The Malfoy Project

𝟏𝟗 - 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

     The week flies by like dust in the wind. Monday, The Hogwarts Digest sits by the entrance of each Common Room. MADAM ROSMERTA LEAVES THE THREE BROOMSTICKS, TITUBA COREY TO TAKE OVER, shouts the headlines.

     At breakfast, commotion; chaos. Madam Rosmerta is actually leaving? Some say for a Muggle man! Who in Merlin's name is Tituba Corey, and more importantly, will she give us pasties on the house like Rosmerta had?

     By Wednesday, this news is left in the dust. Eighth Years huddle in study areas, the library, the Great Hall, hunched over parchment with only the sound of scribbling quills and turning pages filling the air.

     "If you want to make anything of yourselves, you will do well to ensure you absolutely, positively do not fail your Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s," Professor Vector squawks, flapping her lanky arms at us. I look down at the complicated equations and wonder what use could I possibly have of knowing the magical properties of the number seven.

     Thursday forces me to sit through a Quidditch practice - 'Thursday' meaning Hermione. "It's Gryffindor against Slytherin next week," she insists when I groaned in complaint. "It's the most important match of the year!" Of course it is.

     Quidditch practices are dull affairs to spectate, or perhaps they simply paled in comparison to my extremely riveting side project. I sit on the stands, bored out of my mind. Harry and Montague bark orders, bats swing at Bludgers, the Quaffle sails through the hoops. Next to me, my quill loops its nib across the parchment, white plume sagging in commiseration. 

     During half-time, Vaisey gets into a dispute with Ritchie Coote. Coote shoves Vaisey, Vaisey spits at his feet. Coote squares up, Vaisey swings and misses. Yawn. Just then, something catches my eye: a blob of white, almost like snow against the greenness of the pitch.

     Draco Malfoy hangs at the back of the Slytherin team, looking twice as bored as I am. He winces suddenly and his left hand clutches his right rib. Is he not taking the droughts Pomfrey had given him? I watch as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver flask no bigger than a playing card, kisses it to his lips, screws back the cap, and returns it to the folds of his robe.

     Bloody hell. Is that Pomfrey's pain tonic or something else? "Draco Malfoy seems to be drinking something during practice," I say to my quill. "Might be alcohol. I think it's alcohol." It writes this down obediently.

     They've finally decide to intervene in the fight. Harry holds back Coote and Montague, Vaisey. Ginny is now in a verbal volley with Urquhart; she seems to be winning. I ignore all this, zooming in on Draco. 

     It can't have been Pomfrey's drought. She will never put it in a flask like that, the metal would affect the concoction. 

     Draco's eyes drift away from the ruckus. It sweeps the stands, starting from the opposite end and roving the full semi-circle before landing on me.

     I would have ducked, but there is nothing to hide behind. I freeze. He holds my gaze for a moment. His irises were so light that, through the bolts of blinding sun, they looked empty. Heat creeps into my cheeks. But if he knows I've seen him drink whatever it is in that flask, he doesn't show it. His face is neutral as he looks away, as if I'm not there at all.

     I clear my throat and turn to my quill. "Scratch that."

༻❁༺

     I see Draco again at the Manor, or rather, a glimpse of him. We were traversing the expanse of the third floor when a flash of blond and black disappeared into the crack of a door and snicked it shut behind.

     But Draco isn't my concern today. We're in yet another drawing room - how many drawing rooms does this house have? - and Lucius sits before me, a magnificent wraith of silver locks and gold-threaded black robes. The snake cane leans against the sofa mid-hiss, emerald eyes sizing me up like its next prey. The recorder rumbles between us. There's no tea.

     "Mr. Malfoy," I begin. "When I last spoke with your wife, she was telling me about the time she started going out with your brother, Bas."

     "I'm sure she did."

     "She also said something, about you. She said the moment this happened, you began to drift away from the group - Ronnie, Narcissa, and Bas."

     "Well, I suppose you could guess... you know, being the kind of girl Cissy was, that she was rather revered amongst the student body."

     "And what kind of girl is that?"

     "A Black." The sky is blue and the grass is green.

     "That's all?"

     His mouth opens in a half-moon, almost laughing. "The Blacks, you must understand, Gabriella, are no ordinary Wizarding folk. The status, the power, the beauty. You don't get a trio of sisters like that every generation."

     "And you thought Cissy was beautiful?"

     "As I did Bella and Ronnie."

     "But you thought Cissy was the prettiest," I press.

     He stares at me, considering. "Yes," he says after a moment.

     "And so did Bas."

     "Naturally."

     "Forgive me, Mr. Malfoy, but I'm not seeing the connection between the prestige of the Black sisters and the reason you began to distance yourself. You and Bas are Malfoys. Did Hogwarts not hold you two in equally high regard?"

     He laughs, out loud this time; a snicker. "Oh, they did. Bas and I had our fair share of fawning girls. But if Bas and I were kings, the Black sisters were goddesses. So you can see why people coveted them, yet cowered at their feet."

     "Of course. But that still doesn't explain why you stopped being their friend. Narcissa told me you started hanging out with one... Alistair Nott at the time, whom - she admitted - was of rather... unsavoury character. Why the sudden change of company? You were fine being friends with them before. Did it have anything to do with the fact that Narcissa and Bas started campaigning for their cause? A cause you didn't particularly believe in."

     "You're a very persistent girl," he observes. "Sometimes you remind me of Skeeter herself."

     I try not to let my violent disagreement show on my face. Has Lucius been interviewed by Skeeter? He has, he should know: Skeeter pulls assumptions from thin air and morphs them into reality with her acid-green Quick Quotes quill. I am only asking for the truth.

     "I would just like to know the real reason, Mr. Malfoy," I say. "Naturally."

     Lucius smiles. "Naturally." He strokes the snake's head, thumbing the point of its spindle-like fangs. Father didn't just beat us with his stick. He would do other things.

     "No, it wasn't because I disagreed with their cause. That was part of the reason, yes, but not entirely. Like I said, everyone either wanted to be the Black sisters, or be with them."

     My mind hurtles back through time, rifling through words spoken and stories shared. I found Father to have been slightly fonder of Bas than I, so this felt like something I one-upped him in. I stood in the permanence of Bas's shadow. I wanted to give Cissy the rose myself.

     "Bas was with Cissy," an inhalation catches in my throat. "And you wanted what Bas had. You wanted Cissy."

     Lucius wraps his fingers around the snake, creating blinds over its eyes as if they held some secret he doesn't want me to see. "And you can guess by now the Malfoys are not used to being denied what they want."

     "Naturally," I say.

     His grey eyes lock onto mine and his smile curls wider. "Naturally."

     I flick my gaze to the spinning recorder. He takes my hint, breathes in deeply, and begins to speak.