The Malfoy Project

𝟗𝟎 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

     The door of the bathroom bangs open with a crash. My hands find the cold ceramic tiles of the wall, the smooth varnished wood of the stalls. I don't feel my knees hit the ground as I bend over the toilet and throw up this morning's breakfast.

     Sour bile coats my tongue. My face is slick with sweat and hot tears and my heart threatening to tear itself out of my chest. My mind is nothing but a white buzzing slate. Something high-pitched rings in my ears. I grip the edge of the toilet so hard my fingers become numb as I cry and cry and cry.

     This is it, I think. This is it and I'm not ready. I'm not ready. 

     There is danger in the unknown, but I think real fear lies in the knowing. The certainty that obsoletion is coming, and that it is inescapable. At once, I become aware of the fact that I am already wasting precious time sitting on the floor of the toilet at St. Mungo's, crying into a little pool of toilet water and vomit. 

     I wipe my mouth and force myself to get up, blindly making my way to the sink. I stand swaying over it for a moment, arms trembling, before turning on the tap. The water is cool on my burning hands. I bring my palms to my face, cup the water to my mouth, letting its sweet, clear taste  wash out the bitterness.

     I dare not to look in the mirror, where I'd be forced to see all the things I hate. Instead I keep my head hung low, blinking at the silver drain at the bottom of the sink, and wonder how easily the glass would break with a hard swing of my elbow. How big would the shards be? I just need a small piece, and it will be done. This time I will do it properly, drag it deep right down the little stream of blue that runs down the length of my inner arm. 

     I would be leaving Draco, but he is tough, and clever, and steadfast. He will survive. Hannah might cry for a bit, but she will move on and forget. So will Ernie. The thought causes a pang in my heart, but it is infinitely more bearable than the pain of Now. 

     A knock on the bathroom interrupts my thoughts. 

     "Gabriella." It is Lucius's voice.

     I wait. He knocks again, two firm raps from the outside. 

     "Gabriella."

     I inhale a fresh breath of air and straighten myself. "Y- yes?"

     "I would like to have a word with you."

     I glance around, as if there is something or someone in the room who would answer for me. "Um— what about?"

     "If you would first come out." 

     I comb my hair from my face and take a deep breath. Then I march towards the door and open it. 

     Lucius had been standing close and quickly takes a step back. He looks me up and down, but his eyes are not cold. They are sharp, compassionate, and urgent, with the ever-present hint of slight amusement. He coughs politely into his fist. "Are you quite finished?" 

     "Yes," I sniff sheepishly, feeling like a child who's just thrown a silly tantrum.

     Cautiously, he reaches out his arm and pats me once on the shoulder, firmly, before immediately withdrawing it. I suspect this is the most affection Lucius has ever shown anybody.

     "Well  then," he says, the brusque, business-like tone returning to his voice. "Shall we?"

     He walks me back to Narcissa's room, but when I start towards the row of chairs outside, he shakes his head and opens the door to the room. "Inside," he beckons, and I scuttle in obediently.