The other day I forgot my old address I'm sitting pretty on the throne!
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There's nothing more I want Except to be alone!
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛
━━━━━━━━━━━━━WASN'T SHE ALL ALONE? HOW DID SHE MANAGE? Dorothy Kobal had outlived the anguish and ache that exuded from their father's frame. His children, Dorothy's siblings, collectively faced his torment while racing towards a summit where a corridor closet beckoned as a utopia. No matter their pace or their will, they prevailed as fruitless in their search of this mountain where they could rest. There remained no evidence of such places even existing—untainted by the disasters he prompted. There was nowhere for them to hide.
The news of their elaborate, purposed befalls rumbled into the earshot of every status within the wizarding world. Wherever the family travelled, solaces were given by wizards over fearful, rattling voices. Even the distant, resolute Lucius Malfoy had cordially smirked across repast at Alphard Kobal. Naturally, however, it had been a tacit trade both fathers had devised for a show of sympathy since Dorothy's father had informed Mr Malfoy of his intentions before the event had even taken place. Artificial in the eyes of Dorothy, but the gloom swallowing Narcissa Malfoy was anything but insincere.
Everybody had heard of the Kobal name, and the incident notoriously jammed behind it. Had laid eyes on the crested arms, enshrined nemo me impune lacessit upon their glimpse. From their bloom, they were desired. While the children itched to escape grasping fingertips, there was nowhere to disappear. No closet to to decamp to from the aristocratic leers or the musings paired with them when left alone at parent meetings. No mother for the youngest to cower behind at Alphard's lavish banquets.
Dorothy had been a bystander in her mother's death—one of the many misfortunes her father had fashioned with snarling avarice at his reins. She had been an observer. She was one of the many tarnished youths dangling from the Kobal scaffolds underpinned by the hand of imposing expectancy. Merely one of his puppets entangled amidst the cutting strings of his wretched prospect. Alphard had foisted fateful, unforgivable principles unto his descendants. Had exposed them and struck them with his black faith, for he anticipated their future imitation. Envisioned—planned for—them to replicate his actions.
He wholly believed they would Viennese waltz and Argentine tangoto his ballad of tragedy without his claw for direction.
