles correctly.

She leaned to the left, inhaling deeply again.

It was one of the quieter days inside the castle. Both her mother and Mr. Maddox were gone to settle things with the new house. Benji was the natural first choice to 'keep an eye on her', but he had business with their uncle that took precedence over watching a little girl who wasn't likely to get up to much anyway.

Aunt Edith had gone out for the afternoon, too, for a playdate of some sort for Adira and Evander. Had no one said anything, Kathryn might only have noticed her mother's absence, but even then, she wouldn't think she needed to be watched. Her plans were already set. Ballet for an hour starting at 2, then a walk in the garden promptly at three for exactly half an hour. Winding down with a book until 4:30 then a shower. Julia promised to be back by 5, in time for them to listen to some radio before dinner.

Kathryn was content to be on her own, but everyone else was of a different opinion. With no one else available, Morgan had been drafted for babysitting duty.

She hardly noticed as the smooth and delicate melodies of Debussy's Clair de Lune filled the room. Kate couldn't say where Morgan had got off to or whether she'd remained throughout the lesson. Her mind was singular in nature, focused only on the task that was now coming to an end.

Pulling her legs together, Kate positioned them for a butterfly stretch.

She heard some shuffling out in the family parlour but ignored it as she inhaled again.]]>