*TW: suicidal thoughts     

     Hannah has stopped talking to me.

     Last night, I tried to tell her that there's nothing between Draco and I and that he wasn't sleeping with me behind her back, but she wasn't having any of it.

     Still isn't.

     At the first shrill of morning, she slammed her alarm clock before the second ring, washed, got dressed, and stormed out of the dorm without uttering a single word.

     Susan tightened her lips at me in an obligatory greeting, but it's clear the Digest team are also still nowhere near forgiveness.

     They all left for breakfast without waiting for me. I idle around the dorm, packing this and that and pretending the sudden loss of friendly faces doesn't bother me one bit.

     My throat sings in pain. I had not gotten any sleep because of it. Even the simple movement of swallowing saliva sends a shock wave of pain up my throat and into head.

     At last, I gather enough courage to stand before the mirror. A wreath of purple had formed around my neck overnight, some areas spotting red and others a deeper aubergine.

     Basic healing spells don't work on the lilac blooms. Hannah and Susan are hardly inclined to help me, and Madam Pomfrey is out of the question.

     The bell chimes fifteen minutes before breakfast. I tug Tuttlehorn's silk ribbon loose from my hair and hold it against my neck. It's just wide enough to cover most of the splotching. I knot a bow and twist it to the side.

     It doesn't look so bad. In fact, it goes with my Oxford shirt and black skirt rather well.

     Godric, how low have I sunk to even think that?

     After finger-combing my hair and some more adjusting, the bruise was hardly visible at all. I sidle off to breakfast, feeling a shameful sense of pride for my innovative use of the ribbon.

༻❁༺

     The post owls arrive ten minutes late today, hindered by yet another heavy sleet of rain. Amongst the fluttering tawn-and-white feathers comes a raven¹. The ebony bird swoops in with panache and lands right next to my steaming mug of tea. Around its right foot is a leather strap with a loop attached to it, and in the loop is a meticulously rolled piece of parchment.

Dear Gabriella Ainsley,

By now you must be well-aware of the Daily Prophet article regarding certain allegations made by Draco against his father.

We were of the impression that it was you who made this information public, but in light of yesterday's article, we're no longer inclined to believe that to be true, and thus, thought to inform you that despite these unfortunate circumstances, it is still a wish of Lucius and I to continue the weekly interviews with you, should you be willing.

If this is agreeable, we would like to invite you to tea this weekend to discuss this matter further.

We look forward to your favourable response.

Regards,
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy

     There is no sender or return address. The raven caws at me, waiting. I turn to look for Draco but it's difficult to see past all the other students from my quiet corner of the Hufflepuff table, and my neck screams in protest.

     The bird adjusts its weight from foot to foot and cocks its head impatiently. I offer it a slice of apple which it snaps up greedily, wolfing the yellow flesh down while I ponder the Malfoys' unexpected request.

     What did they mean 'continue the weekly interviews with me'? They must surely know I have lost the project with the Prophet - what could I possibly do with tapes and transcripts of interviews that reveal the undoing of Britain's most hated Wizarding family alive? And for me to give up my friends in the process is too heavy an ask, for I'm beginning to feel like I already have none left.

     None except one.

༻❁༺

     I bound quickly across the field, skipping over rocks and shuffling around frozen ditches until a small wooden cabin rears into view from the undulating ground. The Malfoys' raven soars overhead, eclipsing the faint shafts of sunlight that filtered through the bleak clouds.

     A tremendous black creature is sprawled out on the porch of the hut. It spots me and jumps up, and gallops to me in a frenzy.

     "Fang!" I cry as it leaps into my arms, lapping its slobbering tongue over my face. A large burly giant peeks his head around the front door of the hut, shouting for his dog. He sees me and raises his arm in greeting.

     "Whatchyer' doin' out of class, Ains?" he booms as I approach. "Hi, Hagrid. I'm really sorry if I'm intruding, but... I don't know who else to talk to." Hagrid considers for a second before waving me into the hut and out of the cold.

     I push my way past the dozens of various pheasants and hams that hang from the ceiling. Logs burn in the fireplace, heating up a giant copper kettle. "It's a good thing I've put ter' kettle on!" Hagrid remarks, picking it up and tipping the milk into a mug almost as big as my face. I accept it gratefully. The toasty scent of hot cocoa infiltrates my nostrils. It reminds me of picnics with Monty. I take a gulp, ignoring the stabbing in my throat.

