The Tower at Malfoy Manor
The Malfoy boy had been home for summer recess a few days when he was summoned to his father's study. Though his father was fastidious, long-winded, and often fanatical, he was generally a fair man. The boy did not fear the summons, but did have a vague suspicion that the meeting might be tedious.
To his surprise, his father ushered him out of the study directly upon his arrival and hurried him along to the fourth floor corridor, the least used part of Malfoy Manor. When they reached a long-discarded marble bust of Salazar Slytherin (of which the young Malfoy had been afraid in his childhood as the nose of the statue had crumpled away), the elder Malfoy whispered an incantation. With neither sound nor screech, the bust swiveled on its dais to reveal a very short door and a staircase rising beyond.
"To you, my son, I now bequeath The Tower of Malfoy Manor. I have opened it for the last time, and once you step through, using whatever word or phrase you choose, the entry will seal behind you. Don't forget your word or phrase once inside, as only it will open the door. No one will disturb you in your private sanctuary," he said, and proudly raised his arm to indicate his son should step through.
"What am I to do with myself in a Tower?" the boy asked.
"Oh, you'll find plenty of amusements. There are books, magazines—I even left a broomstick up there, but I caution you not to fly out the window. The Tower is for practicing the Dark Arts in secret. You wouldn't want to draw attention to yourself with a silly indiscretion—those Ministry fools are everywhere! What are you waiting for?"
"I must think of a proper secret word—"
" Don't waste so much effort. Anything at all that you can remember will do, and you can always change it once you're on the inside by placing your hand across old Slytherin's nose."
"But—he's out here…"
"He'll be inside there as well. Go on now, boy. The Dark Arts await!"
Young Malfoy did as instructed, using the phrase Secret Word to lock the entrance behind him. He knew it was a flavorless attempt, but he intended to change it when a more satisfactory word came to him.
Just as his father had promised, the Tower was stocked with everything a young wizard could want. Besides the stack of magazines, several books, and broomstick, there was an abundance of space. There was also a single open window that allowed views of the valley, lake, and plentiful woods surrounding the Manor. Flying out the window on the broomstick was tempting, but flying around the inside of the Tower, with its fifty odd feet of height and exposed beams was even better.
After a few days he tired of flying up and around the tower, however. He had glanced at the books—all dedicated to the Dark Arts, and all out of date (did anyone really use zombie companions for pub crawls anymore?). The stack of magazines were back issues of Bewitched. Young Malfoy spent an entire morning flipping through the magazine, but even he had to admit that the novelty of a naked witch standing beside a broomstick, gripping a broomstick, stroking a broomstick, licking a broomstick, and sitting astride a broomstick soon grew thin.
He would begin his work on the Dark Arts soon, as promised.
The next day, Malfoy mounted his broom and flew to the apex of the dome of the tower, where eight beams radiated outward from the center.
He was inspired.
He raised his wand to the ceiling, "Flavus pigmentosum!"
"Yes!" he shouted as his wand emitted a steady stream of yellow paint, which he fashioned into a large sun with eight rays extending from the center along the support beams.
The painted sun was a great improvement to the gloom of the tower, and Malfoy knew when it was finished that he could not leave the rest of the ceiling and walls an uninspiring, flat grey.
"Purpura pigmentosum!"
For the remainder of the morning, he painted purple flowers, blue paisley curlicues, a few more yellow suns, and green vinery to lend cohesiveness to his Artistry. Within a week, every inch of the ceiling and wall was covered, and he smirked that if that git Michelangelo had had a broomstick, the Sistine Chapel's ceiling could have been painted in mere weeks.
He would not have the luxury to sit back and enjoy his Art for several days, however, as Crabbe and Goyle were scheduled to visit for a long weekend. The Tower was his private sanctuary—there was not even a question that the Tower would remain a secret. Rather than allow the savages entry to his Dark Arts sanctuary, he took the stack of Bewitched magazines down with him, knowing that they would more than satisfy the dullards' salacious curiosity for a few days.
On the last afternoon of their stay, the boys were on the grounds playing with broomsticks and quidditch balls. Crabbe, who was supposedly playing keeper, kept losing focus, looking about at the splendor that was Malfoy Manor instead.
