d r a c o

two hours before

Alcohol made things clearer.

It was a common misconception, Draco thought; staring down the bar at hazy faces. People always said that alcohol made the world blurry; that it numbed pain and obscured thoughts. But despite the firewhiskey coursing through his bloodstream, the heaviness in his head, the numbness of his senses - Draco's thoughts were clear.

He needed to forget about Belly.

Or not forget about her, but move on. Leave her behind. He had grieved long enough.

Fuck. Well, maybe not. His hand moved instinctively to the snowdrop in the pocket of his jeans, tightened around it. The flower was worn and weathered, petals falling off, stem decomposing. He couldn't possibly grieve her long enough, not ever. But apparently, the earth hadn't stopped turning when he had lost her. And the cracks that had existed before the war were now chasms.

He raised a hand at the bartender, gestured for another drink. The man slid a glass over to him: golden liquid shimmered under the bright lights of the club. Draco wasn't sure what it was. His friends had been ordering whiskeys and rums, finishing them and refilling their glasses with flasks of firewhiskey they carried in their pockets. He downed the drink in one, gestured for another.

Across the room, the other Slytherins swarmed a corner in the back of the club; distinguishable by the long sleeves they wore despite the heat.

Draco's friends had taken their Dark Marks in seventh year, had surreptitiously shared them in the common room; held smug, hushed discussions over them at the Slytherin table. He had wondered on more than one occasion if taking pride in the mark was some vile trend that he had unintentionally started, or if it had just made everything a bit more tolerable to pretend that they were cool, back then.

The Dark Marks were almost unbearable, now. They sat starkly on their forearms, skulls and snakes unfading. They might once have been considered reminders of their past - battle scars - but now seemed like damnations, forever branding them as the people they had been at seventeen. Or the people they had wanted to be, or the people their parents had wanted them to be. That was their classification now, and it rested forever on their arms.

From the circle of Slytherins, Theo turned and waved eagerly to Draco. Draco turned his back to them and moved to the edge of the room. He was wearing a black knit jumper and was too fucking warm. He missed his drafty apartment.

He rested his back against the wall. Writhing, sweaty bodies pushed against each other on the dancefloor in front of him. He closed his eyes and tried to block them out.

His friends were not doing well. He understood that only now. For eighteen months his mind had been swarmed with thoughts of Belly, Voldemort, his family. The neglection from the wizarding world that he was wilfully enduring.

At first glance, you mightn't have noticed. On the surface, the group of Slytherins - babbling, laughing, joking - could easily have been the happiest, most carefree people in the room.

But their smiles were hollow, their eyes were aloof. When he had approached them, Pansy had stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the sides of his head and pulled his face down to hers. "We've lost you, darling," she had said sincerely, "to your camomile tea. And Blaise has told us about the perfume. It is very sad, and has to stop."

All of them were like Pansy, drunk or high out of their minds. Draco couldn't blame them for it, he just hadn't thought about it that much. Hadn't realised they might have been suffering as much as he was.

"Your girlfriend is here," cooed a voice in his ear, suddenly.

Draco jerked away; glared at Theo, who was wearing a diabolical grin. "What?"

"Astoria. Your wifey, she's here," smiled Theo. He clenched his teeth together. "And I don't think she's all too happy with you."

Draco squinted at Theo. "How high are you?"

Theo waved him off. "Don't worry about it, Malfoy." He slung an arm around Draco's neck. "Missed you, man."

As Draco nodded mildly to return the sentiment, Pansy stumbled past them. "Going to the bathroom," she called. She winked.

"She's not doing well," said Theo, raising his drink towards Pansy. "She's almost always drunk, and if she's not drunk, she's hungover. She gets so hungover - that most days, she just keeps drinking. . . Like, she keeps drinking because she knows that if she stops, she'll be hungover. Does that make sense?" Draco nodded; tried to shrug Theo off him, but he went on: "We're living together, if you didn't know. She and I, and Zabini. So I. . . take care of her most days, though I'm not much better than she is." He paused, smile fading. "I'm worried about her, actually."

"Thank God we have Zabini to look after us," said Draco.

Theo shook his head theatrically, motioning that he couldn't hear him. "The music -"

"Blaise," said Draco loudly. He leaned back in. "At least Zabini is doing well."

Theo shook his head again, this time in disagreement. "Mate," he said, breath warm and heavy, "Zabini is the worst of us all. He gets hammered everytime we come out - goes insanely hard. Come on, let's get another drink."

Theo detached himself from Draco, and Draco obediently followed him to the bar. "I don't understand," he said. "He's holding down a job at the Ministry. And doesn't seem that upset over, uh. . ." he trailed off, unable to remember the Beauxbatons girl's name.

