Chapter 1 : Turbulence
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[The crippingly artless Charlotte Avery looking miles better than usual]
This cannot be happening.
No. No. No. This is not happening.
I must be dreaming.
In a few minutes from now I’ll wake up and this will all just be a terrible, terrible nightmare. You know, one of those mentally scarring dreams in which all your worst fears come true. I mean this whole situation can’t actually be real, right? When I signed up for life I scrutinized the parchment and double checked every single clause. If muggle movies have taught me one thing it’s to be wary of good things.
Fact of life: everything good will screw you over sooner or later.
Here’s a prime example: the three Peverell brothers that owned the deathly hallows. They thought those spectacular hallows were the answer to all their petty problems, so they foolishly accepted them as gifts. They should’ve at least had half a brain cell put together between them that might’ve just warned them to run off. Hadn’t their mother ever taught them not to accept gifts from strangers? Especially not strangers that dress in billowing, ebony cloaks; have skeletal bodies and mysteriously hover off the ground. If that wasn’t enough to warn them something was strange, then maybe the fact that, oh I don’t know, the abnormal talking skeleton was claiming to be Death?!
Yes, you’d think that would’ve done the trick. But apparently the three brothers were high on crack that day and consequently missed the memo not to associate with paranormal deities that will eventually reap your soul.
Gee, too bad for them. Look where they ended up? Dead.
This brings me back to the point that nothing good in life will ever last. Do you see that happy kid skipping along the pavement with a stick of rosy candyfloss and a shiny new kite? Yeah, well, tomorrow his kite’s going to get entangled in the branches of a vicious tree (I’m thinking Whomping willow vicious) and rip to shreds, whilst the candyfloss will give him indigestion.
Trust me; I speak from personal experience here.
No, I’m not just talking about the candyfloss- thought that’s true too; my stomach wasn’t the same for a week- I’m talking about life screwing you over.
In the contract that is life I missed the part that entitled Merlin to crush all my delicate hopes and fragile dreams to incy-wincy smithereens. Yep, I skipped that part completely. Maybe I was bored or maybe I was too busy developing in my mother’s womb, either way nobody told me this very important fact of life. So there I was, innocently plodding along with my head in the clouds and thoughts on frolicking peanut butter unicorns (never mind the fact I’m allergic to all nuts and I don’t plod, I strut), when suddenly BAM!
In a flurry of horned devils and cackling grim reapers, my fifth year school supplies letter came. What was in it?
Yes, that’s right, nothing. Apart from the usual list of dreary textbooks and rule reminders, there was nothing. Nada. Nichts. Rien. Nil.
I was….well, I wouldn’t say hoping for, I’d put it at knew that a prefects badge would be coming through the mail. This was the year I’d been waiting for my entire life! The year we finally get to step up, take some responsibility and become shining beacons of justice and power. Becoming a prefect is so much more than just a shiny badge and a tendency to ward off all friends. It’s about setting your name in stone, leaving a legacy behind. Becoming a prefect means going down in Hogwarts history as an honourable student, one to look up to.
Look into the future thirty years from now. Your kids are attending Hogwarts (here’s hoping they aren’t Hufflepuffs), they’re popular, on the Quidditch team but have dismal grades (you know you should’ve enlisted them for summer tuition, but with the rising price of floo powder, who’s got the galleons?) Alas! They’ve lost all meaning in life and have no one to look up to. You’re away on a ministry related business trip to Tai Won and your loving partner is fighting for centaur rights in Cuba.
Suddenly one day your beloved child stumbles upon the trophy room in Hogwarts. Their dull eyes fall upon the Official Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry Prefect List and they see your name etched upon a golden plaque in elegant cursive (font: Monotype Corsiva, just in case you were wondering). A reassuring warm feeling spreads through their bowels to the very murky depths of their heart. Their fire is re-ignited, the bee has left the bonnet, the light bulb is lit, they can see clearly now the rain has gone.
It’s that eye gouging-ly corny scene in the movie where a montage of the underdog turning his/her life around is played with an upbeat track. The scene I furiously fast forward on the Wiz-player before I’m forced to regurgitate my last meal.
Yeah, that scene.
Your hypothetical child goes through “that scene” and consequently become a glorious straight O student, happy in the knowledge that their mother was once a prefect.
That’s what being a prefect is about.
