The Malfoy Project

𝟗𝟕 - 𝐇𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

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     In the following weeks, I take great pains to hide my upset from Draco. I've repeated my mother's mantra to myself so many times that my inner voice has gone hoarse. Tree in a storm, tree in a storm. Tree. In. A. Storm. But it has stopped working, and I feel worse and worse as the days fly by.

     Draco senses my hurt — though not the true extent of it — and goes above and beyond to try and make up for it. I come back from lessons to little gifts on my bed: a new pot of lilac-coloured ink, a pocket version of John Keats' poems, a silver book-shaped charm that I threaded through my black silk ribbon to wear in my hair. He also goes into Honeydukes every other day for my pineapple sweets.

     It wasn't just the little knick-knacks. On one occasion, he was walking me to Potions class when I realised I'd forgotten my notebook. Unheeding my protests, he had dashed all the way back to my dorm just to retrieve it for me.

     These valiant efforts make me think back to our very first meeting. There he'd been, regal and poised in his chair, with a spine so straight you could balance a stack of books on his head. And then me: a short, overeager girl with too much wobble around her tummy, yammering away in her cheese grater voice. 

     I had been so determined to crack his armour, tear down his walls to get to the real Draco. Whatever I thought I would find, it certainly was not the Draco before me now: a shunned prince reduced to a hapless lapdog, running after me the way I used to run after Monty. If Lucius could see his son now, he would be appalled  — not that I care about what Lucius thinks; I'm just afraid I've broken Draco Malfoy somehow.

     "But that's how men should treat ladies", Hannah said when I had confided in her.

     "Yes, but this is Draco Malfoy we're talking about," I reminded her. "He's supposed to be all grand and imposing. Not quiet and passive and... I don't know..."

     "Nice?" Hannah interjected.

     I had no reply for her. I cannot deny his changed demeanour pleases me. It is the reason my housemates have stopped asking me 'why' — they can see why.

     Draco may not be the chattiest person, but when fifth-year Aaron Abrams dropped and smashed his Draught of Living Peace on the floor thirty minutes before Potions, it was Draco who made him a new one in less than twenty. 

     As an 'outsider', he prefers not to get involved in affairs of our house, but when Jasmin Hussain complained about not being able to find Middle Eastern ingredients anywhere, it was, again, Draco who sourced (and paid for) fifteen pounds of akkawi cheese to be sent in from Saudi Arabia so she could bake knafeh for all of us. 

     Not a single Hufflepuff can argue against Draco's newfound benevolence. Still, I am not used to this level of affectionate surrender. Monty had never treated me like this, even on his good days. 

     A few days ago, I caved and told Draco that while I appreciate the lovely gifts, he really needn't go out of his way. His ears went red, and he had asked, quietly: "What else am I supposed to do?" He had such a forlorn look about him that I could not find it in me to pursue the matter further. So I kissed him and said never mind, and that I loved him very much.

     But I carry the guilt with me, both mine and his. It has tainted everything I once adored: the sweets, the poems, his eyes. In these things I see our failures: our should-have-beens, the utter disaster we've created for ourselves.

     For his sake, I continue to smile at him, tell him that everything will sort itself out. I let him accompany me up to the Astronomy Tower, or to one of the empty classrooms, lugging the recorder and my satchel and writing things, where he will sit with me while I work on rewriting my drafts.