     Hagrid plonks himself into his armchair opposite me. "So, what brings yeh to skip classes so early this morn'?"

     I realise I haven't thought this far and wonder how to begin. "Tis doesn' have anything ter do with that Prophet article?" he inclines his head towards me knowingly.

     Heat creeps to my cheeks. "You- you've read it too?"

     "Oh, everyone's read it! Even Fang an' Buckbeak's read it!" he begins to laugh, but simmers down when he sees my face. "Got inta' big trouble fer it, eh?" he asks more gently.

     "Big doesn't even begin to cover it," I sigh. "McGonagall's already upset about the first one about Mr. Malfoy - that was me too, I suppose - and now everyone absolutely despises me."

     "Ah, no one despises you!"

     "It's true. Draco hates me because he thinks I told Rita his secret, Hermione and Susan hate me because I didn't tell them anything, Hannah hates me because she thinks I'm sleeping with Draco behind her back, and Monty-" I pause. "Monty's really upset with me."

     Hagrid raises his eyebrows and makes a empathetic sound. "How did all this come about now?"

     I quickly fill him in on everything: Rita's contract and secret assignment, the weekend interviews with the Malfoys, the secret garden at the Manor, Draco's interview, the stolen tapes, the shitstorm it's caused, my argument with Draco and Hannah. "And now Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy have sent me a letter saying they want to continue the interviews."

     "And you want'a do it? These interviews?"

     "I want to because I think the Malfoys want their story to be heard. And I'm willing to listen- I want to listen. But I also don't want to make anyone else more mad than they already are."

     "I'm not sure it's a good thing ter carry on with that family," scolds Hagrid. "Yer meddlin' with somethin' much bigger than a student can handle. No respectable witch or wizard in this age would want'a have anythin' ter do with'em, 'specially with what they did durin' the war. Bad company, I tell ya'! Bad company."

     I sigh. "See, that's the thing, Hagrid. I've met the Malfoys - and I don't mean just saying 'hello' and 'goodbye'. I've sat with them for a total of about six hours now, I've gotten to know Draco, just a little bit. And you know, I don't think they joined the war for the reasons everyone thinks. I think there's something else we don't know and... I think they want to tell me what it is."

     "What good reason could they have fer torturin' an' murderin' hundreds of Muggles and wizardin' folk? And let's not forget that no-good, stuffed-up Lucius Malfoy killed my Buckbeak!"

     On the floor, Fang perked up his head at Hagrid's raised voice. I set down my mug. "Almost killed Buckbeak. I'm not trying to make excuses for them. I just think everyone deserves a chance to be heard. Sometimes... sometimes people don't look or act the way we want them to. We all thought Snape murdered Dumbledore in cold blood, but that was hardly the case, was it?"

     "That's not the same. Snape was actin' under Dumbledore's orders; he's always been on our side."

     "But what if the Malfoys have always been on our side as well?" I reason. "To this day, we still don't know what really went on behind their doors. We don't know the conversations they've had or tried to have in secret, behind Voldemort's back. And if we do want to know, someone's got to speak with them."

     Hagrid scratched his bearded chin in silence. Fang lay his head back down on the floor in concession. "You've got a point there," says Hagrid. "Well, then what's stoppin' yeh?"

     "I mean, what am I supposed to do with all the interviews when I'm done? There's no way the Prophet would let me continue with them anymore, not that I would ever want to work with such an unethical, unscrupulous organisation anyway! But also, my friends are really, really angry at me right now. And Draco..." I trail off, not quite knowing what to add.

     "I don' see the problem."

     "What do you mean?"

     "Well, seems like it can't get any worse than this! Everyone already hates yeh - your words - and Professor McGonagall's already cross wit'yeh, so yeh don' really have anythin' ter lose. Now, I'm not sayin' fer yeh to go disobeyin' the professors and doin' whatever fancies yeh, but I don' see no harm in havin' a little weekend activity. And yeh don' have ter do anythin' with them tapes yeh get either. You said the Malfoys jus' want someone ter listen, an' that's what yer goin' there fer, innit?"

