✼¹

     Draco is waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase, idly hunched against the railings in a crisp, all-black suit and looking no less put-together than he does at school. The sound of my heels herald my arrival, and he turns and watches as I try not to take a tumble down the steps.

     "Mother says I'm to bring you in," he informs me flatly when I've reached the bottom. "What is this, a royal ball?" I joke, but he doesn't laugh. "Look, Ainsley," he says irately. "I don't want to be here any more than you do, but it's important to them so just... don't fuck this up, alright?"

     "But I do want to be here!" I protest earnestly. "And I won't fuck it up. I'm very good with people, you'll see!"

     I follow him down to the dining hall from where the sound of hearty laughter and voices seeping through the cracked doors. Draco hooks his arm loosely through mine, and together, we enter.

     They were huddled in a circle by the fireplace, chuckling at something one of them had said. At the sight of us, the conversation stops.

     "Ah, Gabriella, we were beginning to wonder if you would be joining us at all!" Lucius says. "Gents, may I present Gabriella Ainsley, who has so graciously agreed to write our biography."

     I plaster on my most personable smile and approach the group. I go around the circle shaking their hands as they introduce themselves to me. Edmund Hemingway. Duncan Bulstrode. Alaric Selwyn. Magnus Opius. "It's very lovely to meet you all," I say, burying the sudden stab of self-consciousness in my chest.

     Under the soft, luminescent glow of the chandelier, I can see clearly the faces of each one of them. And unfortunately, they can see me. Mr. Bulstrode looks at me consideringly. "You're a student at Hogwarts, Ms. Ainsley?"

     "Yes," I say. "Eighth Year."

     "That means you'll be taking your N.E.W.T.s soon. You're certain you can manage? Writing a book is no easy task."

     "Absolutely, Mr. Bulstrode. I wrote for the school newspaper just until two weeks ago, and I've been managing everything very well so far."

     "Hogwarts has a paper now!" says Hemingway. "That's brilliant. Never too young to begin a career, I always say. Why, I myself was only twenty-one when I started working for Obscurus Books. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully."

     Bulstrode still looks unconvinced. "But I mean, there are still many steps to go through when writing a book," he says. "The process is largely complicated. It can be very overwhelming for a young girl like you."

     "Well, I suppose that's why we're having dinner today! It's truly an honour to have the support of established professionals such as yourselves," I say, making eye contact with every one of them.

     Bulstrode falls silent and Hemingway barks in laughter. "You're quite right, Ms. Ainsley," he says. "That's exactly what we're here for, isn't it, Bulstrode?" Bulstrode scrunches his mustache in reluctant agreement. Hemingway steps forward, partially obscuring the shorter man. "Don't let old Alaric here intimidate you, darling. We're all confident you'll do wonderfully." He raises his glass and winks at me. 

     At Lucius's urging, we move to the dining table, which was already set with a feast. He positions himself at the head, Narcissa herself on the other end. Everyone seems to know where they're to sit — Bulstrode and Selwyn flank Lucius, and next to Bulstrode, Opius and Hemingway fill up the rest of one side of the table, which leaves two empty chairs next to Narcissa.

     I go to the one directly next to her when Draco catches hold of my elbow. "You'll sit next to Hemingway," he hisses into my ear. Not about to ask him why, I obediently take the seat next to Hemingway, although it's hardly anything to complain about.

     "Wine?" Lucius asks me. I accept, and at the direction of his wand, the decanter floats off the centre of the table and tips itself into my goblet. The Malfoys serving guests on their own without help is certainly a sight to behold. They do so stiltedly, as if their bodies were not constructed to offer anything to someone of a lower societal rank, but I keep this amusement to myself.

     Everyone is fairly pleasant and easy to speak with except for Bulstrode, who appears to maintain his doubts about me. They ask about school, if I play Quidditch, if I have any siblings, and what my parents do. I answer them as superficially as possible. School's great, loads of homework but I'm managing well. No, I don't play for my team but it's good fun attending the matches and writing about it for the paper. No, I don't have siblings and my parents passed seven years ago. After that, I ask them about their jobs and they happily oblige. No one mentions the war.

