The liquid burns your lips as you take your first tentative sip. In the background you can hear the clink of glasses and clatter of pots. You stare at the table top, noting the delicate carvings of rosebuds that weave along the edge. Your finger traces their pattern.
“You’re quiet.” It’s a statement. He never asks you questions; he doesn’t like to seem unsure. You raise your eyes to his. He looks calm. He’s wearing the robe you picked out when you went shopping together last weekend. It looks nice.
You need to speak. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is pounding. Two years, two secrets, which do you tell first? Words swirl in your head like flies caught in a tornado. You take another sip of tea.
“I lied.” You bite your lip and clasp your hands together. His face is unchanged; why isn’t he reacting? Is he angry? Upset? Finally his eyes sparkle and a smile tilts the corner of his lips,
“About being a witch.” The smile drops. He is angry; he has every right to be. If he
had been lying to you
all this time… “Draco, say something,
” you plead.
“You are a squib.” His voice is tense. Bang! You jump and stare at the shuddering cup. Liquid sloshes over his hand and onto the table. He continues to stare at you. You tremble as you shake your head,
“A muggle. My eldest sister was a witch.” You need to explain, “She brought me here, when I was little. I loved it here. She
loved it here. I didn’t want to lose that-- and then I met you. I didn’t mean to lie; you just assumed, and I… I liked it, I liked being a part of what my sister was. I liked doing magical things and feeling a little of what she felt, but most of all I liked you! I’m telling you now, because… because, well, there is something else.”
You pause. His face hasn’t changed, his wand is in his hand. He is staring at it as though for the first time. You take a deep breath, “Draco, I’m…”
Your head is aching. You glance around and see you are in Goldfry‘s; it’s your favourite wizarding coffee shop. It seems different. In front of you is a cup of cold tea. You are sure you ordered hot chocolate. You look to the next table and your heart sinks. Where is that fine, young man you saw earlier? You stand up to leave. A wave of dizziness hits you. You stumble and bile rises in your throat. You feel sick.
“Are you okay?” A young witch asks. You shake your head and dash for the bathroom. As you sit upon the tiled floor of the toilet, retching into the porcelain bowl, a feeling of deva ju washes over you. You spit to rid yourself of the vile taste. Why does everything seem so, foggy?