the trial ; d.m

12

4th December 2002

December comes around quicker than Geneva's anticipated. As does their annual soirée. Because what sort of respectable aristocrats would they be if they didn't host at least one or two events a year?

This is one they've become known for. Every Wizarding folk who can afford to be accepted into this society attends, whether or not they even like their hosts. It does well for their social reputation as does hosting the soiree in the first place.

It wasn't Geneva's idea to continue the tradition. The Manor filled to its brim with the Wizarding World's finest upper class who care more about the shine of their shoes than the wellbeing of their own children— definitely her idea of a good time.

She courses her way through these events like writhing through mud on a battlefield. Enduring all of the spite and reserved bullshit that these people have to offer, in order to come out on the other side of it an agreeable citizen. A deserving wife to her husband.

It's a place that anyone would dream to get into, and she just wants to get out.

The House Elves have decorated the Manor to seem the traditional image on the front of a Christmas card. It reminds her of the Yule Ball in their fourth year and she feels a strange sense of longing to be back there although she despised it that night.

Geneva is clad in one of her many gowns that Theodore had gifted to her from various Magic-folk and Muggle designers. Tonight she decides to wear a billowing burgundy number which extenuates her waist, making her feel the epitome of womanly. After all, dress to impress is what was taught to her by the many other girls who granted her with their fashionable advice.

And now she can't see herself in a perspective that strays away from the narcissistic vanity which attempts to ruin her ego every single day if she's not perfect at each given moment. Growing into womanhood with someone as highly admired as Theodore Nott tends to do that to a person.

But now she has money, and all the privilege in the world, and can apparently afford to transform herself into an unfaltering replica of a Goddess. No matter her wellbeing, of course. They don't care about that.

But a woman's pride cannot be achieved without the full extent of her commitment to keeping her safety in check. So they know she shouldn't be touched by anyone if she will not allow it. That's why Geneva has a small dagger strapped around her ankle, just above the lining where her gown ends.

She's learned to be protective of herself after many of these events.

"You look stunning," Theodore gapes at her in awe when he strolls into their bedroom and watches her correcting her makeup in the mirror.

He comes behind her, rests his chin on her shoulder and smooths his hands around her waist. His fingertips spread out along her naval and he's keeping his hands there. Holding her stomach as if something should be there.

His eyes dart to hers in the mirror and a smirk forms on his face.

She looks away, turns abruptly and kisses the pointed look off of his face, clearing both of their heads of any formidable reminder.

"Everyone will start showing up soon," she says, wriggling out of his embrace and darting for the door. His hand gently grasps at the back of her gown's skirt.

"I'm sure we have enough time." The flirtatious smirk on his face widens.

"Theo—"

His hand captures her jaw and he kisses her hard on the mouth. But she pulls away, adamant to prevent his lustrous desires to ruin her makeup.