"A memorable response from Lord Malfoy. 'e fancies you, cannot you see et?" Sylvie performed her best to comfort Genevieve with utter nonsense.
The two Malfoy's had cleared the room, so that final goodbyes might be administered, and Genevieve had since broken down with quiet tears.
However she took pride in being the studiously composed and introverted type, so it was not a theatrical display.
No, she stood there stiff as a plank with no other expression to offer other than shedding droplets and deadpan orbs, "I shant ever see eye to eye with a man like that. And if that is his way of showing intrigue than I would do well to dread him when cross."
Sylvie smiled nervously at a Ministry man lurking in the corner, who's presence was necessary to confirm the trial invitation had commenced under legal grounds, then back to Genevieve pinned under her grasp, "In time, I foresee de pair of you reaching an understanding. 'e is very 'andsome, no? Dis is excellent news. All you 'ave to do is complete de trials, and your trust is yours to do wit' as you please. Go 'ide away at Castle Selwyn."
Genevieve felt as though her ankles were tied together in a vast ocean, and with each passing second she was sinking further and further below the surface, "Go hide at Castle Selwyn, which he will conveniently also own as my husband? With my baby I shall have had by him? Sylvie, there must be something you can do. I cannot risk spending an eternity ensnared by this man."
"There is nothing you can do," the auror in plum coloured robes replied in a dark voice, "the scroll of the Purity Trial is unbreakable once signed by both. You must compete until the duke releases you. Or...until you perish."
Genevieve fanned her face as Sylvie spoke again, but it was all just a buzzing in her ear by that point. The other two maidens appeared contrarily elated to be selected, conversing in enthusiastic tones with their chaperones.
The maiden from Ireland, Persephone of House Fawley, was very short, perhaps under five feet. Her eyes were a lovely cobalt blue and her curly hair a strawberry red. The robes she had worn were a cohesive pink and blue to match. As she talked to a woman who was likely to be her grandmother she kept glancing over at Genevieve with an odd twinkle in her eye. It was clear that her disposition was gentle and simple, and generally jovial.
The same could not be said about the American girl, Septima of House Carmine, who's aura was deeply fierce and competitive. This girl was so tall that her jet black hair barely cleared the low hanging chandelier. Her chocolate orbs were also glued to Genevieve's teary face, but not out of pity. Her hard glare was rather off-putting, standing there in what was highly unusual attire for a noble witch; a deep purple outfit which nearly resembled futuristic office attire.
"-and oh, I bet you'll 'ave a grand walk-in closet. No more living out of a trunk..." in the background Sylvie was lost in the madness of attempting to find a silver lining anywhere at all.
"-Please Sylvie, do not leave me here. I beg of you to contest with the Ministry," Genevieve barged in rudely, reiterating that escape was her priority, not the size of her wardrobe.
The plead on her face finally made an impact, and Madame Sylvie sighed dramatically. Pulling in Genevieve for a hug she patted her back, "I will try, my child, but dis heresy is not likely to work. I am afraid you 'ad best get comfortable."
"It won't work," the eavesdropping auror repeated his solemn statement, as if his sole mission on the planet was to deflate any hope Genevieve had left.
Thirty minutes passed, and eventually the cranky old elf escorted the three chaperones from the premises.
Well, he escorted two of them to the fireplace where they departed respectfully via floo powder, and he escorted poor Sylvie back to her beaten up vehicle for the tedious trip home to Wales. Even if she could wield magic, the Oldsmobile was her only means of travel with Genevieve regardless.
The sound of a ticking grandfather clock filled up the room as the young women waited in prickly silence amongst their competition.
Now that her heart rate had slowed somewhat, Genevieve put on her thinking cap, starting with a careful inventory of her surroundings.
It would appear that the Malfoy's had taste for only three colours; black, green and silver. All interior furnishings were designed out of this depressing palette, and it would also appear that nothing had been updated in severalcenturies.
The platinum bunch were obviously not impoverished by any degree. The parlour was lavish and packed to the brim with weighty objects; Persian rugs, oil paintings of deceased relatives in powdered wigs, Corinthian stone statues, exotic fronds, crystal ashtrays...
Upon the mantle of the fireplace gleamed a swanky urn filled with the soot of floo powder, indicating that the trial's contestants were indeed not prisoners to the property. Genevieve supposed that the unbreakable scroll was deterrent enough to avoid any runaway witches.
However she had never learned to use floo powder, and she was much too traumatized to ever uptake the art of apparition, and so that meant she was basically stranded in the middle of central England, at a property without any nearby villages.
