𝐵𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 | 𝒟.𝑀.

0 | ﴾ Prologue ﴿

Rain again; how blasted predictable.

It had been a slick, slimy, soggy sort of summer, the likes of which had felt interminably feverish and eternal to Draco Lucius Malfoy - a spindly, pale boy who preferred the cold, but certainly not a constant, bone-soaking, monstrosity of an environmental deluge. 

There is nothing more frustrating than ruining a good pair of Oxford's in mucosal muck.

Yes, a good dry cold would do just splendidly now that autumn had reared it's leafy head, however such a delight had apparently bypassed the seasonal docket.

It seemed that nothing had fully dried for months within the insidious superstructure known to the snoopy public as the prestigious Malfoy Manor, and this reality was only aggravated by widespread, festering rot which had been already worsening on the premises for decades. 

The drapes now clung to their antediluvian wooden poles for dear life; suddenly twice as weighty, they were causing a noticeable bowing in the centre of the rods, which meant daring to open them for but a sprig of freshness risked an undesirable collapse. 

So it was, the darkness had won.

Compendiums occupying the atheneum were thoroughly spotted with obsidian freckles of mildew, the china had to be wiped down constantly for fear of what invisible antagonists might be brewing on the surface of the porcelain, and seeing as the sunshine had taken itself off on a permanent vacation, all manner of pricey attire simply refused to parch.

The stench was positively revolting, and it was a true shame. 

Laundering anything was on par with tossing one's trousers onto the washboard and scrubbing them clean with foul dog water. If any clothing did miraculously manage to dry out entirely, it was tempting not to wash it for at least a full moon in dread.

Worst of all, sleep was wholly impossible under such conditions. 

It was not that unusual to awake in a frightening start to a gunshot crack slicing through the air, characterized by expanding and contracting furniture which chose to protest against the vile atmosphere in the only way possible for inanimate objects. 

Why, it was a miracle that his finger pads hadn't evolved into prunes from mere exposure to the swampy oxygen within his depressing private suite. 

Typically, Draco would find that rain brought with it peace and calm, a cleansing sensation, however too much of anything stands to result in a souring experience, and a disdain towards a once celebrated concept.

Of course the damp is a hardy characteristic of the United Kingdom and it's multifaceted territories, however this particular relentless bout of thunderstorms had registered as an ominous forewarning of certain decay to come.

Any time such a furious waterlogging occurs, best to expect happening upon a secret patch of spreading mold many months later, likely when it is already too late. By then, one has inhaled enough spores to secure a pathological illness, and all along, it was right there but an inch away, hiding itself within the walls of the homestead...

This was the analogy Draco had come to repeatedly narrate in his head each time he considered how unprepared the wizarding world was for the reappearance of the dark lord, who much like a concealed cancer within the system, had been radiating outwards without detection, aiming for a stage four diagnosis upon a perfectly timed discovery.

Reiterating this mortifying nightmare, he'd flattened his platinum locks firmly against the scratched glass pane of an aperture within the sticky Hogwarts Express, watching in isolation as the hyper-saturated, verdant landscape slid by.