Who: Anastasia & @slipperyfriend
Where: Malfoy Manor library, 2am
Three days now she had resided at the manor. Three days of Malfoy nonsense, with a sinking pit in her stomach that this was for the rest of her life. She had a feeling that neither Malfoy parent approved of her too much - which made her wonder precisely what her father had offered for her hand. It must’ve been a substantial amount paid in dowry, and inevitably, something that Lucius Malfoy wanted. Money wasn’t everything, power was everything - she had learned that a long time ago. What alliances had Antonin and Alina pledged to the Malfoys for them to accept her as a bride, when she clearly wasn’t their preferred choice.
Anastasia was not one to take a challenge lying down, and so if she were to be a Malfoy bride, she was determined to understand their way of life and what made them them. Part of that started with exploring her new home (in her dressing gown, it was 2am after all), with a flask of vodka in one hand and her light illuminating the quiet corridors. Night-time felt like she was at less risk of encountering the other occupants of the manor.
Entering the library, Ana closed the doors behind her as quietly as she could before turning on the lights. Taking another swig from her flask, Anastasia wandered the aisles. “Elves, can I have assistances please?” Anastasia called out, expecting a house elf to snap into the aisles like Gleb did at home. There was something that sounded like movement, so Anastasia tried calling out again. “Elves? You don’t have to hide from me,” she frowned. There were elves, she knew there was - so where precisely were they?
Rounding a corner, Anastasia ran full smack into Lucius Malfoy. “Mr Malfoy!” She exclaimed, reaching down to check that her dressing gown remained fully tightened. The last thing she needed was for her future father-in-law to see what lay beneath the dressing gown. “Why were you in the library in the dark?”
In the grand scheme of things, there were a great many things in his life to be troubled about; the ever increasing population of peacocks on the ground, his son being co-opted by his wife’s sister to what ends he could only imagine would soon come to light but almost certainly had something to do with jealousy, the long and tedious selection and interview process that had gone into finding a suitable bride for his aging bachelor of a son, the consequent decision that had let a Russian into his home like a gateway drug to even more worrying company with an arsenal of bathtub brewed turnip-juice and Eastern-European accents, which small business deserved his and Narcissa’s censure next, that nuisance of a farmer on their southern border who thought allowing the government to buy back his land for roading was a good enough reason to play hardball with their lawyers, his wife, his son, the Russian girl stumbling around his hallways and talking to ghosts or elves or whatever other sprites that Dolohov had taught his children to believe in, his wife, his wife’s family, the wrinkles that Narcissa had dutifully informed him he should get taken care of with one of those passive aggressive little tuts of her tongue while dabbing some snake-oil to his skin, his wife’s friends, the concerning taste of bitter almonds that he was certain had been present in his morning’s tea, just how well the rose bushes were flourishing this year, the appalling track record that had sprung up from the Ministry’s secretary pool the moment they stepped into his office, the natural predisposition for excellent night vision that came from a genetic makeup based in countries that spent half their year in almost complete darkness, the diabolical state of the current Ministry of Magic and Fudge’s horrific taste in both headwear and policy, whatever it was that Rodolphus was planning next, the state of the club’s membership, whatever it was that Rabastan was planning next, and, perhaps the most pressing of all his worries — Dedalus Diggle’s peculiarly well-shaped head and how well-suited it was for hats.
Sleep was but a dream, on nights such as these, when even staring broodingly out of the bay windows in his library, out into the moonlit grounds and watching the invasive species currently taking over the entire state strut majestically through the gardens couldn’t calm his thoughts. What he didn’t need, as he stared desolately out into the moonlight, was another invasive species assaulting him in his own home.
“There are some things that I keep to myself,” he replied after a moment, steadying a hand on her shoulder as if this drunken stranger in his home might try to start a brawl or set fire to something or worse, cry near him. What had they been thinking? A Dolohov. “That are private,” he added for emphasis, turning his head to stare back out the window with the same, distant stare. This was supposed to be his year. An uneasy silence followed, lingering overly long before he seemed to become aware of it and asked, as if he hadn’t remotely heard her own question only moments before, “Why are you in the library in the dark?”
