The Malfoy Project

𝟑𝟔 - 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲𝐬'

A/N: Hey guys! Just a quick note to say that I've decided to publish a glossary elaborating on the many literary references I've used throughout the book and why I've used them. 

Things marked with a '✼' are a reference to something and can be found in the glossary, which will always be kept as the last chapter of the book. 

You don't always have to refer, though, as I think it doesn't take away any meaning from the story. The glossary is just meant as something extra to give some context to my writing and a richer reading experience for you ❤️ 

Thank you so much for supporting my work and I hope you enjoy the next few chapters!! x

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     Winter at Hogwarts is cold in every sense of the word. The air would turn thick and chalky as temperatures take a nose-dive, bathing the castle's stone walls a sickly shade of grey. Students would huddle close to the only sources of heat: the torch-lined walls, the Great Hall, and the fireplaces in the common rooms.

     The Hufflepuff Common Room is one place not short of such comfort. The windows would be shuttered tightly to keep out the chill. Copper lamps burn night and day, toasting the stone floors to just the right amount of warmth and drenching the circular room in a gentle orange glow.

     And so when my eyes peel open to see not the licking flames of the Common Room fire, but the cold, white morning sun straining unfiltered through white-silled floor-to-ceiling windows, I momentarily wonder if I'm dreaming. I extend an arm to the other side of the bed. The silk sheets are creased but cold to touch. Godric, how badly have I slept that I disturbed both sides of a bed big enough for three adults?

     I heave myself up from the nest of pillows. My reflection stares groggily back at me from a mirror at the other end of the room. The silver dress was laid carefully on the white leather stool, lightly creased and definitely worn. As I take in the rest of my surroundings, jagged pieces of last night begin to piece themselves back together: Stitching up my blue dress; walking up the driveway and sticking my tongue out at the unfriendly iron gate; Narcissa bringing me here to change; Draco's disdainful expression as he walked me into the dining hall. 

     It is here the memories become muddier: Lucius offering me wine; Draco leaving in a temper — what was it that had upset him so? — and then finally Mr. Selwyn saying the Prophet would definitely drag me to court should I still be determined to write the book. Everything after that is a long, empty blank.

     I stumble from the bed to the bathroom, clutching my head as if that will stop the pounding. The stale musk of whiskey hanging heavy in the air brings up a dreadful wave of nausea and I heave up bile and the rest of whatever I have apparently drunk last night into the toilet. Then I step into the shower and hope the warm water would simmer away the niggling sense of shame I feel. It doesn't.

     I find my blue dress hanging behind the door, but before I can remove the jumper to change the door knob turns slowly and Narcissa peers in, catching me staring back at her wide-eyed. "You're awake," she notes in mild surprise. I nod weakly, cheeks flushing. "We're having breakfast in the dining hall," she says. "Please, join us."

     Too mortified to protest, I follow her meekly. The portraits in the hallway eye me scornfully as I take my walk of shame down the red carpet. Even the stationary marble busts seem to be looking down their noses at me.

     A breakfast spread had been laid out on the dining table: plates of French toast, eggs, fat links of sausages, a bowl of fruits, and a glass pitcher of juice. Lucius sat at the end holding up the thick pages of the Sunday Prophet. A place has been set for me next to him and at Narcissa's insistence, I take my seat reluctantly and watch as she heaps food onto my plate.