The Plight- Malfoy x Reader

The Beginnings

UG. Am I being too cliche? Oh well. This is your Princess Diaries moment.

"Paolo took this and this and turned her into.... a princess."

JK. To be honest, this chapter is more a commentary on parental neglect and low self esteem—and less about some makeover. YOU were beautiful before and after. Lucius see's it too. It's not about the clothes or the fabulous haircut...

Still Lucius is a douche who is basically telling you what to wear to be a Malfoy. If this was real life, this would be NOT okay. But as we all know, red flags in real life are lovely in ROMANCE BOOKS.

I'm personally one of those people that thinks it's okay to indulge in toxic relationships in books as long as you make sure it doesn't translate to real life.

I condone none of these relationships/dynamics in this story. I just wanted to reiterate to make sure ya'll know I don't support it.

If you won't take my word on it, then take that of our lord and savior Taylor Swift when she said,
"You're a crisis of my faith. Would've, could've, should've. If I'd only played it safe." The toxic relationships irl are NOT worth the trauma... okay enough of my self righteous ranting....
enjoy Y/N ;)

I was poked and prodded and pricked and squeezed at Twilfitt and Tattings, per Lucius's request—or more his demand.

"A haircut would do you some good as well," Lucius said as the store owner measured the lengths of my arm.

I caught his appraising gaze from behind me in the mirror and it was beginning to irritate me.

I begrudgingly took a good long look at myself.

I hated to admit that he did have a point.

The ends of my hair were split and uneven, while the texture was straw-like and frizzy. I'd resigned to simply tying it back most days to avoid trying to tame it as it was down.

When was the last time I had a haircut? I'd usually cut my hair myself in the bathroom mirror when it became unmanageable. Still, it had been long enough I couldn't recall if it'd been a year or two.

I remembered the scissors I used were always dull, resulting in a blunt uneven cut.

"Did your parents ever deign to teach you anything about self maintenance?"

I didn't respond.

Self maintenance? Beyond feeding myself and basic hygiene and taking care of my needs, I saw no use of the extra stuff.

I was by myself most of the time and the small village I'd occasionally go to was filled with farmers and milkmaids and bakers that cared little of such trivial things.

Until now, I'd never had too many instances where I was self conscious. Maybe slightly envious of my mother's hair. It was always beautiful. I'd begged her to do mine as a child, but she would brush me off with a scoff. Eventually I stopped asking.

"What's your favorite color dear?" the shopkeep asked with a warm smile, pulling me from my thoughts.

Favorite color?

No one had ever asked me.

What color did I like?

Thinking of simple colors on a palette didn't seem to invoke any hierarchy of favoritism. I tried to think of things I liked looking at.

What did I like?

The blue sky was always too vast and expansive. It made me feel small and lonely.

The yellow teakettle that sat on the stove as it boiled. It mocked me. It was too bright and vibrant. Too happy when there wasn't a reason to be.