Book one of two.
Post war.
Odette Elara Viotto can't help but feel foreign in the place she grew up in, and seems to believably lie that she is coping like others around her.
After one dark wizard perishes, another forges- reeking havoc within the...
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Odette Viotto-
How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?
-Virginia Woolf
The Potter boy sat waiting in a dark room, the only sound to be heard was the occasional crackle of the roaring fire.
He tapped the tip of his wand on the ebony wood coffee table placed directly beside a fine leather armchair, a table more so used to hold a glass of aged whiskey than a cup of coffee.
He waited and waited and waited, the large grandfather clock had stopped working decades ago- forever stuck ticking to the same time at 3:33am.
Despite the burning fire, the room was ice cold, the Potter boy could see his own anxious breaths as they came out in short exhales- reflecting his apprehensive uneasiness of the meeting with his master.
The rain was deafening as it battered off the cracked windows, the wind snuck in through the un-repaired damages, sending a chilling breeze through the dark, dusty room.
The wizarding worlds former saviour began pacing the room anxiously, his circular glasses slightly askew on his the bridge of his nose- a shallow cut slowly healing on his cheek.
"If you were a cow shaking as terribly as you are, I wouldn't even wear your leather on my boots" came a cold, venomous voice from the fine leather armchair.
The boy jumped, turning to notice the dark cloaked figure had arrived without making a single sound.
"My apologies, my lord," the boy lowered his head in respect. "There is an icy breeze blowing through the room".
"Might I suggest a larger coat if the winter weather effects you so badly" the cloaked figure spoke.
The boy glanced at his thin black coat, awkwardly nodding his head- not knowing whether or not his master was looking at him or not.
