The Malfoy Project

𝟏𝟕 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟

     Click. The tape stops.

     "That was when it all began to fall apart?" I ask, and Narcissa nods morosely. "It felt like we were in a snow globe and the world had us in its monstrous claws, pressing and pushing until we cracked; although you might think us rather detached from reality, considering there were so many people truly suffering at the time."

     "I don't think that," I say genuinely. "You and Bas did what you could. You were only fifteen and sixteen. But I do want to revisit something you said at the start. You mentioned Romeo and Juliet. I didn't know you were familiar with Muggle literature."

     She glances at the door past my shoulders, as if Lucius might be listening from the other side. "I used to read poetry a lot in my earlier years. Ronnie showed them to me: Shakespeare, Wilde, Poe, even Homer."

     "Poe?" I echo. "Edgar Allan Poe?" 

     "I've always been a fan of the macabre, and I find his words to still ring horrifyingly true in this day and age, don't you think?" 

     "Yes, they do." I say. I don't mention Draco. 

     "Romeo and Juliet just happened to be my favourite, and I think it fits our story rather well." she chuckles humourlessly.

     "Two households," I begin to recite, "both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene-"

     "- from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean," Narcissa finishes, returning my excited smile. 

     Our unspoken agreement of secrecy charges the air between our two seats. She stands after a moment, and I mirror her. "Thank you, Gabriella," she whispers as she sweeps past me. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like."

     She leaves, the door exchanges her regal femininity for Draco's rigid haughtiness, the chill that accompanied him everywhere instantly streaming into the room and fizzling out my fresh excitement.

     He appears more antsy than usual, perching himself on the edge of the seat as if ready to stand back up and leave again.

     "Do you have somewhere to be after this?" I wonder out loud, working to replace Narcissa's tape with new ones.

     "No."

     His leg shakes vigorously as he watches me. Up-down, up-down, like a demented Jack-in-the-box.

     I need to calm him down.

     "Have you tried one of these?" I wave my bag of crystallised pineapples at him. 

     An impatient shake of the head.

     "Here, take one." 

     Draco looks at the bag for a long time as if I'm offering him poisoned chocolates. I assure him it's just a bit of fruit and sugar, not even a proper sweet. "I promise it won't rot your teeth and brain."

     He scoffs. "It clearly has yours."

     A laugh explodes out of my mouth before I remember where I am and clamp my hand over it. "I like you," I stifle a giggle.

     "Why?" he says. "You don't know me."

     "No, perhaps not," I admit readily. "But I want to. That's why I'm here."

     His leg stops shaking. "You know, Draco," I carry on. "I'm not interested about what happened during the war. I mean I am, but I'm sure every witch and wizard has heard that story a hundred times over. What I'm here for is to know you. Who you are as a person. What makes Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. What makes up your soul?"

     The knee-pumping starts up again. "The Prophet wants to know every grimy detail that pulled our name to its fucking grave," he snarls. "It's the same bloody thing."

     I catch his jumping gaze and hold it. "Is it, though?"

     Draco looks like he's about to leap from the chair and launch himself right out the window; a wild animal waiting to be released from its wrongful enclosure.

     It's just as well I aced Care of Magical Creatures.

     "You can trust me, Draco," I coax. "I don't wish you or your parents harm. I'm simply keen to know the truth, as are your parents to tell it. Haven't you heard the phrase 'the truth will set you free'? You just have to trust it. Trust me."

     "And why," he bites back, "would I do that? You're best mates with Rita fucking Skeeter. Practically at making out with each other at this point!"

     I want to reach out and touch his arm to soothe his trepidation, but wild animals bite. Especially wounded ones.

     Easy does it.

     The tea has gone cold but I gulp it anyway. "Well, calling her my best mate would be a bit of a stretch," I say airily. "And I'll have you know I do not agree with her methods at all. But this isn't about her. It's about you and your family. If you tell your story, there's a chance to turn the public's opinion in your favour and restore the dignity your name once held. I know you're good people - it's just a matter of helping the rest of the world see that."

     He rubs his jaw, rings shining like polished iron shackles. "We've committed war crimes, Ainsley. We're not good people."

     Easy does it.

     I move to the edge of my seat so that I match his posture. It would be as close as I dared. "Draco," I say resolutely. "The good aren't guiltless."

     His eyes melt into mine, and I see the fissuring behind his eyes. The ties that bound him to uncertainty and distrust become undone.

     The wild animal calms.

     "You want to know who I am?" It's not a challenge this time. It is an unfolding. An invitation to look at his cards.

     "Yes."

     "Which- which part?"

     A darkness settles in the room, sucking the air out. There is only Draco and me and a vast nothingness. Something lurches within me, deep and profound. A hunger to know him; physically, mentally.

     Intimately.

     I want to turn him over in my hand and brush my fingertips over the invisible cracks and press my lips to them until they overflow with light.

     "All of it," I say. "Show me every piece of you."

     And I will put them back together.

     But he drowns. He can't breathe. He's sinking. Down, down, down. The pressure is crushing his limbs, his body, his head.

     "I don't know how," he chokes, and I can almost hear it: the murky water filling his lungs, gurgling up his throat and weighting him down into the cold depths.

     I try something else. "What's your favourite place to be?"

     He needs to breathe; for himself, for his family. He needs to let go. Let go, and he will rise up and break the surface and he will know air again. He needs to answer. Will he answer?

     "Come with me," he says.