𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐷𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑂 𝑀𝐴𝐿𝐹𝑂𝑌

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖 - 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭

╭────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────╮

𝐎

August 20th, 1996

Dear Margot,

I debated with myself over which museum I would visit today. I hadn't been to the British Museum since the last time we went together – one full year that is. I had missed it a lot and after all, it was our annual ritual. In the end, the National Gallery of London won me over. Not only did I not want to miss the Van Gogh exhibition (I heard Starry Night would only stay in London for a few months) but it was also a safer choice. I hope you don't mind. 

Now, thinking about it, I would be better off at the British Museum after all.

I had never expected to see someone like Draco Malfoy in a muggle museum. When I first saw him, I completely lost it.

Typically, Draco Malfoy is nothing more or less than the epitome of bullying. In the two years I have been friends with Harry, Hermione, Ron and Neville, he has never missed a chance to insult, offend, hex or curse. The only reason I ever escaped this was because of the green I wore on my back.

He was just the same today; insulting and muggle-hating – and you know I have a very low tolerance for those people. I am already regretting even the slightest effort I gave to reason with him. People like him don't feel anything when looking at Van Gogh.

I know, what you would say, Margot: Ophelia Blackthorn, why would you even try? I know, I know...

But I smelled the smoke in his breath as he said his 'hello', I noticed the red, dark circles around his bloodshot eyes. His hair was combed but somewhat not in order, his black shirt had its top buttons undone. Even as he said his insults, you could see the fatigue, the exhaustion, the desperation to connect with someone, anyone.

Again, Margot, I know what you'd think: Ophelia Blackthorn, do not believe in people. Do not think the best of them. I have lived by this rule all my life and I didn't intend to break this today just because some Malfoy seemed sad.

I fled the museum and was determined to not even think twice...

Only when I walked in the fresh, summer air and paused by the entrance for a moment, ready to put my notebook back in my bag and play some music on my cassette player for my walk around London, I noticed black-dressed Malfoy stepping outside as well.

"Don't tell me you're following me because, make no mistake, I will vomit and then summon the Aurors on you," I said quickly.

"Don't flatter yourself. I just wanted a smoke," he said.

I hated it when people evoked some kind of mushy feeling in you. That denial, that rejection, when you know you're at least one of the reasons the other person is there; it makes you feel small; as if you have the biggest idea about yourself. You can smell the lie from a mile away but you have no way of proving it, so in the end, it is you that is the lunatic.

Malfoy took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled a cig with his mouth.

"You can't smoke here," I noted.

"It's an open space!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, but you'll have to put it out somewhere, and I won't let you do that on those beautiful columns. There is an ashtray installed on the street," I said.

And so we walked across the marble balcony and to the right staircase. A rather narrow staircase. It was the closest distance we had reached, and only now did I realize that he was a real and live person. When you see him in school, he is a distant ghost. He never touches a soul, if it's not to hit or punch. That myth was debunked when my shoulder brushed against his arm in an easy invasion of space. I should have felt uncomfortable and, knowing me, I might have even done something about it.