Wandering to the barred window, she observed that there were expansive French gardens around the eastern flank of the home. And to the north, stretched orchards with gnarled apple trees planted in imperfect rows, where clung drapes of moss from their blackened bark.
Still further out were stables housing dragons and horses, horses which shedidknow how to ride, so it was not a total loss of options.
And in all directions, woven in between the thick trees, were endless pathways of white pea gravel without a single weed sprouting up.
Lady Malfoy reappeared and briskly clasped her hands, clearing her throat to command the girl's attentions, "Welcome to Malfoy Manor, please follow me and listen carefully. A few rules while you are here."
In a flow of opulent textiles she rotated and left the parlour with the girls in tow, her pointy shoes clicking harshly on the wooden floorboards, "There are several cottages on this land - we shall place you each in your own, baring in mind that it would ransom great effort to wander across another trial contestant's territory. It is best that you all keep out of each other's sight and mind - any harassment of another contestant shall be met with iron punishment."
There was certainly some piece of mind to that. Having her own private cottage, away from the nightmarish main building and the wicked American contestant, would allow Genevieve some minor relief and freedom.
Mrs. Malfoy continued while taking them down the winding stone staircases from before, "You shall never under any circumstance make your way into this Manor unless invited directly by a member of the Malfoy family for ceremonial purposes, or for purposes deemed otherwise justified by that individual."
Genevieve scoffed, "Unless invited in? Is it assumed that we shall drink your blood in the dead of the night?"
Narcissa ignored this banter, but Persephone gave Genevieve a humored look behind Mrs. Malfoy's back, "If you require a chaperone for any personal businessoffof the estate then we shall assign you one of our staff. For the entire duration of Draco's trial, you shall darn the appointed Malfoy-crested attire when perceived outside of your exclusive private time, to signify, as tradition would have it, your extant preoccupation at court."
"And lastly..." Narcissa paused and sent Genevieve in particular a warning glance before continuing, "It is paramount that you recall, ubiquitously, that you are here underDraco Malfoy'sauthority, as these arehistrials. You may approach me via owl for any concerns that waver across your minds, however Draco shall govern your schedules and ultimately, your experiences here at Wiltshire. He requests to see you each twice a week for one hour at a minimum; Genevieve will be given Fridays and Saturdays, Septima Monday and Tuesday, Persephone Wednesday and Thursday. He shall take Sundays as his own."
It seemed highly unlikely that Draco had requested to see the girls in any capacity, more so that it had been his mother acting as a backseat driver.
"Fridays and Saturdays...I suppose you'll be having a real party here," Septima jealously clocked her pretty face to Genevieve, narrowing a set of lethal eyes down at her. Genevieve would gladly have responded by trading timeslots, were it not just heavily nailed into their heads that Draco dictated it all.
Narcissa came to a grinding halt in the lobby, where Genevieve spotted her golden umbrella still hung from one of the coatracks. It was the only colour in a sea of darkness.
She nodded to each of them, "Your first trial shall be concluded on the first day that is yours. As tomorrow is Monday, Septima, that means that your first trial will be completed in the morning. After the first trial is passed, trials two, three and four shall open simultaneously. In this house we prioritize our time, and so fulfilling the trials in perfect order is not required of you. You are encouraged to work on them all at once and as expeditiously as possible. The first to complete trial four will be given priority access to Draco from then on."
"Is your son equally as passionate about that pace?" Genevieve asked rather bravely.
Narcissa's eyes flared in outrage at the constant lip, "Myson...may present brassy at times, although customarily he is fair, so long as he is not met with temper. It would be wise to pick your words with better finesse when sharing his company, Genevieve of Wales. Come,you alone,as I shall bring you to your private accommodations first."
Outside, Genevieve remarked internally that the sky had somehow managed to further darken where it did not seem possible. The rain had evolved into a full blown thunderstorm as the heavens assaulted the planet.
Narcissa collected a lantern from the front stoop and lit it with a green flame which barely upheld in the windy conditions that afternoon, stomping away down one of the zillion pathways into the woods.
Genevieve hobbied in cartography, and so her primary instinct was to begin mentally mapping their trajectory and absorbing key landscape features as they went.
For a long while they traipsed in silence, and soon the Manor was only visible in the distance by it's gothic spires over the treetops.
Below the dying autumnal canopy of dense oaks it might've been dusk hour. The shadows were limitless and spooky, and the swinging lantern kept producing all sorts of uneasy visuals of twisted and leafless twigs.
All around them were pairs of inexplicable eyes of various colours and sizes, some even moving parallel with them off the pathway.