Not that I plan on doing any of that stuff. I just think that I’m the perfect girl for the job. Who else is going to be the new Slytherin fifth year prefect? Ellie: my dim-witted best friend? Highly unlikely. The biggest amount of responsibility she’s handled is taking the rubbish out when the bin’s overflowed.
Really, the rest of the dormitory’s filled with snooty, conniving bints. I mean there is Maisy Greger but…that’s it. That’s it!
Maisy Greger: that pretentious bitch. McGonagall must’ve given her the position of prefect instead of me! It’s a well known fact that Maisy Greger is the closest thing to perfection on earth. She’s made of the same stuff as Disney Princesses: glimmering rainbows, pink roses, new born baby’s smiles and the luscious hides of furry chinchillas.
This makes her the most considerate, clever, humble and sickeningly sweet girl to ever walk the earth. Hell, every time she actually walks on earth tulips and crocuses sprout from the earth. Not to mention the hoard of squirrels and pixies that follow her around in care of Magical Creatures.
So maybe she’s the magical reincarnation of Snow White.
I’ve got skills too. My freckles turn brown in summer, I’m pretty damn good at potions and using my sweaty palms I can even write things on the table.
I’d say I’m pretty hard competition to beat.
There is the disparaging fact that I’m kin to the biggest idiot on the face of the planet (only coming second to Supreme Git), but I thought I told everyone we weren’t related? It seems McGonagall has an extensive list of everybody’s birth certificates and full names.
Well what do you know, who woulda’ thought it?
Sweet Merlin, it seems my idiotic cousin’s moronic qualities are rubbing off on me. I’ve got to take a long bath in bleach and scrub out my brain with antiseptic before any semblance of normality comes back to me. Even then, I’m not surprised if I’m permanently brain damaged after putting up with Ian for all fifteen years of my life.
RING. RING. RING. RING
Wearily groaning, I picked myself off the kitchen table which I’d been slumped on since my letter had arrived. One minute I was trivially debating whether to have Pot O’Gold Grams (with the sickeningly cheerful motto: “may the luck of the irish be wid’ you”) or Wizzios (the equally scarring: “Start your morning with a bang!”) and the next I was in a hazy comatose. It’s truly safe to say today’s not been the best of mornings.
I dragged myself to the heavy oak door and swung it open- not bothering to check who it was, anybody dangerous would’ve been jinxed by our magical boundaries. There standing in all his ridiculously cheerful glory was my beloved (and may I add only) cousin- the farthest thing from dangerous, and the closest to a hyperactive puppy. His bouncy black curls were in a wild tangle that he likes to call “sex hair, babay” and his bright brown eyes were akin to a bush baby high on steroids.
“Chaaaaaaaaaaaarlotte!” Ian yelled, embracing me in a bone crushing hug- consequently infecting me with even more idiocy. I’m going to need another bucket of bleach after this.
“Ian, how lovely to see you. Do you think maybe you could come back another time? Maybe not when I’m re-evaluating my life choices,” I chirped with a strained smile.
The muscles in my jaws were dangerously tight and seemed to trigger some sort of spastic eye twitching. This, complete with the frizzy bed head, rumpled pyjamas and the whole “my future has burnt to ashes” look must’ve scared Ian a bit. He gave me an odd look, gingerly patted me on the back and invited himself into the house.
Oh yes, by all means just wander into my house at eight bloody thirty in the morning. It’s not like I need these precious daylight hours to spend crying in my bedroom, whilst gripping a framed picture of a prefect’s badge- the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing.
By the time I’d re-entered the kitchen he had scarfed down my entire bowl of Pot O’Gold Grams (yes, I decided they were slightly less mentally scarring) and had helped himself to seconds.
I slumped down on the wicket chair and threw my head on the table, adamantly ignoring the crack of protest from my stiff neck. Whilst waiting for Ian to inhale all food resources in the vicinity, I decided to ponder what had led to such a dismal fate.
I mean what could I have actually done to deserve not getting the badge?
I haven’t intentionally kicked any small fluffy animals, nor do I recall stealing confectionary from rosy cheeked children. Honestly I’m not a bad person. I might’ve intentionally dumped a pile of lacewings into Supreme Git’s potion once (thus causing an explosion that shook the foundations of Hogwarts’ and blew Slughorn’s wig off his oily head), but generally I’m fairly calm.
