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( 𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔢 𝔦, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 ) — home is where the heart is
There was only one word which best described the foyer of Rosier Manor — gothic. A grand oak staircase stood in the center of the room, grasping every guests attention, its steps plastered with an embroidered emerald carpet. It split off into two on the first floor, where the walls of the landing held hundreds of ornate ancestral portraits. Two silver snake statues flanked the bottom of the staircase, their gemstone eyes glinting in the waxy candles upheld by an iron-wrought chandelier.
Evangeline had already dismissed her house elf, Pinky, with her travelling cloak and luggage. Her heels clicked against the polished marble floors as she crossed the foyer, through the impressive drawing room, and into the family dining room. Adonis and Opal Rosier sat patiently at the dark wooden table, set with the finest china and platinum candlesticks. The chairs were button-tufted and velveteen green, the same shade as the textured wallpaper. A fireplace was the main feature of this room, blazing a hearty fire.
''Father, mother,'' the brunette greeted, taking her designated seat. ''Per your request, I have returned home for the holidays.''
''Evangeline,'' Adonis acknowledged. ''It is a pleasure to have you back, your mother and myself have been expecting you.''
''Pinky!'' Opal called, an order for the house elves to begin sending up dinner.
Glazed turkeys, the size of a Hippogriff's head, bloomed on the engraved platters, crowned with rosemary and segments of lemon. Buttered broccoli and carrots followed, but not before mounds upon mounds of roast potatoes. A couple boats of gravy and stacks of Yorkshire puddings joined the feast, accompanied by bunches of caviar, white truffles, and oysters served in their shells.
Dinner at the Rosier's was a custom that had to be learnt. Elbows off the table, sit up straight, chew with your mouth closed, take small bites, don't talk with your mouth full, use your napkin and the correct utensils, and make pleasant conversation.
Except, this time, the conversation was anything but pleasant. It was an interrogation of some sort, subtle but not subtle enough, led by none other than Adonis.
''How is seventh year so far, Evangeline?'' Her father asked, never once daring to shorten his daughter's name to something as silly as ❛Eve❜. In his opinion, a name was a title, and when it was followed by a surname as prestigious as Rosier, it was a cardinal sin to use anything other but the one granted at birth. ''I do hope you are keeping your studies to a sublime standard.''