"Irklings," Narcissa noted, "Always have your wand at the ready in these woods, and do not leave your door unlocked after dark, Genevieve. There are worse beasts on this land yet."
Genevieve held her tongue this time, however she was convinced that the worst beast on that land was Draco Malfoy himself.
Through the grove slowly appeared a facade of ancient dark bricks which did not match those of the dominant building. These were far older, smattered in vines and built in a polygonal masonry style.
Genevieve surmised that this was perhaps the home of the land's first humble inhabitants who had been kicked off of it when Armand Malfoy had conquered Wiltshire, as she had read in her research on the family beforehand.
But that was impossible, for that would mean that the cottage was...a thousand years old. And if so, it had been preserved immaculately.
It was quaint and reasonable for a single female to inhabit, and the Malfoy's had at least bothered to provide some updated comforts.
There were black flowers in pots on the window sills and around the entrance, which had most definitely just been added the day prior as a whimsical gesture.
All around the base of the bungalow was a concerning circle of sea salt dissolving in the damp, a sight that left Genevieve biting her lip in mortification of what monsters it was meant to keep from invading.
Not far off was a small oval pond with a dilapidating dock, which brought with it a welcomed opening in the compact canopy overhead, allowing for light to filter down and dance upon the thatched roof. Around the edges of the water were little moke lizards zapping in and out of view, their bioluminescent scales glittering delightfully.
"This is the most remote of the external establishments. Draco wished for you specifically to be placed here," Narcissa explained vaguely, unlocking the single doorway with a huge black key which she then passed to Genevieve roughly.
Great...this was without a doubt his first effort to punish Genevieve by banishing her to the terrifying forest abode.
The bolted door swung inwards with a stubborn groan, and Narcissa did not make a move to enter the musty space beyond.
Instead she waved her black glove when Genevieve stood there with a dumb and shocked face, shivering in the breeze, "Make yourself at home then. We shall see you on Friday morning at the Manor. Call for the elves to deliver your meals, there are weekly catering cards inside for you to submit."
And then she was gone, moving as fast as a lightning strike between the trees until Genevieve could no longer see her luminous blond bun.
Narcissa was not a definitively charming example of company, however now that she had disappeared Genevieve was overwhelmed with loneliness and fear, in denial perhaps, that this was now her life.
And should Draco truly drag it out for years, than this decrepit cottage would become her home...her only companionship being a bunch of lizards and belching toads.
At the loud whoop of an augury she snapped back to reality. It was dangerous to be standing there in the wide open like a sitting duck.
She wiped at her cheeks again, plucked up the lantern, and stepped inside, shutting and locking the egress just in time.
Right as she'd pulled the key from it's hole an aggressivethumpagainst the wood caused her to jump back in horror, straight into a wobbly dining table with four completely different chairs packed around it's lip.
To keep from weeping she aimed to distract herself with exploring, but it did very little good.
A wave of her wand lit all of the candelabras mounted on the walls throughout, thankfully illuminating a setting of relative decency. She then started up a flame immediately in the hearth of an enormous fireplace, spotting another one of those fancy urns full of floo powder by it's base.
The cottage was compartmentalized into three sections; the open space which housed literally everything, the walk-in closet with hundreds of empty hangers and an assortment of Malfoy-crested attire, and the lavatory at the back where an elderly claw foot tub lived alongside a strange wooden toilet.
There was a tiny kitchen with antediluvian cauldrons, and a steel wood stove for baking and cooking. Although as promised, the Malfoy's had left a bright stack of parchment papers on the counter which would allow their contestants to order anything their mind's could dream up from the Manor's personal chefs.
She was pleased to discover a desk with ink and papers of various sizes.
And then there was the lofty king sized bed which felt entirely like a sore thumb sticking out within the otherwise antique conditions.
Genevieve wasted no time casting a transfiguration charm at the unsightly black comforter so that it was transformed into a beautiful white design with pastel pink roses dotting the fabric.
Draco was bound to submit complaints about this alteration but she could care less. It might even serve to keep trial four at bay if he found the comforter to be especially dissuading.
She laid there for what felt like ages, picking at her nail beds, and listening to the fire crackling, realizing that she might never see the other orphans again.
Right about then they'd be preparing for tea time, running and shrieking about in the abby hallways, and Madame Sylvie would be helplessly calling all of their names.
The smell of home cooked food and the sounds of laughter would be prevalent there, but now,nowGenevieve was a ghost in the woods to them, contesting in a trial for a tyrannical wizard who was about as affectionate as a boulder.