BANALITY : Draco Malfoy

89

It is New Year's Eve. It is the coldest I have ever been. I am entirely underdressed.

My feet are on the ground, staring at the house in front of me. It is only a little different than I had pictured it. The turquoise siding looks less vibrant in person. The snow, which I thought would have been white, is flecked with dirt and mud, even with the white flakes raging down around me. The water is loud as it crashes to my back against the rocky cliffside. If I'm right, it's not what I had pictured. It's uglier, certainly, and then I hear the sound of another wave crash and all my fears are wrung out of me.

I go up to the door. Using my wand, I unlock it. He didn't ward the place. Either he feels so safe here that he feels no need to prevent wizards and witches from coming in as they please or I was wrong. If I was wrong, I think I will simply sink.

From my spot in the entryway, I can see inside the house. The edges of the stairs are painted in a pastel rainbow. The walls are dark, almost claustrophobic. There are no shoes at the door. I open the closet.

There are cloaks inside, not coats.

Something drops in front of me.

I turn my head to see Draco and a book on the floor at his feet.

It's a copy of 1984. The version seems even older than the one he bought me. He dropped it so haphazardly. The pages are bent at a terrible angle.

"You found me," he seems out of breath.

"I returned the favour," I shut the door behind me, preventing the cold Canadian air from filling the tiny house. I begin to pull my shoes off my feet, to keep the snow from tracking in.

"I never told you about the house you picked," he says.

"You didn't need to tell me about it," my eyes dart around at the small hallway. It is dark in here. Draco hasn't turned on the lights. I had pictured it differently. "I picked it, after all."

Draco steps over the book, one step closer to me. His eyes scan my face, looking at me, waiting.

"Are you joking?" he asks.

I shake my head. Tears are brimming in my eyes. It's a bit pathetic, but I haven't seen him in so long.

"Are you joking?" he says.

"It wouldn't be a funny joke," I manage, trying to prevent myself from sobbing.

He waits, staring at me, eyes wide.

I bite my tongue. There are a thousand things I could say, a million seconds that I could let him know, but I cannot even think of where to begin. There is so much history here that I haven't touched yet.

"This is the politest you've been when speaking to me for the first time," I control my breathing. "I had thought you were rude in Inverness when we met, and once I found out about Marty, I had chalked it up to you being upset to see what appeared to be her ghost. I know better now. At the Yule Ball, the nicest thing that you managed to say about me was that I was a bitch."

He stares at me, and I at him. I could go on. I could tell him about the times we spent in the Room of Requirements, or in the prefect bathroom, or anywhere that would give us the blessing of a private moment. I could tell him about the first time he told me he loved me, and how he said it first because it was always a game of me enticing him and him chasing me. This is the first time I've chased him.

"You're back," he nearly croaks.

"What, you didn't like Jane?" I try to laugh. The tears stream down my cheeks. "I thought she was good enough."