Yeah, I do occasionally get passionately homicidal feelings towards a certain trio of fifth year Slytherins, but don’t we all? I can’t be blamed if I feel the need to viciously murder Ian’s best friends. Anyways, those pigs can’t actually be counted as real human beings; therefore any unsavoury crime I’ve committed against them can’t be held against me in the long run for prefect.
Oh…but there was that time I failed to warn Ellie that she had an ink stain splattered across her face, just before she went on her “first date”. I thought it would be more amusing to see the whole date shatter to pieces then blossom into a relationship.
Sadly, my efforts failed, her date for the evening did not immediately dump her. He actually found the whole thing really “original” and “cute”. He’s a real keeper, isn’t he?
In fact, don’t answer that.
By the time Ian had finished the entire cereal I had decided I couldn’t possibly have done anything to hurt my chances of being made prefect. I’m as innocent as a butterfly in a field of flesh eating moths; which is actually very innocent.
Ian burped loudly in satisfaction and wiped the driblet of milk on his chin away with his blue sweater.
“This morning I was playing a really cool game of one player jenga until I was interrupted by an owl from Uncle Artie telling me to check up on you. So I rush all the way here to save you from whatever ninja death eaters were attacking you…but when I get here there are no death eaters. Just you. Looking like somebody’s finally told you that it’s not acceptable to wear denim on denim.”
“Hey! That was one time, okay? The denim on denim rule doesn’t apply if you’re only nine…”
“You were fourteen,” Ian interjected, with his bushy eyebrows drawn in confusion.
I shot him a withering glare. “Fourteen, thirteen, nine, what does it matter? Pah. They’re all just technicalities.”
“But you love technicalities,” Ian cheekily countered.
I restrained myself from rolling my eyes in frustration. Honestly, the one time Ian decides to be observant I happen to be in the verge of a mental breakdown; the audacity of some people.
“Yes, okay, I’ll admit I do like to be detailed but I didn’t even realise that kilt was denim. Look, can we just forget a fashion faux pas I made some time back please! An owl just arrived this morning containing the equivalent of my academic execution.”
“I know. I got the school letter too. Mum wasn’t too pleased about the official behavioural warning from Minnie, but I reckon she’ll get over it. I did think Minnie had a bit more class than snitching me out to mum though! I suppose I’ll have to sweet talk her out of doing it again next time.” Ian shook his head ruefully as if flirting with McGonagall was but another wearisome task to add to his ever-growing chores list.
Honestly, for him it probably is. You see, Ian is Hogwarts trouble maker number one. He along with Supreme Git and their douche friend cause turbulence at every turn and havoc in every hallway. They like to think it’s their duty to “liven up” our workload and put the “cool” back in “school” (Ian’s words not mine. I tried to tell him there was a h after the cbut then he just proceeded to continuously yell “choll!” and imitate a Swedish yodeller for the rest of the day).
I would normally expand on just how supremely git-ish the Supreme Git is (he earns a one hundred on a one to five git-iocity scale) but I’m having a crisis, and I‘d prefer to keep the remnants of my sanity, thank you very much.
“But Charlie you got your prefect badge this year, didn’t you?” Ian exclaimed as his eyes widened excitedly. He had finally recalled my academic ambition. Frankly, I preferred it when he didn’t remember the prefect positions were being handed out this summer. The way he was grinning from ear to ear and looking at me expectantly made me feel almost guilty. As if I’d disappointed him by not achieving the prefects spot. As if I’d let him down in some weird twisted way.
But then I realised I was being ridiculous. Ian’s life ambition is to make prefect’s lives a living hell. I doubt he would give two shits about whether or not I got the badge.
“Umm...yeah about that. Well I didn’t actually get the spot…” I trailed off lamely, with my eyes firmly trained on mum’s shiny new blender sitting on the granite counter. I was absolutely determined not to show how disappointed I really was.
Ian’s face fell. His brow creased into a confused frown and his grinning mouth hung slightly agar as he tried to comprehend what I’d just told him. It would’ve been comical if it wasn’t reminiscent of a rather unpleasant nightmare I had a week ago.
Fixing his face into a sympathetic smile, he sidled over to my chair and hung an arm around my shoulder in what must’ve been a comforting way. Except it wasn’t comforting, it was gross. Ian must’ve ran to catch the bus to mine; because incriminatingly marring his hoodie was a sweat patch- blatantly leaking from his armpit. It was fresh, damp and oh so moist.