     After an hour, the conversation begins to swerve back to the inevitable reason we are all here: The book. At the insistence of the two lawyers, Lucius fills the rest in on everything — the deal with the Prophet, the weekly interviews, the tapes and the loss of them, and how it all eventually led to the unfortunate publishing of Lucius's crime, which he doesn't seem unashamed telling them of, openly admitting he deserves it. "Not to worry, I'll get you a reduced sentence," Selwyn adds.

     No one appears fazed by the fact that Lucius had just admitted to abusing and torturing his child and house elf, and I begin to think they're more privy to the Malfoy family than they let on. Draco remains silent through it all.

     "And you're absolutely sure you want to publish... all of it?" Bulstrode says with a knowing look at Draco's parents.

     "Yes," says Lucius. "All of it."

     "And does Ms. Ainsley know?" Selwyn tilts his head slightly to me.

     "Not quite. We were thinking it might be better if she reaches the conclusion on her own."

     I swallow my food and lean forward. "I'm sorry, know what?"

     "All in due time, Gabriella," says Lucius, filling my goblet again. "All in due time."

     The sudden ringing of silverware against china causing everyone's heads to turn as Draco throws down his knife and fork, and his chair shrieks against the floor as he pushes away from the table. "Draco—" Narcissa reaches for his arm but he jerks away, flings his napkin onto the table, and storms out of the room wordlessly.

     Narcissa turns back to us. "I am so sorry, I don't know what's gotten into him—"

     Hemingway politely stops Narcissa with a raised hand. "It's alright, Mrs. Malfoy, perfectly understandable. Let's carry on with dinner." He turns back to me. "So, storming the office of the Prophet, eh? That's one I've never heard before!"

     "Hah, that was a very poor decision on my part," I say distractedly, still trying to see where Draco went. "Definitely could've handled that better."

     "Oh, absolutely not!" he exclaims. "It was good you gave them what-for, they had it coming for a very long time. Too long."

     "Hear, hear!" says Bulstrode. "If I were you, Lucius, I'd have sued those bastards immediately! That information was private regardless and it was very poor form for them to steal the tapes, that minging beetle of a woman! Poor form indeed!" Everyone mutters their agreements and they all go back to the food and before long the conversation has resumed its momentum.

      Hemingway takes me through the process of publishing a book and Opius tells me how sales commissions work. Bulstrode adds on about the utmost importance of going through the contracts with a fine-toothed comb. Selwyn warns me of the possible judicial repercussions: I'd have to be prepared to be taken to court by the Prophet if I am going to use the information I'd already surrendered to them. It might be bad if they choose to accuse me of destroying private property which counts as vandalism, but that I'm not to worry because he's excellent at what he does and will get me out of it easily.

     In the blackness of night that surrounds the house, the room shrinks into a capsule. It might be the warmth of the fire, the nurturing manner of the Malfoys' friends, or the amount of elf wine I have drunk, but I begin to feel more and more confident that this is what I'm meant to do — that I'm meant to be here at this table having dinner with lawyers and publishers and Britain's most-despised family of ex-Death Eaters, who are actually much more human than meets the eye.

༻⚜༺

     My parents love Ainsley.

     Mr. Selwyn loves Ainsey, and Opius and Hemingway love Ainsley. Even fat, cynical Bulstrode loves Ainsley although he'll never admit it. They love her so much they are willing to let her flush the legacy of the entire Malfoy lineage down the drain, and they would be right to do so because that's where it belongs.

     That's the thing about Ainsley, isn't it?

     People love her even though she isn't pretty. Her cheeks are too round and her nose is too upturned and her features are so boring. Yet, every room she enters fills with an ardent and humbling energy so overwhelming that people simply don't know what to do with themselves.

