The Malfoy Project

𝟐𝟑 - 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬

     I wake to the pattering of rain. We had made the mistake of cracking open the windows last night in an attempt to promote better air circulation. Now the cold air seeping through the crescent of space beneath the panes floods the room with an icy chill.

     Four alarm clocks begin to chime one after the other. "Fuck," I groan, dragging the covers over my head. Outside my burrito of darkness and warmth comes the sound of shuffling and creaking beds and muffled voices.

     "Holy Helga, I'm still hungover."

     "The party was literally two days ago. Ains, it's seven-oh-five already!"

     I ignore Susan. Thump! something soft and solid hits my back. I kick the pillow away and throw down the sheets. A blast of cold air immediately stings my face. "We left the windows open," I mumble.

     "Hm?" says Susan absentmindedly. "Anyway, reckon we'll have something special for breakfast today? You know, to celebrate Slytherin's win."

     "Why would McGonagall ever celebrate Slytherin's win?" Hannah retorts. "Remember that nasty foul in her Seventh Year that left her with broken ribs and concussion? According to Ron, she still won't stop going on about it even today!"

     I wink open a bleary eye to see Susan shrugging. "Ains did a brilliant job of reporting the match, though. Simple, succinct, emotional," she pricks the air with her thumb and pointer. "I can't wait to see the look on everybody's faces when they read the headlines!" She beams at me.

     I limply wave her compliment away. "It's about time Malfoy got some positive recognition anyway."

  ༻❁༺

     They did indeed talk about the match. Students across all houses huddled together to read about Slytherin's win - or Gryffindor's defeat, depending on how you look at it.

     The possibility that Gryffindor might not win the House Cup did nothing to dampen anyone's mood. Hermione looked exceptionally pleased with the positive reception, even sending me a big double-armed wave from the Gryffindor table. 

     I'm halfway through my stack of pumpkin pancakes when a flurry of owls burst through the rafters, their feathers slick and shiny from the rain as they glide over our heads. They expertly release their claws, dropping mail of all sorts into our hands; amongst them, copies of The Daily Prophet. I hastily unbind the twine around mine and flatten out the damp roll.

     My heart stops.

     The chatter around me distorts into a piercing sound that rattled in my skull. The room begins to spin like I've just used a Time Turner, except when it stops, I am still in the same Great Hall on the same Monday morning with the same plate of half-eaten pancakes and the same newspaper in front of me.

     "Ains? Ains, what's wrong?" Hannah's voice warbles in my subconscious, but when I look up, I barely see her. My head twists around to table at the other side of the room.

     Draco is staring at his own copy of The Prophet, lips slightly parted as his eyes sweep across the page. He flips it open and sees what is printed on the other side, sees his photograph.

     And so does everyone else.

     Hushed murmuring ripples across the dining hall. They begin to point. Slytherin's big win had already been forgotten as their gazes alternate between the paper and Draco and the paper again.  

     "Draco..." My cracked whisper doesn't make it across the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables, but as if he could hear me, Draco looks up, his eyes clouded with confusion and betrayal as they meet mine.