Theo gripped the bar, intently watching the barman pour their drinks. "Fired from his job," he said. "He applied with a different name, they fired him once they found out he'd been a Death Eater." He handed Draco a drink; clinked his own glass against it with force. "There's no future for Death Eaters, now. No hope for us."

Draco cursed under his breath. "I need air," he said, trying to pull away.

"Wait." Theo clamped a hand on Draco's arm. His face had split into a garish, desperate grin. Draco looked away, but Theo pulled him closer. "Malfoy, it's okay now. Now that we have you back - things are different now. You can help us through it."

Draco couldn't take any more of it. He shook Theo off; moved out to the back. A small, cobblestoned region enclosed between buildings made up the smoking area. He pushed through the people that clustered there until he found an empty space against the wall; he leaned against it, breathing hard.

He was so angry at the world. Sick of the social structures, sick of the people. Sick of living through it all without Belly. Sick of the way her face followed him.

In the weeks after her death he had dared to hope - with a small amount of naivety and a huge amount of self-importance - that she might return to him as a ghost. Ghosts, after all, remained in the material world because they had something they didn't want to leave behind. Didn't she have something she didn't want to leave?

But he had waited, and waited, and she had never returned.

If she had been a ghost, she would have approached him. Spoken to him. If she were a ghost, he knew - it would have been to stay with him. That was how he knew that everytime he saw her now, it was in his head. That she was a figment of his imagination, a product of his own mind playing tricks on him. And he was sick of it.

The worst of all of it, the tipping point, had come as a knock on his apartment door, minutes after Blaise had left that afternoon. He had stormed towards it impatiently; I said I would go, Zabini -

But instead of Blaise, Ginny Weasley had marched into his apartment. Had strode in without invitation; stood in his living room with her hands on her hips.

He had gaped, dumbstruck by a face he hadn't seen in years. Standing in the very apartment he had moved into to forget about people like her. Is there a reason you're here, Weasley?

Your surprise at seeing me tells me you do not yet know, she had said.

Know what? Spit it out.

She had tried to tell him that Belly was alive.

Perhaps she had done it to make fun of him. Or perhaps it was on behalf of the Ministry, maybe someone was investigating him, trying to get information by winding him up - he didn't know. It was a slap in the face, he thought. Taunting him; thinking they could play with him and his friends like they were dolls. A reaffirmation that their sides still existed.

A lot of people had stood in he and Belly's way when she had been alive, and Ginny Weasley had been one of them.

Fucking torture, that's what it was.

He had told her three times to get out until she finally left. But not before a new string of questions: what are you up to, these days? Will you be here tonight? Where will you be going?

He was done with it all - done with the stupid, childish game that the wizarding world played. The constructs and the hierarchies. He hated Belly's old friends, hated the Ministry workers, hated his parents for participating in all of it, too. He was done being a pawn in their game.

A small hand closed on his arm, and Astoria's voice sounded from beside him. "I've been looking for you for an hour."

Draco pulled away, wobbling on his feet. He was still holding the drink that Theo had pressed in his hands; it swirled in its glass, precarious. He turned to Astoria reluctantly, grimaced at her. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Pansy invited me," said Astoria. Her long, brown hair was back in a braid, the red lipstick she always wore was sickeningly bright. And her tone was icy. "I wasn't going to come along, but then she told me you would be here. And I thought, huh, that's funny. He didn't mention that to me."

"Right," said Draco. He turned away from her and leaned his back against the wall again. Resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Are you drunk?"

"Why do you care?"

He heard Astoria sniff. "I don't," she said.

They were silent for a long time, watching muggles file in and out of the smoking area; the air between them tense. Then he said, "I don't think we should see each other for a while."

"Were we ever seeing each other?"

"No," he said, "I mean it in a literal sense. I don't want to see you, for a while."

He turned to her: she looked venomous. "Well," she said. "We're apparently getting married, Draco. So it might be wise for you to get used to seeing me."

"We don't have to get married though," he said. "I'm right, aren't I? They can't actually force us."

Her expression dropped. "You don't want to marry me?"

"You do?" he asked. "Astoria, we aren't in love. And you're the one always saying you don't believe in arranged marriage between purebloods."

Astoria didn't reply for a while. "I suppose I thought that we would settle for each other," she said, finally. "The wizarding world is very small, and I figured we were the best options for one another. Of course I didn't believe we would fall in love, I'm not that naïve. But I didn't think we would be unhappy."

"We wouldn't be happy, either," said Draco.

Astoria opened her mouth as if to say something else, but decided against it. She patted Draco's arm twice. "I'm going to go home," she said. "We can talk about this tomorrow, when you're sober."

Draco left the smoking area shortly after Astoria. If he stayed there too long, he would start thinking about their conversation; start second-guessing himself. And he didn't need that, right now.

