The Malfoy Project

𝟒𝟕 - 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐧

     Montague receives me at the door, dressed smartly in a tailored forest green button-up and black slacks. Behind him come Theron Montague and his wife, Adriana.

     "Gabriella!" Theron booms, spreading his arms to me, and I walk into them awkwardly. I've only ever met him once, at the last Quidditch match of Sixth Year. Like his son, the Head of the Ministry of Magic Public Information Services is a stocky, broad-shouldered man who looks like he could take a Bludger to the chest and not feel a thing. Beside him, Monty looks short and frail; weak, almost. But he is friendly, his demeanour akin to one of those jolly, old Santa Clauses in Diagon Alley.

     Adriana is the opposite of her husband. A thin, reed-like woman, she carries herself with similar grace and poise to Narcissa. Except with Adriana, the reservedness seems bred into her, a docility cultivated from years of quiet observation and calculated submissiveness. Her dress swishes as she leans down and kisses the air next to my cheeks. "We're so glad you could come." Her voice is cold water on a wound, soothing and stinging at the same time.

     I squeak a shy 'hello', and they usher me inside. House elves scuttle from the corners to take my bag and coat. I hardly have time to show my surprise; the interior of the house draws my immediate attention.

      Unlike Malfoy Manor, nothing inside has lost its shine. Everything looks sparklingly new. The floors are polished till they reflect our faces; the windows are crystal clear, the velvets that frame them dyed in deep, rich hues of burgundy and navy.

     Furniture is kept neat and tidy, and pressed snugly in place against the walls, making the halls seem wider and more spacious than they actually are. Lining their walls are not old portraits of dead ancestors, but expensive, framed pieces of art: intricate oil paintings of scenic places I've never been to and probably never will.

     We traverse through the house, as I had at the Malfoys, but Theron keeps up a lively chatter to fill the silence, asking me how school has been and if Professor Sinistra is still teaching Astronomy and if the building looks any different than before the war.

     I answer him politely, hand nervously clutched in Monty's. He gives it a squeeze. Don't worry. It'll be fine. I concentrate on the cashmere waft of marshmallows and ocean breeze that floats from him — the only thing familiar to me now.

     We're led to the dining hall, where a Christmas feast has been set. More house elves emerged from the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen, bearing napkins and wine decanters. "Crushed the grapes themselves", Theron stated proudly.

     I try to hide my alarm. Elfish rights and welfare initiatives have been well underway for some time now, and it is rare to find elves still working in houses as servants. But Adriana was quick to explain that many of them have been left abandoned and homeless after the war. They are all treated well and with the utmost respect, and remunerated handsomely for their help.

     Certainly, they do all look happy to serve, with nary a trace of fear in their eyes. One of them even boldly compliments how I look. They remind me of Hogwarts' elves — content and at ease with themselves. I let myself relax, and focus my attention back onto my hosts.

     "So, Gabriella, we heard you caused quite a... stir at the Prophet," says Theron, eyeing me over his goblet.

     My cheeks begin to burn, hotter than the front page photograph of myself that had been permanently imprinted in my mind. I swallow my food. "I am so sorry, Mr. Montague. I know you pulled some strings to help me get the—"

     Theron holds up a commanding hand. "Let me just stop you right there." He folds his arms and leans forward, as if divulging a secret. "Gabriella, if there's one thing we don't do here, it's apologise. An apology is an admission of guilt. And one would simply hate to find themselves prosecuted before they've even been charged, wouldn't they?"