I could feel the bacteria radiating off it.
Now, I wouldn’t say I’m a clean freak, but when your fifteen year old male cousin’s putrid perspiration is about to make contact with your very bare shoulder, don’t tell me you wouldn’t freak out. Time seemed to slow down as his arm came swooping down to wrap around my neck. The whole world was a blur of colours and meaningless babble; it was just me and the sweat patch. Me and the sweat patch. Me and the sweat patch.
And we had just joined.
Charlotte Avery’s shoulder meet Ian Whitley’s sweaty armpit, I hope you get along better than your owners do.
I tried to keep my horrified squeak and shuddering to a minimum, as Ian continued to chatter on, oblivious to the effect his bodily excretion was having on me. The feeling of warm dampness had completely tensed up my body. It was a hundred times worse than the cruciatus curse.
After trying not to stare at the damp article of clothing (that was now touching my shoulder. As in making CONTACT), I forced myself to tune into Ian’s blabbering.
“So really, because of all the reasons I just explained they should’ve chosen you! I mean you really are the best for the job. You’ve got the whole suspicious bitch thing down pat. And you really have that “I hate the world” vibe going for you too. I mean Maisy Greger may be sweet, generous and a whole load of things I would never associate with you, but she’s never going to get along with Filch like you would. Give you two ten minutes and you would be comparing torture device diagrams and measuring your moods on an “angst-o-meter” whilst sipping a cuppa. Really, what I’m trying to say is that you were made to be a prefect.” Ian finished confidently with a decisive nod.
That’s the thing about Ian. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying or who he’s saying it to, he has this air of undeniable confidence about him. He can convince you of absolutely anything without so much as fluttering an eyelash (although in the case of McGongall it’s probably two). It doesn’t matter if he knows next to nothing about the topic, he’ll just wing it and someway, somehow he’ll turn your frown upside down and convince you of the very thing you were most dreading.
Ian can persuade a group of stuffy mother’s to give up their young for a new manual labour project that they call –whoops- human trafficking. He can convince quantum physicist to sell their life’s work, migrate to the Galapagos Islands and become hippy nudists. He can convince a tribe of vicious cannibals to go on the bloody Atkins diet!
He can even convince me that maybe, just maybe, not getting prefect isn’t as bad as I made it out to be.
What can I say? My angst-o-meter is running low on melancholy and woe- I’ll have to go torture some more puppies and pluck flies’ wings for next time.
“Thanks Ian, I really appreciate you trying to help,” I muttered. For once in my life I meant it. I did appreciate his effort when he could’ve just eaten all my food and had his way off (which coincidentally, he did anyway).
I un-looped his arm off my back- whilst internally singing songs of praise- and stood up. Dusting myself off, I rummaged for some more milk in the fridge and began to pour it into a sunny breakfast bowl. “Actually do you know what? Being Prefect isn’t such a big deal in the long run.”
Ian nodded in agreement and regained his infectiously cheery smile. “You’re right Charlie!”
“I mean who needs that shiny badge anyways?”
“Not you, that’s for sure.”
“Exactly, not me. I don’t need any piece of crummy metal to complete my life. I’ve already got my potions cauldron and that provides me with enough happiness! Anyways, Prefects are so snotty.”
“Yeah, totally. They’re snottier than the snottiest bogies you’ll ever find in a mountain troll’s nose, say if you stick your wand up its nostril or something,” Ian replied in a musing tone.
I dug my spoon into my cereal bowl- which was now filled with Whizzio’s- and gave him an odd look. “Why would you ever do that?”
“I dunno, okay? It just came to me in a dream,” he meekly defended. I do wonder what that boy dreams of at night…actually scratch that. I’m fine with not knowing what my very male teenage cousin dreams of at night. Just fine, thanks.
“Anyways what was I saying? Yeah, Prefects! And the hours they have are terrible, who wants to be patrolling the castle at night?”
“I’m guessing not you?”
“Got it in one is what you’ve done!” I replied cheerfully, I was in a slightly better mood than before. As weird as it sounds Ian’s visit had cheered me up. For once in my life I was looking on the bright side -which included freely insulting prefects- and dammit, I was going to keep this happy mood until I broke my personal record of three hours and twelve minutes.
