The Malfoy Project

𝟖𝟑 - 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲𝐬' 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭

✼¹

༻⚜️༺

     It's strange to see the house you grew up in reduced to a burning pile of ash.

     As a child, the time I spent playing in the gardens, doing everything I could to avoid actually being in the house, had given me ample time to memorise every facet of its exterior, and even though I have always hated the idea of home, I would be remiss not to admit that my house had been beautiful; a symbol of affluence and influence, of wealth and health. Of grandness. 

     On nights of parties, dozens of sleek black carriages, polished so that they reflected the lights from the house, would pull into our driveway, drawn by Abraxan horses or other exotic creatures kitted out in gold and jewel-studded harnesses.

     The people that stepped out of them were even more extravagant: men clad in robes of raven silk and vests of velvet; the women stuffed into gowns of bursting taffeta and glittering organza, dripping from head to toe in diamonds and precious stones. I could almost hear the ghostly echoes of their laughter as we neared the Manor. 

     The fire hadn't reached the gardens. The hedges still stood tall, though the leaves were left brittle and gasping for moisture, and the marble fairies perched atop the fountains had adopted droopy, forlorn expressions, but, like the rest of the garden, were fully intact.

     The same couldn't be said for the house itself. Once bursting with light, it was now encompassed in shadow, derelict and corpse-like. The left half of the building looked the same, the walls smooth and roof tiles still intact. The other half, the East Wing, where my parents and I had lain asleep not more than forty-eight hours ago, was entirely blackened by the fire and smoke as if it had been cancelled out with ink. 

     The glass panes of the windows had all exploded from the heat, leaving only the twig-like frames, which had been melted and thinned so they looked like they could crumble at the slightest breeze; a dozen soulless eyes staring back at us; eyes I had once looked out of, hands pressed eagerly against the surface as I dreamt of freedom and adventure and other silly, ineffectual things.

     Ainsley gave my hand a squeeze. "You sure about this? We can do this another day..."

     "No," I said, trying to sound decided. "It has to be today." Before they attempt to restore it to its former glory. Before they reconstruct my nightmares from shadowed corner to shadowed corner.

     Inside, the foyer floor was littered with debris from what used to be the small circular wooden tables that lined the way into the house, once supporting vases of flowers and various display antiques my family had collected over the decades. The floor itself, being made of marble, had not been terribly damaged by the fire, but bore blackened marks where the flames had attempted to eat away at it without success.

     The grand staircase was the same. Years ago it had been a stage for Malfoy patriarchs to give awe-inspiring speeches and opening remarks before dozens of adoring guests. Now it was covered with crosshatches of fallen beams and the cottony remnants of the royal red carpet that lined its steps. However, the stairs itself, made from the same material of the floor, was also relatively undamaged.

     The house was even quieter than when it had been inhabited by me and my parents. Sickeningly quiet. Every move we made, every step and every breath was audible, and it unnerved me. Overwhelmed by the vast difference of a familiar place, I turned to Ainsley. "Where should we start?" I asked, suddenly unsure about everything.