The Malfoy Project

𝟑𝟏 - 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

     Monty is pretending nothing has happened. Or maybe he isn't pretending and has really forgotten, for we have not exchanged a single word about the incident. It is nothing but a blip in his perfect life. 

     Our perfect life.

     Sometimes I forget about it too. Caught up in the daze of homework, classes, and trying not to look at Hannah and Susan laughing at their end of the table. There are even times I have accidentally taken a shower with it on and then wonder why there's such a sagging weight against my collarbone and reach a hand up only to realise the waterlogged material there.

     Part of the reason is that I have avoided looking at myself in the mirror. I can't remember the last time I've leaned over the counter to line my eyes or dab lipstick on my cheeks. When I brush my teeth, I take to staring at the silver knobs of the sink, choosing to let my mind scroll through the components of a Wolfsbane Potion lest it wanders off into more undesirable territories.

     And sometimes I think of Draco.

     The Incident On The Porch — that is what I've committed to calling it — still floods me with embarrassment every time I think about it. Not that he'd seen the bruise — I don't think he cares — but that he'd caught me in yet another vulnerable moment after The Incident In The Library.

     I know why he does it. The truth is so painfully obvious from Day One that I don't have to ask him: He wants to feel powerful. After years of being beaten down and brainwashed into thinking he isn't good enough, he hungers for the tiniest morsel of amour propre, a sense of self-worth. A troubled boy who has never gotten a single drop of validation from his parents and projects its emotional repercussions onto others he deems inferior. Such is the malicious cycle of the Malfoys. A curse more sinister than those that wither earthly bodies.

     And I refuse to be a victim of it; to indulge, entertain, break down. I'm certain Draco must've derived a sick, twisted joy from seeing me cry in the library. Never again.

     And then I consider the fact he might just be looking for someone to share his hurt with. It must be terribly lonely being him. He never asked to be born into the Malfoy name, or to suffer so greatly behind their façade of gilded ballrooms and marble busts. Either way, becoming his friend is an option too far-fetched, even if I want to.

     Fortunately, it seems he has no need for that. He has begun to return into favour with the Slytherins, and the entire school in general. More and more people have started speaking to him. They nod hello to him before class and the Quidditch teams laud him as one of the best Seekers in a long time — alongside Harry, of course — while I take dignity's parting gift of a permanent necklace of amethyst around my neck.

     At least he has begun to smile more. I see him joking with Monty, the whole lot bantering at the dinner table over their roast chicken and goblets of pumpkin juice. He actually picks up his fork and knife, puts food into his mouth — something I don't think I've actually seen him do in the past months.

     I spend my free time in the empty silence of the library. In the odd hours, it is often just Madam Pince and me, which suits the both of us just fine. She's no bother, and neither am I. I wonder what her story is. I might have to strike up a conversation with her some time, though she might just hit her lips with her pointer and snap and me to hush.

     But it would be a lie to say my daily trips to the library are simply in the interest of advancing my academic career. No matter what intriguing story or textbook I have splayed out before me, I find my eyes constantly lifting from the pages to scan the aisles, hoping to catch a movement of quiet elegance or flash of starfire hair.