As headed back towards the bar in search of another drink, he pushed his sleeves up to his forearms. He was too hot now, and didn't care anymore if anyone saw his Mark. Those who understood what it meant already knew who he was. That was the difference between him and his friends, he thought - while they were branded by Dark Marks, he was branded by his white hair, pale face and resemblance to his father. He looked like a Malfoy: that was worse than a Dark Mark.

It was late, but the room was fuller still than he had left it. When he reached the bar, people crowded around it. He spotted Blaise pushed up against one corner of the counter and headed towards him; reached over a swarm of girls to wrap a hand around Blaise's shoulder. Blaise turned at Draco's touch and beamed at him.

Blaise, who had lost both his job and a girlfriend, and had barely mentioned a word of it to Draco.

He pulled Draco through the crowd, closer to the bar. "Alright, mate? Astoria find you okay?" Draco nodded. "Good to see everyone again?" asked Blaise. His breath stank of alcohol. But then, Draco's probably did, too.

"Nott wants me to take care of you all."

"What's that?"

"Nott -" Draco raised his voice - "seems to think I'm the answer to all of your problems. Wants me to take care of you."

Blaise laughed. "Nah, mate. You know that's not what he means. It's more that you used to be the - the ringleader, or whatever. It'd be nice to have your company again, that's all." He squeezed Draco's shoulder. "You should come round our flat."

A lump was rising in Draco's throat - he gulped it down, feeling ridiculous. His fingers were beginning to tremble, so he clenched his glass a little tighter, turned to Blaise: "I can't be your babysitter."

Blaise looked sympathetic. "No one wants you to babysit them, Malfoy. They want you to be their friend."

Draco nodded. His head was swimming, his eyes were drooping. But he knew he could do that. For himself, for them. He could be a friend.

The music swelled from somewhere in the room: some repetitive, bass-heavy pop song. Draco felt the vibrations in his chest, his shoulders; felt the heat of the bodies around him, hot on his cheeks. "You have to forget about her, mate," came Blaise's voice, faintly. "It's been too long. You have to forget about her, so you can come back to us."

Draco nodded again. He could do that, too.

He emptied his glass. Thought; Belly had used to drink more than she should. Had used to drink away her sorrows to a worrying degree, numb out her anxieties with alcohol -

He hadn't done it, because he'd been too busy watching her.

Because she had been enough of an intoxicant for him. He hadn't needed any of this; had never wanted it.

But he didn't have her, anymore.

-

five minutes before

He knew he was too drunk. He felt like he was walking underwater, on an ocean floor. But who gave a shit, anyway? Who in the world really cared if he drank himself into oblivion tonight?

For a moment, he had thought he'd seen her again: a blur on the other side of the room, dirty-blonde hair swimming behind her. He had grabbed the counter, thrown back another drink, closed his eyes to shut her out because she was fucking haunting him -

Small, bony hands wrapped around his bare forearms. Pansy's face appeared, suddenly very close to his, saying, "She's here."

He squinted at her. Pansy drew him closer. "I saw her in the bathroom. You never told us she was a ghost."

He furrowed his eyebrows, blinked slowly. "You see her too?"

She squeezed his arms. "I love you. I'm going to find Theo."

Pansy disappeared. He stared into the bottom of his glass. Empty already.

He raised his eyes, and Belly was there. Again. Across the room, on the second-level landing.

I have to forget about you, Draco thought, watching her move to the stairs. I'm going to forget about you now.

Belly's eyes clicked onto his - they were wide, frantic.

They moved towards each other like magnets. He moved through the crowd slowly, through sweaty, faceless bodies, but his eyes were only on her -

He reached the stairs just as she descended the last one: the world spun around them as he stared at her - right there, close enough to touch, so real -

"Leave me alone," he said aloud. He didn't know if he was mumbling, or whispering, or making any noise at all. The music drowned it all out. He tried again: "Stop following me. Stop haunting me."

Her mouth moved, but he heard no words. Neon lights moved across her face, and she was so clear, so fucking vivid, but how could it possibly be her -

"I'm going to close my eyes," he told her, blinking back tears, "and forget about you. This is the last time I'm ever going to think about you again."

She was shaking her head, pointing to her ear, leaning closer to him. He took one last look at her, took her in. And shut his eyes. Let me forget you, Isobel Young.

When he opened his eyes, she was still there. Crying, now; her cheeks wet, eyebrows furrowed. He blinked. He could smell burnt sugar.

He watched his hand move out towards her; watched his fingers comb through a dirty-blonde curl.

He blinked again. She was still there.

-

The rest of the night passed in flashes. Belly's small hand in his, her face close to his, the tears on her cheeks glistening.

She had left him outside with Theo and Blaise, had vanished into night air. But not before pressing a piece of parchment into his hand, holding it tightly there, and whispering, "forgive me."