the trial ; d.m

4

"Oh and don't worry. I won't touch you. I don't think it would be very courteous of me to maim Nott's wife after what he's so graciously doing for me."

"I wasn't—"

"I know," he grins, his tone far from grave.

Worried, she was going to say.

He doesn't believe her, it's clear. He won't hear a word she's saying.

"But I wouldn't put it past you," she snarls, delivering it as an insult.

He just laughs.

"No, neither would I."

She's still as she waits for him to leave. When he disappears and can no longer be heard, she goes back to her room and slams her door shut like a pissed off teenager. She cusses out loud.

Fucking twat.

There's such a persistent cockiness about him that she hadn't expected. It makes her want to scream. He knows he's wrong— everything about him is wrong, but he takes advantage of his disgrace and weaponises it to humiliate others.

He'd been the same in school. Always coming out on top of every quarrel, every debate. His aristocratic superiority made it seem like everything coming out of his mouth should be believed. Should be obeyed. And he would always be listened to because of that. Never missing out on what he wants.

She wants to associate him with every insult under the sun.

But corrects herself, realises she's allowing him to affect her in such a way. Wasting her time and mental capacity, falling as a gullible victim to his immaturity.

In spite, she takes herself over to the far wall of the bedroom, and sets her sight upon the garden that sits ahead of the North Wing. The view grants her peace of mind as she studies the chrysanthemums, the hydrangeas, the carnations, the peonies, all blooming under the blue sky.

They need watering, she thinks.

It's been too dry recently in the North West. Rainfall is usually frequent, but this summer has been the hottest yet.

She spends her time out in the gardens, enduring the potent scents of flora that manage to make her eyes water and her sinuses sensitive. She waters the flowers one by one and is disheartened to come across a cluster of withered life among some of the beds.

She decides to replant them. Goes into the greenhouse and collects an array of seeds for the peonies and hydrangeas.

Gardening was yet another enjoyable hobby that Geneva picked up from her mother. She can still vibrantly remember the garden in the muggle home from her youth. She'd catch her mother outside almost everyday, planting and repotting, watering and feeding them. She had made sure to teach Geneva how to build a proper garden.

Since the age of seven, she'd been learning the importance of looking after life.

Peonies, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and carnations. Nevertheless, a random array, they had been the bright colours of her childhood.

Four years later, she'd never see her mother again.

Hours pass and she's ended up touring around each of the gardens, bypassing the hedgerows and several greenhouses. Merely distracting herself with every possible thing to do outside to avoid being stuck in the same building with a murderer while Theodore is at the Ministry.

While she waters a few more of the flower beds, she's sidetracked by a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. In one of the windows of the East Wing, he's standing there.