The Malfoy Project

𝟑𝟐 - 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚'𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦

     The Malfoys' letter comes the very next morning, less of an invitation and more of an instructional pamphlet. It will be tonight. A dinner, beginning at seven o'clock sharp. I am not to be late. Excluding the Malfoys, there will be four other people in attendance: Edmund Hemingway, a publisher who has published works from the likes of Miranda Goshawk, Bathilda Bagshot, and, albeit less credibly, Sybil Trelawney; Alaric Selwyn, the family's criminal lawyer; Duncan Bulstrode, their contract lawyer; and finally — I had to do a double take — Magnus Opius, the manager of Flourish and Blotts, which windows permanently showcase the books of Britain's most esteemed and celebrated authors. Lastly, I am to be dressed my best if I want to make a good impression. It is not a request.

     This command sends me into a frantic raid through my closet. My Yule Ball dress had been burnt to a crisp during the war and there hadn't been a chance to pop by the dress shop in Hogsmeade, not that I had many Galleons left to spare anyway.

     I pull out my party dress from the trunk and hold it up to the mirror that stands between my bed and Hannah's. The dress reaches halfway down my thighs with a slit that goes up nearly all the way to my bum, and the bright baby blue now seems terribly juvenile and immature in contrast to the Manor's luxurious interior. I try — and fail — to imagine myself in it weaving through the robes of the wizarding world's elite.

     And then there was the matter of ribbon.

     I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and take it off. Immediately, my neck begins to throb. The discolouration still has not gone away. In fact, puddles of yellow have started to leak into the purple.

     I stretch for my wand on the bed and touch it to the bruise, whispering, "Episkey." Nothing happens. I clear my throat, adjust my stance, and say the spell once more. Nothing.

     "Brackium Emendo." Still, nothing. Of course a spell to heal broken bones makes no difference to a flesh wound like mine. I try one for minor cuts, another for aches and sprains, and as a last-ditch effort, the Vulnera Sanentur incantation, but they only take away the pain for a few seconds before the muscles beneath start to pulsate again and the colours remain as vivid as ever.

     The backs of my eyes and the tip of my nose begin to sting. I rub my finger over it vigorously. No need for tears. This can be fixed. Cedric used to tell me there is always a mend for everything. I craved his presence now. He would have known what to do — he always healed all the nicks and bruises I'd get after Quidditch or if I had accidentally scraped myself. He would lay a heavy, comforting hand on my forearm, point his wand to the wound, and we would watch as my skin magically heals itself. There, he would say. There.

     "I wish you were here," I say out loud, forcing back the beginnings of a sob. I wind the ribbon back around my neck once more because I cannot bear to look at it any longer and pick the dress back up. I guess I will just have to settle on looking like a rather promiscuous Alice from the fairytale.

༻❁༺

     The sun slants at a lazy forty-five degree angle, blaring its light on my back as I go through the wrought iron gate, which makes a face at me as I pass. I make one right back.

     It feels strange to be walking up this path without the anchoring weight of the recorder and satchel of film reels. I don't even have my usual khaki coat on, opting for a snow-white one to go with my dress. The stitched-up slit strains against my thigh and I hope to Helga it doesn't rip halfway through the night.