"Hey, Malfoy! What's that turret-like thing with the little window used for?"
"What nonsense are you talking, Crabbe?"
"Over there—the dark, creepy looking bit of the house. Looks like it doesn't belong. What's it for?"
"How should I know? Only women go in there. You know, women's work…"
"Oh, like a store house?" Goyle said, dropping the quaffle. "What they do in there? My mum has a room to dry herbs and flowers and um…lettuce and stuff."
"Do women dry lettuce?" Crabbe asked, hovering on his broomstick. "Is that how they make those little tree-like things they stick on your plates at fancy dinner?"
"It's called a garnish, you fat slobs, and its usually parsley or some other herb," Malfoy said and hit Crabbe with the quidditch bat.
Malfoy was not sorry to see them leave that evening, but their ridiculous conversation had finally given him an idea for a secret word, which he used the next morning while squeamishly holding his hand over Slytherin's disintegrating marble nose.
He had been warned that he would be called to dinner a bit earlier tonight, as his father had some Lord Something-or-other visiting. As the Tower was covered in his Artistic masterpiece, and there was no part he wanted to destroy or paint over, he instead used the morning to conjure a swing to hang from two long ropes that attached at the ceiling apex.
Malfoy spent the rest of the lazy afternoon swinging back and forth in the joyful presence of his masterpiece. He knew the afternoon was growing longer when he could no longer see the sun through the window, even when he pumped his legs for the highest trajectory. In resignation, he let his head hang back, and was rewarded with a breeze ruffling through his silver blonde hair. The breeze was such a sensual caress in the stuffy Tower in midsummer, that with every sensation he giggled a little.
Soon he could feel his hair swishing halfway down his back. He leaned back farther and laughed aloud as the breeze riffled through his long curling locks. After little more than an hour of swinging and laughing, his hair was long enough to brush the floor, then began to pool. He did not know how he had produced such frivolous magic, but would wonder later if it was the frivolity itself that was responsible.
When his hair created a wide pool of silver on the floor, he heard his father's voice through the intercom calling him down to dinner.
Malfoy leapt off the swing, and was immediately sorry when his bundle of hair was caught on one of the ropes, tethering him to the swing. He couldn't reach the bookshelf, but before panic set in, his steady mind took over. "Accio Latin Dictionary!"
A small bit of panic swept through him as he flipped through the dictionary. Although his father had said no one could open the door without his secret word, he somehow doubted that a powerful wizard such as his father would be prevented from entering if he did not show up to dinner with the all-important Lord. And he certainly couldn't go with twelve feet of hair—he was barely able to lift his head.
"Incisuto et capillus!" he said and held his wand at the nape of his neck to prevent the spell from cutting off all of his hair, which might have been hard to explain.
The hair was shorn perfectly, the weight released from his head and neck. Malfoy looked at the great pile of silver strands on the floor, then at his Latin dictionary, and wondered that he had never thought to create his own spells before! So, Lord Uppity-Up was in the Dining Room waiting…perhaps he would create something impressive, and make all that hair disappear at the same time.
Malfoy flipped through the dictionary and picked words that matched his desire for a silver sword and matching scabbard. But when he pronounced the incantation, although the hair disappeared, he had not created a sword. Instead, he had a silver tipped walking stick with an elaborate silver handle. Very well.
He grabbed the walking stick and brushed his palm against the nape of his neck a last time, glad to have rid himself of the excess, yet sad to have lost such a glorious mane. He vowed then that when he grew up and became Lord of Malfoy Manor (either by killing his parents, or sending them abroad, whichever method was simpler, but it had to be done…), he would sport a glorious mane of silver hair.
He strode to the door, tapping his silver walking stick. His father's voice, now with a warning undertone, came through the intercom again. "Lucius, we are waiting!"
"I am on my way, sir," he said and stepped up to the ruined marble bust. Secret lettuce, secret lettuce…hemumbled for a moment, then snapped his fingers.
"Rapunzel!"
Salazar slithered away on his dais, and young Lucius Malfoy strode out, walking stick clacking, to meet Lord Voldemort at last.