The Malfoy Project

𝟒𝟖 - 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫

     What is supposed to be one night at the Montagues becomes two, becomes three. At Theron's guileless urging and Adriana's lush insistence, I agree to stay four more days than I had intended. They feel sorry they can't accommodate me for Christmas. Relatives are visiting and they don't introduce 'girlfriends'. Next year, they say. When Monty and you are properly engaged.

     The days are the same. Breakfast is at ten in the morning, after which we will move to the drawing room for a round or two of Wizard's Chess. Theron, in particular, has a huge fondness for the game. "Keeps the mind sharp", he says, tapping the side of his skull. I lose against him, every time. "Don't fret, dear. What matters is that we're playing the same side in the bigger game."

     Because I am now a Montague. Because I am on their team. The winning team.

     After lunch, Monty will head for their indoor gym, where he will coop himself up for the better part of the day, and I will explore the library. While much smaller than the Malfoys', the variety far out-rivalled theirs. For one thing, there is an abundance of Muggle books: from classical works like Homer's Odyssey to modern romance novels by the likes of Nicholas Sparks and Danielle Steel. Whatever you fancy reading, you will find it in the Montague's library.

     It is in these precious pockets of time that I am able to relax — truly relax. The reading chairs are plush and cosy, and the musty scent of worn parchment swirls the room, trapped in by the shut windows. And there I remain, until the sun dips prematurely over the horizon and early dusk settles.

     As if on cue, the elves will emerge from their doors, snapping their fingers to light the candles. The Christmas tree, warmed from the heat, fills the place with the sharp, fresh scent of pine.

     It reminds me of Draco.

     At night, we retire, tired and giddy from the cold air and colourful lights, to our room. Monty will snatch me, bring me close to him, press his lips against mine. We then stumble, lip-locked, back onto the bed, where he will have me. Once, twice. Three times on the third day, almost poetically.

     When we're done, he will turn on his side like a dragon mid-slumber, and sleep. It is then, secretly, I allow myself my little indulgence.

     He comes always with warm arms. His clothes bring the sharp, muted scent of green pine; captured fragments of the air in the Montague house. Eyes, clear as morning dewdrops, searching for me. And always, always, they find me.

     On the second night, he recites poems into my hair, massaging my shoulder where the joint had been dislodged. He hums against my temple, the low tones reverberating within me like a gentle, rolling tide.

     On the third and last night, he tells me he loves me.

     It is not new, or surprising, or stilted. It comes naturally, like hunger, or thirst. And I eat it, swallow it, drink it. Let it melt and spread within me like hot chocolate at Hagrid's hut.

     He says it with my name. Gabriella. The sound is gold on his tongue: yellow and gilded and molten. Sunflowers in the field. White glare of summer.

     And under its shade, we rest.

     There is no Monty, no book, no Hannah, no school, no Rita, no newspapers, no death.

     Nothing but us and the big blue sky, and years of open space and fresh air and new lives ahead of us.

     We are free.

༻❁༺