The Malfoys' letter comes the very next morning, less of an invitation and more of an instructional pamphlet. It will be tonight. A dinner, beginning at seven o'clock sharp. I am not to be late. Excluding the Malfoys, there will be four other people in attendance: Edmund Hemingway, a publisher who has published works from the likes of Miranda Goshawk, Bathilda Bagshot, and, albeit less credibly, Sybil Trelawney; Alaric Selwyn, the family's criminal solicitor; Duncan Bulstrode, their contract solicitor; and finally — I had to do a double take — Magnus Opius, the manager of Flourish and Blotts, which windows permanently showcase the books of Britain's most esteemed and celebrated authors. Lastly, I am to be dressed my best if I want to make a good impression. It is not a request.

     This command sends me into a frantic raid through my closet. My Yule Ball dress had been burnt to a crisp during the war and there hadn't been a chance to pop by the dress shop in Hogsmeade, not that I had many Galleons left to spare anyway.

     I pull out my party dress from the trunk and hold it up to the mirror that stands between my bed and Hannah's. The dress reaches halfway down my thighs with a slit that goes up nearly all the way to my bum, and the bright baby blue now seems terribly juvenile and immature in contrast to the Manor's luxurious interior. I try — and fail — to imagine myself in it weaving through the robes of the wizarding world's elite.

     And then there was the matter of ribbon.

     I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and take it off. Immediately, my neck begins to throb. The discolouration still has not gone away. In fact, puddles of yellow have started to leak into the purple.

     I stretch for my wand on the bed and touch it to the bruise, whispering, "Episkey." Nothing happens. I clear my throat, adjust my stance, and say the spell once more. Nothing.

     "Brackium Emendo." Still, nothing. Of course a spell to heal broken bones makes no difference to a flesh wound like mine. I try one for minor cuts, another for aches and sprains, and as a last-ditch effort, the Vulnera Sanentur incantation, but they only take away the pain for a few seconds before the muscles beneath start to pulsate again and the colours remain as vivid as ever.

     The backs of my eyes and the tip of my nose begin to sting. I rub my finger over it vigorously. No need for tears. This can be fixed. Cedric used to tell me there is always a mend for everything. I craved his presence now. He would have known what to do — he always healed all the nicks and bruises I'd get after Quidditch or if I had accidentally scraped myself. He would lay a heavy, comforting hand on my forearm, point his wand to the wound, and we would watch as my skin magically heals itself. There, he would say. There.

     "I wish you were here," I say out loud, forcing back the beginnings of a sob. I wind the ribbon back around my neck once more because I cannot bear to look at it any longer and pick the dress back up. I guess I will just have to settle on looking like a rather promiscuous Alice from the fairytale.

༻❁༺

     The sun slants at a lazy forty-five degree angle, blaring its light on my back as I go through the wrought iron gate, which makes a face at me as I pass. I make one right back.

     It feels strange to be walking up this path without the anchoring weight of the recorder and satchel of film reels. I don't even have my usual khaki coat on, opting for a snow-white one to go with my dress. The stitched-up slit strains against my thigh and I hope to Helga it doesn't rip halfway through the night.

     It's only five-thirty in the afternoon, but I've never been a stickler for punctuality and figured it's better to be too early than even one second late. The house looks just as forlorn, but today the driveway has been swept and the fountain right by the front porch is turned on, a steady cascade of ice-cold water burbling from its spout.

     I pause right outside the front door and take a moment to gather myself, smoothing my hair and running a finger under my eyes to make sure my eyeliner hasn't smudged. The hem of my dress had ridden up on the walk from the entrance gate and I'm struggling to tug it back down when the door flings open.

     Narcissa stares down at me, her keen eyes travelling from my face to my hair, then back down to the dress, coat, and shoes. I grin and offer my hand. Instead of shaking it, she takes hold of it and pulls me inside, shutting the door quickly behind us.

     Her calmness belied a certain subdued horror when she asked, "Is that what you're wearing?" 

     "Yes," I say, feeling slightly offended. Despite its flaws, I think I look fairly decent in the dress, which I attempted to dress up with a pair of pointed-toe pumps.

     Narcissa takes her chin worriedly, her scrutiny finding favour in the slit of my dress which I realise, glancing at it now, that I've done a piss-poor job of trying to cover up.

     Lucius emerges from the drawing room. His drawled greeting reaches an abrupt stop when he claps eyes on my dress. "Good to see you've... remembered to dress up," he manages politely.

     Panic. Will they send me away? They wouldn't, would they? They've already invited Mr. Hemingway, Mrs. Selwyn, Mr. Bulstrode, and Mr. Opium, all of whom will also probably take one look at me and have the same reaction.

     "Come in and sit," Lucius gestures to the open door of the drawing room. I shrug off my coat into Narcissa's hands to reveal my monstrosity of an outfit in its full glory, or at least Narcissa's face told me so. She begins to walk me to the drawing room before stopping in her tracks, unable to hold it in any longer. "I'm sorry, Gabriella, but this simply won't do!"