“Plus you have to do a lot of extra work like tutoring first years. I don’t even like first years! They’re small, and weird, and some of them smell like pee. Do you know what? I’m totally over it. I couldn’t give a bowtruckles’ arse about being a Prefect!”
“Really? Well that’s great. In that case I was wonder-” Ian’s sentence was cut off by a loud resounding CRACK!
Two figures had apparated out of thin air and directly onto the wooden breakfast table. A heap of cutlery; five delicate plates; a full breadbin; masses of condiments and a load of glasses and mugs went flying into the air, before crashing onto the ground with an ear-splitting crack! My breakfast bowl -full to the brim with creamy milk and untouched Whizzios- went flying directly above my face, were it all spilled downwards, drenching me. Well if I wasn’t tainted by the sweat before, this certainly did the trick.
Wiping a layer of dripping milk off my eyes, I glanced around the once shiny kitchen. It looked like a bomb had hit it. The maple table was a lagoon of fruit floating in milk; the surrounding floor was a minefield of shattered plates, glasses and jars, and cutlery was splayed everywhere.
I snapped my gaze up to the two offending intruders.
Potter and Malfoy.
Malfoy and Potter.
Bloody Potter the Supreme Git of the world and his sidekick Malfoy the Menace.
Bloody Potter the Supreme Git of the world and his sidekick Malfoy the Menace, were in my house, on my dining table.
Bloody Potter the Supreme Git of the world and his sidekick Malfoy the Menace, were in my house, on my dining table, and they had just destroyed masses of kitchen appliances. If that wasn’t enough they’d also drenched me in my own breakfast, and let’s not forget the fact that they weren’t bloody well invited! They just waltzed in here without permis…..
“YOU!” I yelled at Ian, whilst pointing an incriminating finger towards him. Ian backed away from my accusing expenditure. The broken cutlery painfully cracked underneath his heavy feet.
All former friendly feelings towards my git of a cousin had evaporated with my newly restored happy mood.
Ian’s hands were up in the universal gesture for “I SURRENDER BECAUSE I’M A PRAT WHO INVITES HIS BEST MATES OVER TO MY COUSIN’S HOUSE WITHOUT ASKING PERMISSION FIRST- EVEN THOUGH I FULLY WELL KNOW SHE HATES POTTER”.
“Relax Avery, he didn’t do anything wrong,” Potter calmly interjected. I spun around to face him, getting my first good look at him after three blissful potter-free weeks.
He hadn’t changed much at all. Still the same cocky smirk splayed across his good-for-nothing face which held those perpetually disimpassioned eyes. The only time I’ve seen them light up is in the midst of a blazing argument, when the annoyance and frustration towards me seems to expel from his very gaze.
Sure, he’d shot up a few inches but he still stood in that arrogant way: slouching elegantly, as if he’s the king of the bloody world. The way his hands were thrust in his pocket and his gaze was indifferent, bored almost, as if he’s got a thousand things he’d rather be doing than this.
Well I’m sorry if ruining my life (and mother’s cutlery) isn’t one of your life’s ambitions Potter. Funny thing is, I was under the impression that’s all you’ve ever done for…oh, let me think… THE LAST FOUR YEARS.
“He wha-didn’t what?! Well the first mistake he made was sitting with you twats on the train ride five years ago, ever since then we’ve all been in for a load of kicks and giggles. Haven’t we?” I snappily retorted. My hands were firmly placed on my cocked hips, my lips were curled into a scowl and I was wearing my favourite glare. I was so ready to take this bitch down.
“No, I think it’s a bit further back than that. Let’s say around the time he was born into your family with you for a cousin. That’s about when he sentenced himself for a lifetime of shit”. A bored expression was already painted on Potter’s face. He had expected me to start an argument in the first five minutes of his arrival.
I rolled my eyes. We all know Potter is Ian’s biggest mistake…
Well that didn’t sound odd at all. Not like Potter and Ian had a passionate night of sex and Potter ended up pregnant with Ian’s child. Nope, not at all. Although the mental image of a pregnant Potter is highly amusing- I’ll just have to store it for another day.
“Phurleasee! Says the boy who just destroyed Ian’s aunt’s cutlery; the woman who actually happens to be my mum. Do you want to explain to my mother why you just apparated on our kitchen table or write out your will first?”
