When Aven Selwyn is tasked to work with Draco Malfoy in repairing the vanishing cabinet by the hand of Lord Voldemort, the last thing she expected was for Draco's best friend to become involved. Caring for someone isn't something on Aven's agenda, b...
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(ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ: ɢʀᴏᴘɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴀʟʟ ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴛ)
The telephone table cushioned the bottom of her thighs as she rocked back and forth against the frame. The old legs creaked, threatening false support of her body. Her fingernails were caught between her teeth, nervously chewing as she stared ahead at the crown molding, a renaissance portrait hanging not too far below that.
An ugly, plated rug laid beneath her trainers, the soft mumbles of voices hidden beneath the walls of the room behind her. She tore her hand away, leaning against the wall as she held her breath, voices increasing. She could hear the malice in her fathers voice, rebounding against the house.
Aven sighed, catching glimpses of words from the healer.
"Unfortunately . . . Sick . . . Warlox . . ."
It came as no surprise, truly. Her father has been out of commission, useless to the Dark Lord, for months now. Having sustained and used so much Dark Magic, it was catching up to him. Crippling him. And he is now diagnosed with something that will kill him, a disease that is leveling the playing field for all the lives he has taken.
Aven wasn't pained by the revelation. She knew her father had been sick for quite some while, and even though Warlox disease was terminal, she had no sorrow in her heart for her bastard of a father.
A green light erupted from beneath the door, shadowing the floor and fanning across Aven's face, her hair blowing against the spell. A thump hit the ground in the other room.
There was a stern, sharp proclamation, and then her mother stepped out. She looked put together, her robes drawn tightly and hair pinned back neatly.
"Your father has no remorse," she snipped, wiping at cheek subconsciously. "Killed the messenger."
"He's never handled bad news well," Aven shrugged, finding limp fingers on the hardware floor through the crack of the door her mother had exited.
"Yes, well, he clearly has no problem further endangering his life. The more dark magic he uses, the faster his body will deteriorate. It's a shame, such a nice body going to waste. His personality, however . . . We could do without."
"I don't understand why you married him," Aven admitted, following behind the older Selwyn and into the kitchen. Moxy, the manor's house elf, scrubbed dishes with her head bowed down.
"He was different," her mother said, and it was not the first time Aven had heard those words. "He was untainted then. Time has not done well for him."
"Yeah, well, neither has Voldemort."
Her mother spun quickly, face punched. "The Dark Lord," she corrected lowly. "You mustn't call him by his name."