     A big grin spreads across my face. "Yes, Hagrid, that's exactly right!" I chug the rest of the hot cocoa, letting it burn its way down. Hagrid taps the armrests of his chair. "I've got a class in 'bout ten minutes. Yeh best be runnin' along now, before McGonagall finds yeh've been talkin' to me 'bout this. An' the Malfoys mus' be waitin' fer yer reply." He gestures to the raven, which has perched itself carefully on a wooden post in the yard, preening its glistening midnight feathers.

     Hagrid provides me parchment and a quill and I quickly scribble a reply. I slip it back into the loop on the bird's ankle, and we stand on the porch watching the raven take back to the sky, growing smaller and smaller until twinkles out like a star.

     "Thank you, Hagrid." I hug him, and he pats my head gently with his weighty hands. "Everythin'll be alright," he says, voice rumbling through his stomach.

     I leave Hagrid's hut feeling exonerated, rejuvenation springing in my step when he calls me back and presses a cheesecloth bag in my hands. "Herbs," he says. "My best blend. Will cure yer right up!"

     "Sorry, cure... what?"

     "That nasty cold you've got! S'made yer voice all croaky like my uncle's Chupacabra!" I instinctively touch my fingers to the ribbon around my sore neck. "This ruddy weather ain' won' be doin'' nothin' fer it, either," he says, squinting up at the sky, then back at me.

     I grip the neck of the bag; squeezing it. "Thanks," I mumble, and quickly make myself scarce before he asks any more questions.

༻⚜༺

     My parents have agreed to carry on the interviews without me. They've written to Ainsley to tell her the news, but I wasn't at breakfast to watch her reaction. I had been in the lavatory of the Slytherin boys' dorm, eating anger and drinking sorrow - or Firewhiskey. And if it sounds self-piteous, that's because it is so.

     Mother had written me a separate note to tell me Ainsley had taken them up on their offer. She wonders why I refuse to participate, once again pleading with me that it is good for us.

     She will be surprised if she found out that I finally agree. But I cannot keep seeing Ainsley like that any longer. Every time I'm with her, there's an undesirable feeling that overcomes me. It's soft and moving and urges me towards emotions that leech onto my soul and won't let go.

     At night, she comes to me in dreams, and it is the same image over and over: a cherubim with the wings of a swan. Always white, always light. Last night, we had been sitting. She said that a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin make a good pair, and I laughed. I always did in my reveries of her. And then I asked if she will never love anyone else but Cedric.

     "Yes, I will," came her voice through her unmoving mouth.

     "Who?" I asked. The celestial glare around us was blinding, refracting off the tears on her face into a kaleidoscope of colours that danced on her cheeks.

     I would have kissed those tears away had the lips of sinners been made for virtuous flesh like hers. And to most grievous misfortune, they are not. Neither were they made for psalms, but I dared move mine to sing one anyway. "Gabriella Ainsley, The Swan," I said. "Who will you love?"

     She looked at me, so pure, so strong. Suddenly she could speak again and her heart-shaped mouth formed the word I have been hungering for since the first day she found me in the library:

     "You."

     And then she was kissing me. Her lips pressed against mine and with one motion she washed the slate clean and rewrote my name in the stars, and I felt whole like I have never felt before.

     "Stay with me, Draco," she whispered into my mouth. "Stay with me because you're not alone. You're never alone."

     I awoke with wet eyes and salt on my tongue, and there was such an ungodly pain in my chest that it could have had a thousand knives plunged into its depths and that would still have been ten times more bearable a death.

     I don't know how to carry on watching Ainsley from afar, but she had told me to stay, so I will. Because in these finite moments that we walk the same earthly plane, she transforms it into the heaven I will never attain.

     I want to stay long enough to see her finish the project. I know it is her who will liberate my family from their cage built from the lies and betrayal of their friends, and Ainsley will find the success and recognition she has always desired.

     And when the wrongs of our world are finally made right - when the only wrong left is me, will I then slip quietly away and greet the darkness like an old friend.

     Ainsley may not see me the way she sees Montague, but I see her. I always see her. And in my next life, I will search for her and I will find her, and I will love her in all the ways I cannot right now. 

     But until then, I will raise myself another glass of Whiskey and hope to forget the way her lips had felt against mine.