Tom Riddle x OC | Professor Riddle | muggle x wizard politics | suffragette themes | feminism | cults | dark academia
"You would become the wretchedest of women."
"Then let it be."
- Euripides
They say that witches should steer clear of muggle aff...
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The first time Elizabeth Lestrange killed a man, it evoked within her a visceral upheaval so intense, it felt like someone had taken a rusted fork to her insides, gouging them out to deposit them, bloody and vile onto the grimy cobblestones below her. It got easier after that. It got easier every time after.
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June 29, 1946 Lestrange Manor Hunstanton, Norfolk, England
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The Lestrange Manor, shrouded in an eerie, hushed atmosphere, appeared as though it had been veiled in shadows even during the daylight hours. At nighttime, the darkness outside clung to the ancient, imposing structure even more, effectively muffling all sounds of the outside world. The thick canopy of ancient, gnarled trees surrounding the mansion seemed to absorb every trace of sound, ensuring that only a haunting silence remained.
The evening sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the manor's imposing silhouette emerging from the inky blackness. The grand stone walls were adorned with intricate carvings and eerie gargoyles, their grotesque figures serving as silent sentinels of the manor's grim secrets. They seemed even more stark tonight, forewarners of something unspeakable about to take place.
The heavy silence persisted even inside the manor, disturbed only by the faint echoes of footsteps that seemed to dissolve into the plush, dark carpets. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the ornate wallpaper, its muted hues adding to the foreboding atmosphere. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, catching the dim light and lending an otherworldly quality to the space.
The house elves, normally bustling with their servile duties, had all retreated to the darkest recesses of the manor. Their large, round eyes blinked nervously in the gloom as they huddled together, their large ears straining to capture every nuance of the terrible argument that raged above. Their frayed, tattered garments and stooped postures conveyed a sense of fear and trepidation, as they listened in silent dread, for when the patriarch of the household was on one of his tirades, every resident of the manor paid the price.
Upstairs, in the heart of the manor, the heated dispute unfurled with a malevolence that seemed to seep into the very walls. Gaius Lestrange's anger was a quiet, steely kind that sent shivers down the spine of those who had the misfortune of witnessing it. His composure in moments of fury was eerie and unsettling. He never raised his voice; in fact, his words were delivered in a voice that grew even calmer and more measured as his anger intensified. His tone, barely above a whisper, concealed a seething rage that lurked just beneath the surface.
