When Genevieve Hart, the pureblood Hufflepuff daughter of notorious Death Eaters, first meets Mattheo Riddle, the brooding and complex son of the Dark Lord, she is instantly drawn to him. Despite the stark contrast in their personalities-her kind-he...
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{FOUR YEARS LATER - GENEVIEVE'S FIFTH YEAR}
TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED SINCE ROSALIA HART HAD DISAPPEARED, YET TO GENEVIEVE, IT FELT LIKE AN ETERNITY.
The summer heat pressed down relentlessly, heavy and suffocating, much like the weight of her unspoken grief. The days blurred together in a monotonous cycle of silence and sorrow, each one blending into the next, an endless loop of mourning without answers. As August slipped away, Genevieve found herself facing another school year at Hogwarts — without Rosie, without any leads, and without the sister who had always been her anchor.
Their new house was nothing like the home they had once known. After the fire that consumed their seaside manor just days after Rosie vanished, they had retreated to a smaller, colder house in the countryside. To Genevieve, it felt like a prison - dark, cramped, and void of any warmth. Even after two months, Genevieve still hadn't gotten used to the emptiness that lingered in every room, pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. The oppressive quiet seemed to echo her own grief, a constant reminder that nothing would ever be the same.
Her parents, once distant, had become ghosts in their own right. They barely spoke to her, and when they did, it was in clipped, emotionless tones that left her feeling hollow. Most of the time, they were away, although Genevieve had no idea where they went or what they did. They were strangers to her now, and in a twisted way, she found some relief in their absence. They no longer hovered over her, demanding explanations, or punishing her for secrets she hadn't wanted to keep. Not that any of it mattered anymore. Rosie was gone, and with her, any semblance of family.
Genevieve sat at the kitchen table, her spoon stirring a bowl of cereal she had long since lost interest in. The milk had turned cloudy, the cereal bloated and soggy, but she didn't care. She hadn't been hungry when she made it; it was simply something to do, a distraction from the oppressive silence that filled the house. Across from her, her older brother, Oliver, sat in his usual place, the Daily Prophet open in front of him. His face, as always, was unreadable.
