The Malfoy Project

𝟖 - 𝐈𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞, 𝐄𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞

     I lie with Monty on the Quidditch pitch. He rests his arms behind his head, and mine on my stomach made slightly round from the peaches and cookies I nicked from the kitchen. The moon, nailed to the star-spangled sky, watches us back. Cheese, I think. It's definitely made of cheese.

     "And they've been... welcoming?" asks Monty.

     "Incredibly," I say. "So polite. Not at all like how the papers describe them."

     "But you said Draco hasn't spoken to you."

     "Yet," I add. "But he will. He has to! This book is going to be huge. Might even restore some dignity back to the Malfoy name."

     "Maybe I could put in a word for you, since I'm Captain and all."

     My downturned palms swipe through the grass absentmindedly, feeling the softness of the blades between my fingers as I consider Monty's suggestion.

     Once, in Fifth Year, when Monty had been cajoled into joining the Inquisitorial Squad by Dolores Umbridge, Fred and George Weasley had thoughtlessly shoved him head-first into the Vanishing Cabinet in retaliation. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be a harmless prank proved disastrous for Monty, for he has never been quite the same after that.

     He had emerged in an inexplicably disoriented state for weeks afterwards, and while he has mostly recovered, his moods remain erratic; a whip of zapping electricity that could either light up the room or snap like fire against your back, calm tonight but a raging maelstrom tomorrow - you will never know which.

     "It's alright, I think I can handle Draco for now," I smile. "But thank you, Monty. You have no idea how much this project means to me."

     "I do, actually," he says, rolling over to look at me. The moon's opalescent blades chisel his nose and cheekbones like the Carrara marble busts in Malfoy Manor, deepening his eyes and grazing over his lips with its pearly shine. "Can I tell you something, Ains?"

     "Of course."

     "It was me."

     "What was?"

     "The job. Rita. The Daily Prophet."

     In the distance, the Black Lake sloshes lazily against the banks. I blink, trying to comprehend what Monty is telling me. "You mean... you got me this job? But how?"

     "My dad knows the editor at The Prophet," he bubbles eagerly. "Barnabas Cuffe, he's an old friend. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine they were planning to do the book on the Malfoys, and I might have floated your name up several times, sprinkled it into conversations and such. Rita wrote to me, asked me about you. I told her you write for the Hogwarts Digest and are really, really good at what you do. I mean, you are. I've read every single one of your articles."

     I can't explain what I feel. A love bomb, exploding within me and filling my lungs and stomach with pink glitter and confetti. Every tiny blood cell in my body, jumping for joy. It all erupts into a smile that takes over my entire face, disappearing my eyes and scrunching my nose.

     With a small, strangled squeal, I leap onto Monty, throwing him back down onto the grass. "Oh, Monty! I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you." Each declaration is accompanied by a peck on his face. Forehead, right cheek, left cheek. Lips.

     He wraps arms, taut and hewn from training, around me. "And I love you, Ainsley. But we're still on for Hogsmeade tomorrow evening, right?"

     "Wouldn't miss it for the world," I giggle, rolling off him. My back touches the ground and I feel like I have been reborn. The air seems fresher, the sky clearer, the moon bigger. The Black Lake sloshes even louder. I feel superhuman.

     A pleasant silence befalls us once more. His hand finds mine in the small space between us and squeezes it. "I'm counting on you, Ains," he says.

     "Have I ever disappointed you?" I challenge smugly. His chest trembles with laughter, the sound like a mugful of Hagrid's hot chocolate, warm and full-bodied. "No, you haven't.

     "Of course I haven't. I'm Gabriella fucking Ainsley."

     Hot chocolate again, and another squeeze of my hand. "Yes," says Monty. "Yes, you are."

༻⚜️༺

     There are two people on the Quidditch field. In the darkness, they look like shadows cast from overhead clouds. Except there are no clouds tonight. Except shadows do not have arms that reach out and point to the moon, they do not have laughter, and they most certainly do not kiss.

     I groan inwardly, clenching the handle of my broom harder. It's just my luck that on the very night I want to practice, the field is occupied by an idiotic couple who had thought it funny to sneak from their dorms for a secret rendezvous date or whatever the fuck they think that is.

     A lingering ache flares in my ribs, pushing against the bones and dancing up my chest. I wince and try to steady my breaths. The handle of the metal trunk pulls down the inside of my knuckles. Was it that Quaffles and Bludgers grew larger at night? Perhaps the Snitch had inflated itself in an attempt to taunt me.

     Inhale, exhale.

     A bottle of Pomfrey's draught juts against my thigh through my pocket, but I refuse to take it. Reliance breeds weakness. The bristles rustle against the cement as I drive the broom further into the ground, like an explorer staking their flag onto new ground, or some family figurehead plunging a carving knife into the Christmas ham.

     Inhale, exhale.

     Laughter from the two shadows again. I can't make out who they are, but the wind carries the jingle of their voices towards me and I feel a torrid sense of shame, like I'm not supposed to be here.

     Well, I'm not. But last Friday, while in the hospital wing, a letter had come from my parents. It was nothing special, just the usual drivel on how they hope I'm doing well and that everything has been going fine.

     But reading it from the starched sheets of the infirmary bed, I couldn't bring myself to write them back. That letter sparked something within me, and it's neither motivation nor hope. It is exhaustion. Exhaustion of being left behind in a decade-long, two-person race with Potter, exhaustion of constantly seeing everyone's faces as they stare me down in the hallways, exhaustion of pretending I'm better than I feel. Better than I am.

     Today, an owl had carried a second letter from them. Father insists I speak with that wretched Ainsley, for the good of the family. Mother hopes my Transfiguration grades haven't dropped too much. I don't understand why she would say that, but I can't say I don't understand Father's demand as well.

     They plead: Talk to her, she will help us. Help us what? Purge our sins in the form of ink on paper? Redeem our souls by allowing the world to unfold us bare as if we are not humans, but mere scraps of gossip stitched whole by a bit of leather and thread?

     If you don't do it for yourself, do it for us, said Father's angry scrawl. As if I haven't been doing everything for them since my eyes first saw light. Yes, Father. Yes, Mother; repeat until death. Now, again, yes, Father. Yes, Mother. No, not for me - I wouldn't dream of it! - but for us.

     And so, if I'm going to have to speak with Ainsley, I want to make sure I leave as little room for her to criticise me even further, because Salazar knows journalists love to do that - basting their pieces with little tidbits of their subject's flaws, trying to pass off a pigeon as a turkey.

     Which brings me here, at 11PM on a Tuesday night, standing in the darkness of the tunnel that connects the locker rooms to the pitch, with an excruciating pain burning in my flanks, lugging a trunk that holds the blasted Snitch I can never seem to catch, watching a couple rob my time for a secret practice.

     Inhale, exhale.

     Sometimes I wish I had died in the war.