𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕤 | 𝔻.𝕄.

༻﴾ 2 | Welcome to Malfoy Manor ﴿༺

"A memorable response from Lord Malfoy. 'e fancies you, cannot you see et?" Sylvie performed her best to comfort Genevieve with utter nonsense. 

The two Malfoy's had cleared the room, so that final goodbyes might be administered, and Genevieve had since broken down with quiet tears. 

However she took pride in being the studiously composed and introverted type, so it was not a theatrical display. 

No, she stood there stiff as a plank with no other expression to offer other than shedding droplets and deadpan orbs, "I shant ever see eye to eye with a man like that. And if that is his way of showing intrigue than I would do well to dread him when cross."

Sylvie smiled nervously at a Ministry man lurking in the corner, who's presence was necessary to confirm the trial invitation had commenced under legal grounds, then back to Genevieve pinned under her grasp, "In time, I foresee de pair of you reaching an understanding. 'e is very 'andsome, no? Dis is excellent news. All you 'ave to do is complete de trials, and your trust is yours to do wit' as you please. Go 'ide away at Castle Selwyn."

Genevieve felt as though her ankles were tied together in a vast ocean, and with each passing second she was sinking further and further below the surface, "Go hide at Castle Selwyn, which he will conveniently also own as my husband? With my baby I shall have had by him? Sylvie, there must be something you can do. I cannot risk spending an eternity ensnared by this man."

"There is nothing you can do," the auror in plum coloured robes replied in a dark voice, "the scroll of the Purity Trial is unbreakable once signed by both. You must compete until the duke releases you. Or...until you perish."

Genevieve fanned her face as Sylvie spoke again, but it was all just a buzzing in her ear by that point. The other two maidens appeared contrarily elated to be selected, conversing in enthusiastic tones with their chaperones. 

The maiden from Ireland, Persephone of House Fawley, was very short, perhaps under five feet. Her eyes were a lovely cobalt blue and her curly hair a strawberry red. The robes she had worn were a cohesive pink and blue to match. As she talked to a woman who was likely to be her grandmother she kept glancing over at Genevieve with an odd twinkle in her eye. It was clear that her disposition was gentle and simple, and generally jovial. 

The same could not be said about the American girl, Septima of House Carmine, who's aura was deeply fierce and competitive. This girl was so tall that her jet black hair barely cleared the low hanging chandelier. Her chocolate orbs were also glued to Genevieve's teary face, but not out of pity. Her hard glare was rather off-putting, standing there in what was highly unusual attire for a noble witch; a deep purple outfit which nearly resembled futuristic office attire.

"-and oh, I bet you'll 'ave a grand walk-in closet. No more living out of a trunk..." in the background Sylvie was lost in the madness of attempting to find a silver lining anywhere at all.

"-Please Sylvie, do not leave me here. I beg of you to contest with the Ministry," Genevieve barged in rudely, reiterating that escape was her priority, not the size of her wardrobe.

The plead on her face finally made an impact, and Madame Sylvie sighed dramatically. Pulling in Genevieve for a hug she patted her back, "I will try, my child, but dis heresy is not likely to work. I am afraid you 'ad best get comfortable."

"It won't work," the eavesdropping auror repeated his solemn statement, as if his sole mission on the planet was to deflate any hope Genevieve had left.

Thirty minutes passed, and eventually the cranky old elf escorted the three chaperones from the premises. 

Well, he escorted two of them to the fireplace where they departed respectfully via floo powder, and he escorted poor Sylvie back to her beaten up vehicle for the tedious trip home to Wales. Even if she could wield magic, the Oldsmobile was her only means of travel with Genevieve regardless.