     "Okay, what's— what's wrong with it?"

     "It's just... it's just so... drab!" she exasperates.

     "I'm sorry, I don't have anything else to change into, even if I wanted," I say dejectedly. "I could... I could wear my school uniform? If that's more suitable."

     My offer seems to offend Narcissa even more. "Absolutely not!" she raps sternly. "Never mind, we'll find something." She turns and struts away. I remain where I am, unsure if I'm supposed to go along or not. "Are you coming?" she calls in annoyance, and with a start I tottle after her.

     We make our way up the stairs and down the long corridors, passing the library and second-floor boardroom as we sink deeper and deeper into the cavernous mansion, my heels clacking obnoxiously on the polished marble the entire way.

     Up one more flight of stairs and we arrive at a wide hallway of towering French doors, all of them a blue-tinged white and adorned with the same gold trimmings and knobs. Narcissa stops outside one, places her hands on the door, and pauses. She draws a few breaths, then pulls them open.

     The first thing that greets me is a grand four-poster bed, its columns draped languorously in a dusky blue velvet. The sheets are a pale blue, nearly the same colour as my dress, albeit more tasteful, and tucked taut under the mattress, and pillows of varying shades of blue are piled against the headboard.

     We enter the room and I'm able to see the rest of it. It's almost the size of an entire classroom, with white-panelled walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that are uncovered, the panes surprisingly spotless.

     A large space yawns between the bed and a dresser carved of fine wood and painted the same shade of white. On top of it lies an assortment of trinkets: a hairbrush, a porcelain jewellery dish, and what looks like a music box. The cushioned stool is round and covered in fine white leather, starkly matte against the reflective parquet floor.

     Beyond the windows, the gardens are in full view, the sprawling hedges stretching far into the distance. Narcissa walks over to them and looks out, momentarily losing herself in the glow of the nearly-setting sun.

     Then as if suddenly remembering her mission, she whirls around and traverses back to the other end of the room, where a massive wardrobe stands. Opening it reveals racks upon racks of fine jackets, skirts, and dresses. Narcissa shuffles through the hangers, occasionally pulling out the corner of a dress before shaking her head and putting it back.

     I wander over to the dressing table and trail my hand over the counter top expecting to feel a gritty layer of dust, but my fingers come up clean.

     The hairbrush is made of a heavy bone material, its handle carved with ornate swirls. The jewellery dish holds a few necklaces and rings, all studded with green and red gemstones. Beside it, the music box, in the shape of a small chest and printed with an intricate pattern of greens and blues and golds. I lift the lid but there is no music. Inside it, lying in midnight blue plush, is another small collection of jewellery featuring the same emeralds and rubies; hidden amongst them, a small aquamarine pendant in the subtle shape of a teardrop.

      Its bright blue is nothing like I've ever seen; the inner echelons of the sky trapped in a stone the size of my pinky nail. I pick it up and run my thumb over the facets of the stone. It looks exactly like the one Narcissa wears around her neck, except that this room definitely does not belong to Narcissa.

     "It's Ronnie's."

     I quickly set it down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop—"

     "It's fine," says Narcissa. "I don't think she'd mind."

     "Was this her room?"

     "Yes. Abraxas Malfoy wasn't a kind man by any measure, but he was much more obliging than our own father. After Lucius and I got married, he let Ronnie and Ted stay here for a while after my parents forbade her from going home."

      "I see. That was very generous of him," I say. Narcissa holds out the gown in her hands. "Here, try this on. You look just about her size so it should fit you." The weight of the dress surprises me and the slipperiness of the material nearly trickles it right off my arm.

     "I'm going to get changed. Feel free to use whatever you'd like," she gestures vaguely towards the vanity. "Come down when you're ready. Remember, seven PM sharp, no later." The door snicks shut behind her, leaving the enormity of the room to swallow me whole.

༻⚜༺

     Mr. Bulstrode arrived first, because he's a man who treats every little thing as a competition at which he absolutely must win. Like his daughter, Millicent, Duncan is a pudgy, sweaty man who constantly looks as if he'd just run ten miles to arrive at his destination. For some reason he sees the need to wear a monocle, although I'm fairly certain he has perfect eyesight in both eyes.

     Alaric Selwyn is quite the opposite: an extraordinarily tall man with long legs and seemingly longer arms that dangled haplessly at his side. Unlike Bulstrode, he wears proper glasses perched on his bird beak of a nose, framing eyes round as dinner plates — with too much white and too little blue — through which he looked at you in such a manner that you feel like you've done something wrong. 

     Twenty minutes to seven, both lawyers were already seated in the drawing room, helping themselves to our finest whiskey. They were allowed to, as a gesture of goodwill for all the trouble they've had to go through when dealing with our family. Selwyn did, after all, manage to get all of us out of an Azkaban sentence after the war.

