The Malfoy Project

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚞𝚜 #𝟺 - 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙸𝙸

     The Ball that year was one of the greatest the Blacks have ever held, graced by Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins herself and the other Ministry Head of Departments. Also in attendance were representatives from the Magical Congress of the United States of America and other European high courts and ministries.

     But it was the house itself that outshone the celebrities within its walls. The hundred front-facing windows were so brightly lit the entire building seemed ablaze against the dusky evening sky. Lined up on the porch were the The Blacks' best, most well-behaved house elves to open doors, take coats, and carry bags of the guests spilling from the arriving carriages.

     Bas got out first, thanking the elf who received us. Father shot me a warning look — as if I would in a million years dream of doing the same. I followed him out, Mother after me. We lingered by the carriage for a moment, making sure people saw us, that they knew this was our carriage.

     I looked for Bas but he had already disappeared up the steps and into the crowd at the foyer. I stuck close to Father, for I believed it would serve my purpose better to start knowing who Father associated himself with and who he did not.

     He introduced me to Rookwood, Mulciber II, Dolohov, Lestrange, and Avery, all of whom I have seen gathering in Father's study more than once, and whose sons would later become my comrades, although I didn't know that yet. Up close, they all bore a look of concealed depravity to them, shaking my hand in a manner that seemed as though welcoming me into something.

     But as keen as I was to be acquainted with the necessary, the ball was still, in essence, a circlejerk of the same wealthy, mundane adults who were only interested in talking about their jobs and I soon grew tired of the chatter. Like I said, I was never one to talk much.

     Father, sensing my waning interest and increasing impatience, introduced me to Juliette Bulstrode, a pretty girl with one of the ugliest last names I have ever heard. But it paid to be civil to a relative of pure-bloods, and so I smiled and kissed her hand.

     A petite girl with raven black hair, she was easy on the eyes and not an entirely bad companion, especially when the dancing began. I had always lingered by the sidelines with the other children, having been too young to participate five years ago. Now, at Father's urging, I suddenly found myself having to lead Juliette into the dance square along with the adults.

     "So, Juliette," I said as I placed my hand on her ribs, "I don't quite recall seeing you at school."

     "I'm in Slytherin," she said, sounding neither surprised nor offended. "I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed a pretty girl like you," I replied automatically; one of my throwaway lines that I'd said so many times it felt like air on my tongue. She blushed deeply, her eyes sparkling with a bashful innocence I knew intimately. It was the kind I loved to steal.

     Juliette's palm was light on mine, and under the dripping diamonds of the crystal chandelier, illuminated her beauty even more. Her eyes glinted the colour of summer grass, lips daintier than a rosebud. But even as I swept her across the floor, my eyes searched for only one.

     And suddenly there she was. An ivory gown flashing between the dull, jewel-toned robes like a lantern in the night; hair unspooled in sun-weaved threads. She was propped up in my brother's arms as they stepped to the rhythm, like a little porcelain doll waved about in the hands of a child. I wanted to laugh.

     Mid-way through Tchaikovsky's Danse des cygnes, I saw Bas lean in and whisper something into her ears. She smiled half-heartedly as he took her hand and together, they wormed their way through the twirling mass and disappeared out the side door.