The Malfoy Project

𝟐𝟓 - 𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐀𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝟏𝟗, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝

     Diagon Alley is chock-full of people; cloaks batter against bodies and the heady, confused scent of confectionary, wood polish, and animal fur tumbles through the air as I weave my way down the cobblestone street.

     I pass by Ollivanders, remembering the last time I was here: It was a windy August morning with my parents. The sickness had gotten the best of Mum, but she still managed to drag herself from bed to come with us. "Redwood," Ollivander had smiled as I twirled the pink-hued wand between my fingers. "Many decisions ahead of you. Choose carefully, young girl."

      Decisions. This is my worst one yet. A few more paces and I'm staring up the intimidating exterior of the main office of The Daily Prophet.

     The paint has peeled off its dilapidated walls but the windows remain shiny and reflective, like those of the office buildings in Muggle London. I place a hand on the burnished doorknob and turn.

     A long hallway stretches ahead of me with nothing much beyond that I can make out. The cool air is welcome on my heated cheeks. I take a deep breath and start forward, my shoes squeaking against the glossy parquet floor.

     Adorning the narrow walls is a succession of framed newspaper clippings from an era past: THE BOY WHO LIES. DUMBLEDORE: DAFT OR DANGEROUS? TROLL RIGHTS MOVEMENT OUT OF CONTROL. TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP. BLACK STILL AT LARGE. GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST. 

     The end of the passage opens up into a wide, square office space; a great chaos of bustling conversations and rustling parchment. Witches and wizards in robes of amethyst and emerald and deep sapphire stand guard over frantic neon-plumed quills.

     Along the sides of the cubic-shaped floor are private offices. Gold plaques on the doors announce the name of the editors who reside beyond them: CUFFE, AMORIN, SMUDGLEY, amongst others.

     There's a desk on my immediate right, behind which a young, bespectacled witch sits, frowning with great concentration at something obscured from my view by the high countertop. The nameplate tells me her name is Lucy Edwards.

     I go up to her put on my most adult-sounding voice. "Hi, I'm looking for Rita Skeeter."

     "Name?" Lucy asks without looking up.

     "Um- Ainsley?"

     "You don't know your own name?"

     I clear my throat. "No, it's- it's definitely Ainsley. Gabriella Ainsley."

     "Do you have an appointment?"

     "Yes," I lie.

     She picks up a clipboard and runs a sparkly blue fingernail down the list of names. She pauses, peers at it harder, and seems to awaken from her stupor of boredom. Her eyes grow wide. She looks up at me as if she's just noticed my presence. "Y- you're not on here," she manages at last.

     "Well, I was just wondering if I could have a quick word with her," I say. "It won't take very long."

     Lucy sets aside the clipboard. "You'll have to make an appointment."

     "It really won't take long at all, I promise. Just five minutes." I spread the fingers of one hand to emphasise my point.

     Her heavily-lined eyes drift from my digits to the Cheshire smile plastered on my face. "You'll have to make an appointment," she says again, more firmly. "Leave your name and I'll see when I can slot you in."

     A movement behind Lucy catches my attention. Behind her desk is an office. The plaque on the door reads RITA SKEETER, MANAGING EDITOR. Behind that, a figure is seated at a desk - a figure wearing a chartreuse cloak, its head piled with big yellow curls.