The Malfoy Project

𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚘 #𝟺 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙴𝚟𝚒𝚕

     They blamed Winky for the Dark Mark. They had found her with Harry's wand, and she was promptly sacked by Crouch. Fucking idiots, all of them. How could a house elf like Winky possibly know such a spell?

     I could have come forward, corroborated Potter's story that it had not been a shrill elf's voice that had cast it but one that was so deep and guttural it could only belong to a man. But whether it was fear of my father, or simply because I disliked Potter that much, I did what any Malfoy would have done, and kept quiet.

     By the time we returned to school, the media frenzy had died down and the incident at the Quidditch World Cup was quite entirely forgotten when Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament.

     My heart sank. Before the term started, I had resolved to beat Potter at every single Quidditch match. I would win the House Cup for Slytherin this year and Potter could suck it. But now, it seemed like there was to be no more Quidditch matches for the rest of the year to accommodate the Tournament and the Yule Ball.

     "What d'you think they'd be like?" Crabbe whispered loudly behind a beefy hand.

     "What?" I hadn't been listening.

     "The Beauxbatons girls."

     "Well, they certainly won't be going after the likes of you," sniggered Goyle, flicking a cube of potato which smacked his fatter counterpart squarely on his flubbery cheek.

     They were quick to fill me in. Hogwarts was to play host to two other wizarding schools in Europe, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons.

     Beauxbatons. Millicent Bulstrode had once told me about that school, long ago. It was not an old, crumbling castle but a beautiful French chateau surrounded by majestic gardens and colossal marble fountains. The students wore robes of pale blue silk, and nearly each one possessed an otherworldly beauty, both the girls and boys.

    "Hey, Malfoy," Goyle was nudging my elbow to get my attention. "Who're you going to ask to the ball?"

     I made a face of disgust. "No one. It's a waste of time, if you ask me."

     "You're right," Crabbe nodded gravely. "We shan't go."

     I was instantly flooded with irritation. Why did they have to agree with everything I said? If they wanted to go, they could just bloody go. A whole night without those two blithering fools clinging to my side like barnacles would be much needed respite. I busied myself with the rest of my dinner, and wondered to myself what the Beauxbatons girls would be like.

     At our first Defence lesson of the year, Mad-Eye Moody taught us the Unforgivable Curses. We weren't supposed to learn it until Sixth Year, but in retrospect, I was glad for it because had we not, the Second Wizarding War might have had a very different ending.

     The lesson was particularly difficult for me. Neville was disturbed, and so was the rest of the class. But I was experiencing a different kind of discomfort. My flesh crawled as I watched the spiders squirming under Moody's wand, like there was an army of ants scurrying under my skin.

     It felt like I knew these spells, somewhere, somehow, in a different life, or some subconscious memory. The sounds that made up the words, the way the tongue rolls to speak them — it was all strangely familiar.

     Imperio. Crucio. Avada Kedavra.

     I wanted to vomit. I wanted to walk right out. But that was on the inside. Outside, I was frozen in the same state of motionlessness as I had been at the Quidditch World Cup; stupefied into silence as the terrible feeling ate its way through my stomach. When the class ended, I went straight to the boys' lavatory and locked myself in a cubicle just to catch my breath.