''𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙢𝙮 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩, 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨.''
(forced proximity, enemies to lovers) | for most, turning eighteen is a key moment in ones life. A mome...
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''Toujours pur''
♱✮♱
''I MEAN REALLY,'' VITA FLUNG THE LETTER ONTO THE BED IN EXASPERATION.
She watched the thick parchment flutter down onto her plush coverlet. She wanted to burn it. Incinerate it! So that all remained of it's contents was a small pile of charred ash, about as significant as what it entailed, if you asked her.
''It's outrageous.'' Anita muttered. Her hands drew languid circles on the desk beside her, as she ruminated over all the ways she could spin this story. She could ruin the pureblood name this single scoop; 'age old tradition or child marriage? The truth behind the infamous Sacred Twenty-Eight'.
Vita paced the length of her room in Lestrange Manor. Her footsteps rattled the moulding paintings on her walls, yellowed with antiquity. Their eyes bore down on her back the weight of generations. ''I knew I'd have to marry young- but this?'' She spun to face Anita. ''This is insane! And to- to him!''
Anita's eyes flooded with sympathy. The Skeeters were half bloods. She never had to fear this exploitation, which only doubled her pity. Not to mention her passion for journalism riled up all this information into one churning, bubbling, boil of injustice.
The moment she'd received Vita's owl, Anita knew something was wrong. They were a day into the Easter holidays for Merlin's sake! What fresh news could Vita possible have to depart?
Anita's brows scrunched as she wracked her brain. ''Give it here,'' she motioned to the letter, rudely discarded on Vita's bed. Vita chewed on her thumbnail as she passed it over, never mind that the nail was already bitten bloody to the quick.
