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scinlac'Think about what you have done,' her father had said, before sending her off on this train, one way ticket to this ever-abandoned hell hole of a region. Dramatic, some might think. It's only Scotland, some might say. And in truth, it's not the place that upsets her, but the circumstance: alone, for the first time in her life, no elves to do her bidding, no space, just a cottage. It's Winter, her wedding had meant to be in Spring, and while she had always known her family expected her to do as they said...
Perhaps a tiny, tiny part of herself had been deluded enough to think that her abject unhappiness in the face of becoming Madame Rodolphus Lestrange would... would perhaps mean something to her father, to her mother.
Well, she's still on the tapestry. She's not committed treason proper, she's not taken someone of lesser blood for a husband, she held all the right values, still. The implication is clear – a couple of weeks up in the hills, and she might reconsider, might come back with her tail between her legs, willing to beg Rodolphus for a second chance. Or else, come back much later, and be willing to make a lesser marriage, but a marriage after all.
But for all her unhappiness, she's not yet ready to give up. Her cottage smells a little burnt, a scent that lingers in the old-fashioned curtains. The wood creaks under her feat as she stokes the fire – the only householding skill she has – and then, she dances back to her sofa, using all her blood-given grace to not slip on discarded clothing, books scattered on the floor, everything that she'd initially put on shelves and into dressers and that had quickly made its way there, because she never really learned how to tidy up after herself.
"We're in a bit of a situation, aren't we, Gremlin?" Should she be talking to her cat? She gently pets 'him', and worries a little bit about the weight 'he' has managed to gain.
Perhaps a tiny, tiny part of herself had been deluded enough to think that her abject unhappiness in the face of becoming Madame Rodolphus Lestrange would... would perhaps mean something to her father, to her mother.
Well, she's still on the tapestry. She's not committed treason proper, she's not taken someone of lesser blood for a husband, she held all the right values, still. The implication is clear – a couple of weeks up in the hills, and she might reconsider, might come back with her tail between her legs, willing to beg Rodolphus for a second chance. Or else, come back much later, and be willing to make a lesser marriage, but a marriage after all.
But for all her unhappiness, she's not yet ready to give up. Her cottage smells a little burnt, a scent that lingers in the old-fashioned curtains. The wood creaks under her feat as she stokes the fire – the only householding skill she has – and then, she dances back to her sofa, using all her blood-given grace to not slip on discarded clothing, books scattered on the floor, everything that she'd initially put on shelves and into dressers and that had quickly made its way there, because she never really learned how to tidy up after herself.
"We're in a bit of a situation, aren't we, Gremlin?" Should she be talking to her cat? She gently pets 'him', and worries a little bit about the weight 'he' has managed to gain.
