The Malfoy Project

𝟗𝟏 - 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

*A/N: Hello! I'm back after a looong break. If you're still reading this, thank you so much! I appreciate each and every one of you.

Also, this story is on AO3 as an edited and 'improved' version that has much more additional detail, especially the interview chapters. I've tried to overwrite this Wattpad version accordingly, but I'm afraid WP readers don't like long chapters as much, so not everything is included!

The AO3 version is fairly different from this one, so you can check that out if you'd like! :)

Also, don't forget to check out @aamaliamalfoy 's Spanish translation of this story! She does an amazing job 💚

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     I have been thinking a lot about my life lately. I mean really thinking, which is something I haven't done before. What I had been doing was more like wallowing, allowing all the loneliness and guilt and temporary flashes of tenderness to wrap themselves around me like a small, cramped tent.

     Today, I sat down and tried to look at my life like a painting hung up on the wall, so I could observe it from a distance. I spent a great deal of time considering the stained, grey blanks of my childhood and studying the tumultuous years of the war and its subsequent events, and I discovered some peculiar things about the concept of Time. It is this: 

     Time is like a rubber band, pulling and snapping and pulling. There are periods in my life when events happen in rushes, one sweeping tragedy after another, all compressed together and hurtling forwards at breakneck speed. And then there are periods when things come in trickles; long, slow lengths of infinite hours where nothing happens and every day is the same; the same routine, same emptiness, stretching on and on like a piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.

     The second thing I divined is how fast it can change from one of these states to the other. One moment I could be swaggering down the hall with Crabbe and Goyle, students swarming around me, and the next, I could be alone in the Room of Requirement, beating my fists raw against the door of the Cabinet in frustration, the sound like a clap of thunder in the chilling silence. Another moment I could be clutching my injured arm and hurling profanities at a Hippogriff, and the next, I was on my knees at Voldemort's feet as his dark magic burned its way into my skin, my veins.

     That is another example of Time's tricks — the day I received my Mark.

     It had been decided and announced at the Death Eater meeting on the fifth of July, exactly one month after my birthday. Father, having failed spectacularly at his mission to retrieve the prophecy, had been sent to Azkaban. Voldemort had not given my mother any warning about my upcoming task, but simply decreed it, serenely, midway through the meeting.

     They were taken by surprise. Mother had no chance to protest. I don't think she would have, anyway. When I looked over at her, she was staring at the table and refusing to meet my eyes. Mother likes her silence. She seems to process most of her thoughts and emotions better in it, and has taught me likewise. Everything that came next happened very quickly.

     Voldemort made everybody leave the room. Within seconds the chairs were emptied, and it was just me and him. He bade me come forth, and I did. My steps felt heavy and slow, like walking through a marsh. I don't know what I was thinking then. I may have experienced something akin to fear. I'd thought he wanted to kill me. But that was silly, because first, he needed me to fail. At least that's how I rationalised it in my head.