     Edmund Hemingway arrived together with Magnus Opius, both dressed sharply in navy blue robes. Hemingway is a rather handsome man of around forty years old and had his hair slicked back in a neat backcomb. Opius is more dishevelled, with a tussle of light brown hair that sticks out in odd places, but still clean-shaven and smart-looking.

     I was stationed at the door to receive them while Father entertained Bulstrode and Selwyn and Mother tended to the food. On cue, she emerged from the kitchen just after I saw Hemingway and Opius to the drawing room. "Where's that girl?" she fretted. "It's almost seven."

     "How should I know?" 

     "I told her not to be late. Could you go and fetch her?"

     "Fetch her?"

     "Yes, from Aunt Ronnie's room."

     "What? She's here?"

     "She arrived nearly two hours ago!" she said. "But her dress was completely unacceptable so I've lent her one of your aunt's. Could you go check on her? Now, please."

     "I'm not the bloody butler," I snapped, but started up the stairs anyway. I knew how Father got when someone was late to his dinners. It would be Mother who would face the brunt of it.

     The way to Aunt Andromeda's room is long and I dragged my feet there, cursing everybody under my breath. Outside the room, I pressed my ears to the double-doors, trying to make out any sounds inside, but it was quieter than the library when Madam Pince made her rounds. I knocked hesitantly, and then a second time. No one answered.

     I stopped to consider the possibility that Ainsley was lying dead inside. Another mess to clean up, another drop of blood on our already-soaked hands. It was just as well Selwyn was already there.

     And then I stopped to consider the possibility that Ainsley was lying dead inside. Her body sprawled out on the floor? The bed? Head turned to the side and haloed with her dark hair; arms stretched above her head like a ballerina mid-leap. I barged into the room.

     The first thing I saw was the humongous four-poster bed, neat and made and dead body-less. For a split second I thought the place was empty until— 

     "Draco!" Ainsley squeaked in surprise.

     And the room crumbled.

     The room crumbled and everything turned to dust; the walls, the bed, the vanity, the windows. Air turns to vacuum turns to nothing. Nothing existed except Ainsley and me and the echoing of her voice in the space between us.

     She was dressed in a floor-length gown of dark silver that glistened charcoal and pewter in the generous light of dusk that poured through the windows behind her. It clung to her frame delicately, as if it was not solid cloth but wisps of smoke and starlight dancing against her skin. Her hair was curled and laying over one shoulder, exposing bare arms held behind her back.

     When she saw it was just me, she exhaled a laugh. "You scared me."

     "I knocked." My tongue felt as thick and heavy as a brick.

     "Barely!"

     I quickly regained control over myself. "Whatever," I said coldly. "They're asking for you. It's almost seven."

     "Oh, shit, is it really?"

     "Just hurry up."

     "Draco, could you— could you please?" She turned around and a meteor struck my chest.

     Her dress was completely open in the back, the thin shoulder straps giving way to a loose low-hanging cowl that dipped all the way to her lower waist. What she was holding in her hands were two concealed strings of the same material meant to keep the dress in place.

     My hands were shaking as I took the two ends from her. "Just tie a knot or bow, whatever you'd like," she said.

     Her skin was milk, unblemished except for three fawn-brown freckles that dot right across the center of her back; teardrops in sand.

     I knotted the bow, unable to resist grazing my knuckles against her skin when I could. Then I picked it apart and did it again. And again, and again.

     I tied that bow six damned times.

     And as I did, I noted the way the two little nubs of bone protruded through the nape of her black-bound neck; the way it sinks into the long, straight groove of her spine. I wanted to kiss it, drag my lips down to where her round hips stretched the fabric. An unexpected spur of desire pulled in my lower abdomen.

     "You alright back there?" Ainsley's voice startled me. "What? Of course," I spat defensively before realising she was talking about the bow I just couldn't seem to get right. I tied it for the seventh time, looping and pulling as slowly as possible while she started up a chatter.

     "I never got to thank you for what you did that day," she said. "It's not like I wanted to make Pansy feel snubbed. I hadn't, I really hadn't. Honest to Helga! But this ribbon is the only one I've got and I really didn't want to ruin it 'cause I'm not sure if Mr. Tuttlehorn has any more. You know he only stocks one-of-a-kind items in his shop—" Ainsley went on and on and on. 

     I wanted to spin her around and slam my lips against hers to shut her up.

     When the knot could not be tightened any further, I finally let go. She spun back around and my gaze was immediately drawn to the ribbon around her neck. 

      I could ask her about it. I could ask her if it had been Monty. I could ask her if she was hurting.

     "We're late," I said. "Stop dawdling and hurry up." With that, I stalked out of the room before she could open her mouth to say something that would have made me stay. 

༻❁༺

A/N: Heya! Just a little heads-up that the next few chapters contain quite a bit of conversation but I promise it's for ✨character development✨ And also Draco and Gabriella are finally gonna get a little intimate moment soon hehe 🥰

Remember to vote if you like the chapters (and leave comments bc I lovee interacting with you guys)!! :D