The Malfoy Project

𝟓 - 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲𝐬' 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫

     I've only seen pictures of it from the newspapers. There had been a period of time when it was splashed across every front page. Look, they said. Behold - this was where the Death Eaters had congregated, sat at the dining table and whispered fervently about their plan for world domination. Who they were going to murder next.

     The media names it all sorts of things. Murder House. Voldemort's Office. Den of Snakes. Palace of Sinners.

     Of all these names, Malfoys' Murder Manor is the one that stuck the most. A clever alliteration first coined by Rita, it's particularly favoured by pub gossips and young wizards challenging their friends to say it five times as fast.

     Initially, the family had been loud in their rebuke against the false accusations and embellished stories, but they never stood no chance against the public's implacable demand for more. We can't let them get away with their crimes. Leave no stone unturned, no aspect of their lives ignored. Justice, they call it, when it is curiosity they really seek to satisfy.

     The Malfoys were forced to retreat. But while Lucius and Narcissa had the capacity to disappear into the shadows, their son Draco isn't so fortunate.

     At the height of the media frenzy, he had strode into the Great Hall on the first day of Eighth Year with his head held high. He wore his isolation proudly, unspeaking and unflanked by simpering minions. Merely, he had sat by himself at the end of the Slytherin table and eaten his food in silence, a rock amidst the crashing waves of gossip.

     The audacity to show his face back here, scowled the Gryffindors.

     How is he still allowed to take his N.E.W.T.s.? Shouldn't he be banned? questioned the Ravenclaws. 

     Did you hear? He helped his parents murder a Muggle in the Murder Manor,  insisted the Hufflepuffs. Despicable!

     Even his own House mates had inched away, casting sidelong glances at him and snickering behind their palms. Gives us Slytherins a bad name, they groaned. We'll never win House cup with him on the team.

     But as with any headlining story, it had only taken a few months for interest to dwindle. Once every publication had bitten off their share of the Malfoy carcass, they moved on to their next victim and both the family and their house were promptly forgotten; left to rot in a wasteland of shame.

     Today, some laggards still might stand at the gates and snap pictures, but the grand iron bars remain closed and the grounds are blanketed by a mournful hush. Enshrouded in mystery, I was beyond excited to uncover the terrible, undiscovered secrets that lie within its walls.

     And so you can imagine my disappointment when I make my way up the driveway with my satchel around my shoulders and recorder in tow, only to discover it isn't a decrepit state house with half-crumbling roofs and stained windows. There is no thunder to herald my arrival, no creature howling in the distance.

     'Dark and foreboding' is what the Prophet had described it. In the afternoon daylight, it is anything but.

     Perfectly-manicured hedges line the path to the towering structure, behind which, I know from all the articles, lie four courts of rolling gardens and orchards; one even leads to a field where sheep and cows roam.

     The house itself is something to behold. Its marble-and-stone exterior shines grandly, the shingles on its tall turrets fend off the sun's rays with fervoured passion. An albino peacock flutters across the gravel, sunshine gleaning off its snowy feathers.