The Malfoy Project

𝟒𝟏 - 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬

     They sent for me at once. I had been lying in bed — on my left side so the pillow wouldn't press against my throbbing right temple — when a panicked young witch from the Healers Club was let into our dorms. "Montague's in the Hospital Wing!" she cried. "Knocked out cold but he's just woken up and has been asking for you." 

     As I tear up the staircases and through the corridors towards the Hospital Tower, only two thoughts whirlwind in my mind: What has Draco done? Is he hurt too? 

     Monty and Draco lay in adjacent beds, both so swathed in bandages I might have had a hard time telling them apart if not for the colour of their hair.

     Monty is the only one awake. I drop into the chair by his side ready to apologise, to say anything so he will not hurt anybody, but he appears to have forgotten what had happened, smiling widely when he sees me.

     "How... how are you feeling?" I ask cautiously, knowing better than to mention Draco in the next bed.

     "I'm fine, babe. Nothing to worry about."

     "Okay. Wainscott's salves are great, you'll be fine soon."

     "I'm sorry, Ains. I hope it doesn't still hurt," he says, brows knitting in concern.

     He hasn't forgotten, then.  

     "No, it doesn't."

     "Listen — I was asking Wainscott earlier and she said someone got stuck in the Cabinet before, just like me, and Pomfrey managed to treat him."

     "Really? She'll help you, then!"

     "Yeah, I believe so. Isn't that great? I'll be right again in no time and we can carry on as if nothing's happened! And when we're done with school I'm going to try out for Nationals and then I'm going to marry you with the biggest bloody ring they've got on the market."

     Sinking. Cold water, biting its way down my esophagus, decaying my insides. Down, down, down.

     "Oh."

     "What's the matter? I thought you'd be happier."

     "Oh, Monty, I am. But marriage! I mean, it's all happening so fast, isn't it?"

     "I know!" he says excitedly. "It's all coming together, our lives — just like we've always talked about! You and me, forever."

     Forever.

     "Forever's... forever's an awfully long time."

     "Not with you, it isn't. It's too short." For just a fraction of a second, I see a different version of him behind his shallow eyes — a glimpse of the old Monty who might have actually meant it.

     "You're very sweet, Monty."

     "Speaking of forever, I feel like I could sleep for eons," he sighs. "I think the drought's working. Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

     "Okay."

     "Goodnight. Hey, Ains? I love you."

     "I love you too."

     The words are empty as air, lighter than the weight of the lie I'd have to carry with me for the rest of my life if I accept Monty's proposal. And I will, because I am certain he will kill me if I don't.

     I look at him as he sleeps: the thick fan of brown lashes I had once brushed my thumb across; the smooth skin that stretches over the angles of his chiseled face; strong cheekbones I had once pressed kisses against — and I felt a vast emptiness within my heart for the sleeping stranger before me.

     How is it possible that one person could make you feel so wanted and yet so utterly and profoundly alone?  

     I wait until Monty's light breathing turns into steady rumbling snores, and then wait some more. When Monty sleeps, he rarely moves, and now I am thankful for it because he is facing away from Draco.

     I rise slowly, taking care not to shift the chair, and round his bed over to where Draco lay. He is unconscious, but despite the gauze, his expression is one of peace and repose. His lithe limbs lay straight, his breaths short and gentle; the hazy light from the window bathed his hair in a divine glow — a splendid seraphim at rest.

     I glanced quickly at Monty before lowering myself quietly into the chair. "Draco," I whisper, "are you awake?"

     He doesn't move or make a sound.

     "Draco... Forever is too long, isn't it?"

     Once the words escape my mouth, I relinquish control over my tears, letting them streak down my cheeks uninhibited. I fold my arms on the bed and rest my face on them, wanting nothing more than to be the one he loves. My gaze drifts down to his fingers, unfurled and unmoving.   

     I inch my hand closer to his, until our knuckles touch; just barely. A giddy rush of longing and loss floods my heart, smarting like poison and healing like liquid vervain.

     I wonder if he can feel it too.

༻⚜༺

     I felt it.

     Stars sparking where her knuckles touched mine, creating a heat that burned its way all up my arm and into my chest, and a sound that could not have been recreated by any instrument in the world.

     The blood throbbed in my ears. I counted each deafening beat of my heart as I kept my eyes closed, listening to her speak to me. "Forever is too long," she whispered under short breaths. "It's just too long."

     It is too long. Too long to watch her lose herself to a cruel lover who doesn't know that flowers aren't meant to be picked.

     I wanted to pull her down and tell her there's no need to be afraid, that I would never let Montague hurt her again, that I would care for her and love her until my heart gives out. But I was scared to open my eyes.

     I was afraid I would look at her and feel things I do not understand — things a person like me had no business feeling. I was afraid to admit that I am as careless as Montague is brutish, and that I might, in an attempt to care for her bloom, trample over it instead, and still it will die.

     Flowers are best left alone.

     I kept my eyes shut.

     She sat there for a long time weeping softly, but made no other move to touch me. When her tears finally subsided, she gave one last sniff, exhaled sharply, and left.

     Oh, Ainsley. Why won't you tell me to love you?

     Tell me that love is gentle and comforting and rough and merciless and that it's not always going to be good and there will be days when we can't bear the very sight of each other.

     Tell me that even so, it is alright to hurt you sometimes, to make you cry, to say things I don't mean and apologise right after because we are both human and that it is a beautiful thing to be.

     Tell me it's alright to not understand it because love is a force meant to be felt and not understood; that it is one of the greatest mysteries of the world but when we are alone together, all the answers are there dancing in the small space between our palpitating chests.

     Tell me because the only ideas of love I have ever known are from pages of old books and writings of long-dead poets who will never know who I am — and I want to believe they aren't lying.

     Ainsley, I've always loved to hate but I've never hated to love. And then you came along and sang to me with your waterfall voice and starry eyes and now it feels like I don't know how to do anything else but love.

     So tell me to love you. I beg you to tell me because heaven knows I love you but hell knows it even better and will send its demons after me if we wait too long.

     Tell me to love you, and maybe, if you want to — if I am not a fool to believe it to be true — maybe you could tell me that you love me too.