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okay, i have TWO requirements before i begin the next chapter
1. you guys have to help get The Boy Who Had No Choice by nyx-malfoy up to one million reads! there's only 20k left to go, i know y'all can do it besties
2. 500 votes and 3k comments on this chapter (yes this counts as one requirement in my book because it takes half a second to vote, and if 3k people read in one day, then i should honestly have at least 1k votes)
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The five of us sit at the dinner table, the air filled with noises of a crackling fireplace and utensils scraping against fine china.
Aunt Colette didn't want us to go to the Parkinsons' manor for dinner, even though we'd been invited. She said she had an announcement and that she wanted to have a nice dinner—with all kinds of French food made by the House-elves—with the family and family only.
She didn't have to say a word. As soon as she and Mother, who apparently has been back for a few weeks now, Apparated is home, her announcement was staring us in the face with a big beam, saggy neck, and wrinkles that extend all the way back to the top of his pale bald head. A Lem Spindlewheel, a ripe eighty-six years of age, and a simple engagement band on his left ring finger to match the ornate one on Aunt Colette's.
Blaise hasn't said a single word since.
In fact, none of us have. Aunt Colette tried a little harder to get him to say something—anything—whether about Mr. Spindlewheel—who happens to be very big in the business of cauldron-making—but eventually even she gave up on that. So now we sit and pretend we have appetites sustainable for all that's been prepared, from the salmon timbales entrée to monkfish with chorizo fish course, to the main course that we're currently tucking into.
No, Mr. Spindlewheel is the only one out of the five of us that has said a thing. Either he doesn't notice the tension settled over the expensive oak table, or this is his lame attempt at diffusing it, but every now and then he'll make a remark of faux expertise on the food served, saying something about how the timbales would be much better if there was a bit of lemon in the sauce, or perhaps this chorizo had a bit of Abraxan in it because it doesn't taste very porky.
In fact, he's currently going on and on about how the way the vegetables have been steamed doesn't really agree with the taste of the wine, but I don't take my time tuning him out where he sits at the left head of the table across from Aunt Colette.
