The Malfoy Project

𝟔𝟑 - 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

༻⚜༺

     I spent the nights leading up to the party projecting the scene in my head and rehearsing what I would say.

     Ainsley, let's stop being ridiculous and—

     Ainsley, this is stupid. Stop being so difficult for once—

     Ainsley, I'm sorry. But don't you think this has gone on long enough? Let's move on — no — let's go back to how we were. Please. I love you.

     And then I would imagine her response. I mean, it was Ainsley. Cheerful Ainsley who is friends with the house elves and giggles when she's drunk and laughs at unfunny things because if she could be anything in the world she would be a sunflower.

     Sweet Ainsley who reads Pablo Neruda and sees good in a family of Death Eaters and who is trapped in an abusive relationship but said she loves me.

     Beautiful Ainsley who has lost everyone including herself and yet still is ferociously and resiliently unbreakable in spirit and mirth.

     So she would say:

     You're completely right, Draco. I was being silly, ignoring you for so long.

     I'm sorry too. I was just upset about Cedric, that's all.

     I love you too.

     I even planned how she would look like — from what she was wearing down to the micro expressions on her pretty, round face.

     I decided she would be wearing her little blue dress, probably the one piece of clothing she owned that wasn't some sort of jumper or collared shirt.

     She would be frowning a little as she listened, exactly the way she does during the interviews, as if we were divulging untold secrets of the kingdom.

     Her bottom lip would be sucked in slightly, her front teeth nibbling on the fold. Her eyes would be large and brown and sad; regretful, and perhaps a little troubled by the inner turmoil she would be experiencing as I professed my sincere apologies.

     And then the next time she came over for the interviews (she would, because she wouldn't abandon us just like that), we would have put this all behind us and we would stroll to the gardens and I would listen to her talk and talk and talk and then finally, when we are safe within the confines of the four towering hedge walls, I would kiss her. Kiss her lightly and slowly and deeply and passionately because in that moment there'd be nothing else worth doing.

     She would touch her hands to my face, cupping it the way she does the flowers along the walkways of my house, and say: You're not alone, Draco. You have me.

You're not alone.

༻⚜༺

     I hadn't bothered to help with the preparations. I had offered, but it seemed everyone already had a delegated task (Vaisey and Urquhart to clear the furniture; Blaise to coordinate invitations and people matters; Pansy to procure the food). Every question of mine was rebuffed by Montague, and it was clear he didn't want me there, so I retreated back upstairs after classes.

     I must have fallen asleep because three hours later I found myself lying on top of the sheets in an empty bunk, a loud heartbeat bass thumping persistently from under my feet.

     The party was in full swing by the time I got dressed and ambled down the stairwell. The entire first floor was sunken in an inky darkness. Dark shadows of bodies —  illuminated only by strobe lights of red, blue, green, and yellow — moved about holding various things in their hands: food, cups, blunts.