"I'm going to fucking ruin you."
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The Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, Harry Potter is dead. Muggleborns are slaughtered. Halfblood's are shoved into imprisonment, conditioned to alter their beliefs and dictated to worship Purebloods.
Y/N Y...
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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 | "𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧"
ϟ
"Y/N! Love, set the table, would you?" Mother's elegant voice recoiled through the kitchen entrance, the sound of sizzling bacon and the aromas of sweet, sugary pancakes infused the air. "Your father will be up any minute, he has a busy day ahead of him so please don't stress him out."
I shoved a slice of parchment into the crevices of my current page. My seventh book this week.
I pounce off the room's parlor chair. "Why would I stress him out? I'm a perfect daughter." I laugh slightly, fixating into the drawers to prepare the table.
"Totally, if you say so."
Fluttering my lids open, there is a fleeting moment when I am whole again— but it evaporates faster than summer rain off the burnt earth. Then, my lashes that were drooping and leaden with sleep snap open as violently as if I'd been woken by the raid sirens wailing.
Waking up can be truly cruel, particularly if your dreams are better than reality. The saddest part of it is, though, that eventually even the memory of your dream will fade— if you are even lucky enough to remember it that is. Then you're left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only verification that you ever had the dream to begin with.
It's frightening, a closed room without bars, the sun glimmering onto my skin through the bright and honest windows. The plush mattress, it's encased with a satin silk blanket.
I am no longer cold.
"Ah, my greatest purchase has finally awoken." Mr. Thronden, perched by the doorway, he streaks his pearly whites with a brief grin. "I was beginning to worry, you've been sleeping for a nearly twenty hours." He strides to me leisurely, step by step. His hands are folded behind him.
Today, he's wearing bright navy trousers without the presence of a shirt, his muscles are well defined and visually active. His figure coerces me to wonder the truth behind his factual age.
"Mr. Throden, I— I cannot recall how I was brought here."
He tilts his head to a degree, amused. "You had to be stunned to be brought out of your imprisonment. I prefer you to call me Vance— if you don't mind."
Vance Throden.
Clean, I was clean. The hair that fell to my shoulders no longer felt tacky and greasy. Prancing the cool tempered blanked from my body, my coverings, my clothes, they're clean.