     People love her even though she talks so much. She talks and talks and talks, and no matter how exhausted and finished you think you are, it feels as if there's nothing else to do but sit there and listen to her for hours on end. It feels as if she wants to listen to you for hours on end.

     And you listen to her and she listens to you and suddenly you can't quite recall having ever met a girl more beautiful than she, and then you're thinking of what it would feel like to have her touch you and kiss you and bring your head to her chest and tell you that you're not alone. You're thinking of what it would feel like to be loved by her.

     She is pretty in that way.

     She is so pretty in that way that new buds tremble to bloom because they might just wither at her touch. Sometimes I wonder why I had even gotten so upset about the garden when having her around is enough.

     But the prettiest flowers are picked by the most selfish.

     They close their eager hands around the flimsy stalk and with one simple motion, obliterate its existence from the face of the earth. But who would deny themselves such accessible joy if it crosses their path? Only fools — and I will be a fool for Gabriella Ainsley because I never did know how to hold onto fortune without letting it slip through my fingers.

     I don't want to lose her, and so I tell myself I cannot have her.

     She is for other people to love. And they were loving her; I could hear them through the dining hall window just around the corner. The fireplace from inside projected an arched orange rectangle onto the gardens beyond, a warmth that is completely absent from the corner of the front porch where I stood.

     I wondered why Mother had made such a big deal of me having to watch over her the entire night. "I'd like you to keep an eye on her," she had instructed. "She's a little ditzy, this one." 

     The longer the night had worn on, it only became more and more apparent to me that Ainsley was a girl who could stare down the fiery snout of a dragon and laugh in its face.  

     I listened to their drifting chatter, picking out Ainsley's voice whenever I could. I was right about her being able to hold her own. A few times she would say something clever and they would all roar with laughter. I like this girl, I even heard Selwyn announce wholeheartedly. 

     Didn't they all? Ainsley is quick-witted, grounded, and sure of herself. You could uproot her, set her down on pure glass, and still she would have found a way to bury her feet in it like soil. She is a force so delectable, so unattainable, so... good.

     A chink of thick glass; Father had probably broken out his best stash of Firewhiskey — the same Firewhiskey I had in my flask. I pulled it out from my jacket, inwardly patting myself on the back for having remembered to refill it just before dinner. I've grown so accustomed to the smell and taste that the amber liquid goes down my throat like water. And down it went, smooth and hot.

     Nearly half the flask was empty when I heard a strange but distinct sound cut above the dining room conversation and muted ambient noise of the gardens. It sounded like a large whirring insect, coming in steady beats in between pauses. I stilled my movements and strained my ears.

     There it was again. I hadn't imagined it.

     I capped the bottle and scanned the gardens. The sound didn't stop. I stepped off the porch towards the vague direction of the noise. It grew louder and louder as I went further and further away from the house.

     My hand dipped into the flap of my jacket, exchanging the flask for my wand. It lit up soundlessly at my silent command. I felt the cold-hardened soil crunching beneath my shoes as I entered the threshold of the garden, which was enshrouded in darkness.

     I was certain it was behind a low wall of hedge that bordered another stone fountain. I frowned, wondering where I had heard it before. As I neared, I saw that the shadows on the ground seemed to disappear with each cushioned click. Whatever it was was emitting light.

     I stopped, trying to place where I knew that sound from. There were times when I was surrounded by it. It was so deafening and constant I learned to tune it out long ago. It was a sound I heard during Quidditch matches.

     It was the shuttering of a camera.

     I went around the hedge and sure enough, there was someone partially concealed by the bushes snapping away with their camera. They couldn't even hear me over the infernal sound of the exploding bulb.

     Feelings of caution and apprehension were replaced by a shrewd anger as I caught the journalist by the scruff and pointed my wand at them, ready to blast whoever it was to kingdom come, but when the light fell upon their face I nearly dropped them in shock.

     I was staring into the terrified eyes of Ernie Macmillan.