༻⊰𒀭⊱༺
LXXXVII. I HOPE, I HOPE NOT
━━━━━━
"Sadness in my heart
That's covered in my prayers"
"I'LL MARRY HER!"
For split-second, Marjorie thought the many Cruciatus Curse inflicted on her had finally driven her to insanity. But as reality seeped into her skin and Draco's voice pierced through the haze of pain and despair, Marjorie's eyes widened in disbelief. His declaration echoed in the tense silence of the drawing room, shattering the oppressive atmosphere like a sudden thunderclap.
Marcius Evermore, still holding his wand with an air of cold detachment, regarded Draco with an arched brow, amusement flickering in his steely gaze "You will marry her?"
"You'll marry the wretch?" Bellatrix looked at her nephew with deranged incredulity as she, Narcissa and Lucius stepped back into the drawing room that Draco had barged into, mirroring Bellatrix's astonishment.
But Draco didn't flinch — though, through the hazy vision of hers, Marjorie could see the quiver in his grey eyes that locked onto Marcius's. His jaw was set in a stubborn line,
"I will," Draco affirmed, though a flicker of uncertainty momentarily darkened his eyes. "I know she rejected me once, but... things have changed. It's clear she has no other options now." His voice was steady, though there was an unmistakable edge of bitterness woven into the words.
"How noble, indeed," Marcius drawled, his voice rich with condescension. "Offering yourself up like a sacrificial lamb for my wayward daughter. How brave of you, Draco. How predictable."
Draco's composure faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his cool. "If it means sparing her from disgrace, sure," he retorted evenly, "I'm willing to make this sacrifice."
Bellatrix, pacing like a caged predator, sneered, her eyes darting between her nephew and Marjorie.
"Oh, Draco," she cooed mockingly, "you always did love playing the hero, didn't you since you were a wee baby? But this... marriage?" She spat the word out like it tasted foul. "To her?" Her eyes widened with exaggerated disbelief. "Have you lost your mind?"
Ignoring her barbs, Draco's eyes found Marjorie's crumpled form on the stone-cold floor, her body shuddering violently in the aftermath of Marcius's curse. She lay there, small and fragile, her skin pale, lips trembling, the air heavy with the scent of burnt flesh and despair. Yet, in the swirling chaos around them, Draco didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was louder than any words. His gaze — fierce and steady — said more than his lips ever could.
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𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆. harry j. potter
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