Potter’s mouth was open and ready to retort with what was probably another oh-so-witty comment, that my life would simply not be complete without, but Malfoy cut him to the chase. “Look I’m really sorry about the mess Avery. We were just going to collect Ian, but you live sort of far out and the buses in our area were terminated. So Albus and I decided to apparate. I just accidentally directed us to the wrong place…your dining table.”
They illegally apparated here? At the tender age of fifteen these dipshits thought they could apparate themselves god knows how many miles away to a country manor and get away scot-free. The ministry will have them for this! Honestly I’m surprised they didn’t splinch themselves.
“Why didn’t the magical boundaries stop you?” I demanded furiously. When my dad puts safety precautions then why don’t they work dammit!
“Maybe because we aren’t savage, dangerous death eaters coming to Avada your head off. Not that it hasn’t crossed my mind or anything,” Potter mused. His voice was cripplingly patronizing- it made my hairs stand on end, turn grey, wither and die.
Grey hairs: caused by that annoying Potter that everyone must have in their lives.
“Not dangerous? Not dangerous? They haven’t seen your bloody face that’s enough to scar anyone, no need for the use of a wand”. My tongue was sharp and I was ready to exchange insults till kingdom come, but it seems Ian had, had enough of the usual bickering. He silenced me with a pained, frustrated look and expectantly turned to Potter.
“Look Al, we’ve got to leave in the next hour if we’re going to make it in time.”
“Make it in time where?” I curiously interjected. You can’t just trash my kitchen and not tell me where you’re headed off to. Shit doesn’t work like that.
It seems Malfoy knew “trashing your best mate’s cousin’s kitchen” etiquette well, as he replied, “Oh we’re going to the Trick Lane. Al’s mum just gave him a shit load of money to spend since he just got Prefect.”
Potter exasperatedly rolled his eyes and scowled. “I told her I don’t want the badge if it means I’m stuck with Avery.”
I didn’t even bother correcting his heart-wrenching assumption. I had lost it the minute Malfoy spoke the very words I’d been dreading the most.
Have you ever had those terrifying dreams were everything’s gone wrong? No matter how many times you run away from the giant, poisonous bullfrogs/creepy inferi/Great Aunt Edith you can never truly escape. You run into a dark cupboard, lock yourself in, and give a sigh of relief to only have the lights thrown on and find out that you’ve got company.
A cannibalistic serial killer type of company.
Just as the psycho-maniac is about to plunge his rusty knife in your gullet, you wake up with both eyes clenched shut, drenched in sweat and breathing rapidly. After a few minutes of regaining your wits you pluck the courage to open your eyes; only to find that you haven’t woken up but are inside a new dream.
And this one’s worse than the last one.
In this nightmare there are hoards of poisonous bullfrogs, legions of inferi and armies of wrinkly Great Aunt Edith (complete with violent pink lipstick to stain your cheeks). Yet there isn’t a serial killer in this dream….there’s Potter instead, and he’s just won prefect when you haven’t.
Which is a fate most certainly worse than death.
My already grated nerves where sizzling together in flurry of disappointment, hurt and the predominate anger. White hot fury coursed through my veins and clouded my vision until all I could see was a hazy red. My head was pounding from the sheer force of my uncontrollable rage.
“You got prefect?!” I spat through gritted teeth, in a poor attempt to keep my raging emotions under control.
And that’s when my hair burst into flames.
Hello, and welcome to my new next-gen fic “The Prime”.
First of all thanks for taking a chance and reading this far, I hope you liked it. I don’t plan for The Prime to be the normal love/hate centred fics. Obviously that will come into play but The Prime is going to be about loads of other things too (such as crazy goings on and growing up).
And other things I can’t mention yet…
Let’s just say I have a whole load of stuff planned for you guys. I’m very excited about this story and I really can’t wait for your feedback. Please review with your opinions/ any grammatical errors/ what you think of Charlotte, Potter, Ian/ anything else you want to talk about! Next chapter you find out exactly why Charlie’s hair is on fire and what/where is “Trick Lane”:)
faux pas= a social blunder (in this case a fashion error Charlotte made a year ago)
Nada. Nichts. Rien. Nil = nothing
Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. I own all OC'S. Snow White actually belongs to The Brother's Grimm :)
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