i s o b e l

Isobel steadied herself with a hand on the wall as she walked back down the hallway. Her legs felt wobbly.

To lose both a husband and a daughter is a great loss.

She remembered waking up after the war; looking up with a throbbing head and a pounding heart to see her mother. You're safe now, baby. We're going to be okay now. She had believed it, but for the wrong reasons.

She found her mother in the kitchen, her thin face streaked with tears.

"Mum."

Maggie's forehead furrowed, but she did not look at her daughter.

"Mum, talk to me. Please."

No response. Isobel sat down across from her. "You let everyone think I was dead, didn't you? I was unconscious and you told people I was dead." The lump in her throat grew. "And that's why we had to move house, and why we couldn't ever leave or tell anyone we were here."

Her mother said nothing, so Isobel went on. "All this time, I thought it was all for our health - I thought I wasn't allowed to see my friends, because being alone would help me heal. But they think I'm gone?" Her voice cracked. "Ginny, Neville, Luna - is that what they think?"

Her mother finally looked up. "I'm sorry, Isobel."

"Did you think you could keep me here forever? Did you think that would help me? Mum, I've been so lonely." Tears welled in her mother's eyes; Isobel looked away scornfully. "I need some air."

She pushed open the back door, stomping into the garden. She paced back and forth there, trying to process it all. In all of the time that had passed since the war, nothing had been what she had thought it was. Her friends had thought her dead for an entire year now - they had grieved her and processed her passing. They might even have moved on with their lives: gone back to school, or started up jobs. And all the while she had been here, doing absolutely nothing with herself.

The lump in her throat was growing again, so she stopped and bit her lip, hard. She had thought that this was all normal. That it was normal to take time off to heal, that she would see everyone she knew again soon. Over the last year, her mother had become her best friend. How long had she planned to continue lying?

The door creaked behind her. Her mother moved slowly towards her, wringing her hands. Isobel turned away.

Maggie spoke timidly. "Isobel, you need to understand. When the war ended... It wasn't immediately clear that things might be safe again. So many Death Eaters were still alive - nobody was sure that they wouldn't revolt. And I had lost your father, and for a moment I thought I might lose you, too - and I couldn't -" Maggie broke off. "I just couldn't handle that. I acted selfishly, yes - but at the time, it really seemed to be in your best interest -"

"My best interest?" Isobel repeated. "Mum, you took my life from me."

"You needed to heal," Maggie pressed. "You needed time. For months you were so weak, there was no question of sending you back to the wizarding world, and there were Death Eaters still on the loose -"

"But I could have healed and done all that without having to convince everyone I was dead!" She rounded on her mother. "I could have just - stayed at home, like a normal person, in our old house; I could have stayed in contact with my friends -"

"No, you couldn't." Maggie shook her head. "That wouldn't have worked. People would have gone looking for you; there were people that didn't want you alive, they would have come for you -"

"That's paranoia, Mum. No one would have come for me."

"Isobel, I need you to believe me," said Maggie. "What I did was impulsive, yes, but all of this has only ever been to keep you safe."

"All of this -" spat Isobel, "has been for you. It hasn't been for me. It's been so that you can keep some sick control over me."

Her mother had always been petite, but now, looked smaller than ever. Her eyes had filled with tears again: Isobel felt a stab of guilt.

"I'm not trying to excuse my actions," said Maggie, softly. "I'm only trying to explain them. I'm trying to make you understand. Given how much danger you were in - at the time, it seemed right."

"Well, I'm sure my friends' parents didn't fake their children's deaths," retorted Isobel, "and I wasn't in any more danger than they were -"

"Yes, you were."

"What does that mean?"

Maggie shook her head again. She was beginning to look very tired. "No - I shouldn't have said that."

"Mum," Isobel pleaded. "How could that be true? How could I possibly have been a target?"

Maggie was pale. "Please, just trust me. You were in so much danger, and the danger didn't stop when the war ended. I was trying to save you... Maybe I'll tell you, one day, and then you'll understand. But not now."

Isobel flung herself away, glaring out across the garden; a scream building inside of her. "How can you take everything from me, but you can't tell me why it was so necessary?"

Her mother said nothing. When Isobel looked back, Maggie was on her knees, doubled over in the grass.

Isobel rushed to her. "Mum?" When Maggie didn't reply, Isobel knelt beside her. She took her mother's pale face into her hands and said, urgently, "Mum."

"I'm sorry." Maggie looked back at her, blinking slowly. "Dizzy. I need to lie down."

Isobel guided one of her mother's arms around her shoulders and they stood awkwardly. They walked with slow, heavy steps to her mother's bedroom, where Isobel helped her into bed. Then she headed back to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. She sat there for hours, thoughts and questions circling around her.

That night, she pulled her own duvet over her and wrapped her arms around her knees. She cried in breathless, gulping sobs, wishing that the world might be a little less cruel.

-

d r a c o

Not one of the Malfoy family had served more than a month in Azkaban after the war.

Lucius had been imprisoned almost immediately, but haggled his release by providing information about other Death Eaters who had escaped. Because of their abandonment of Voldemort halfway through the battle, Narcissa's outright betrayal, and Draco's young age, all three were pardoned of their crimes and allowed to walk free. The conclusion was that the Malfoys were no longer dangerous: they no longer had any interest in playing for Voldemort's side.

The Ministry made this decision in the knowledge that given all of the Malfoys' wrongdoings over the past two decades, they would never really be free, and the public would make sure to let them know it. The three Malfoys hardly ever went out, and when they did, were scorned and ridiculed. Where there used to lie fear in the faces of passersby, now was a confident, unabashed hatred. Whenever they set foot in any wizarding community, glares and whispers followed their path. So, for a long time Lucius and Narcissa kept to themselves; quietly trying to find their feet in a community where they were no longer welcome.

Immediately after the war, Draco had shut himself in his room. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, just lay in bed. Days, maybe weeks went by before Narcissa came in and tried to speak to him. For the first time in his life, he yelled at her. He locked her out, and soaked his pillow in tears.

Outside his door, there were trials and arrests; friends and family members getting life sentences. Draco didn't know the first thing about who escaped and who was sent to trial. To him, it made no difference. His father went to and from Azkaban, and he didn't bat an eyelid. Nothing mattered now, in a world where Isobel didn't exist.

Several more weeks went by and Narcissa's appearances became more regular. She brought him meals, and sometimes sat and stroked his back for a while. She begged him to let her open the blinds, open the windows, tidy up a little, but on any such mention he pulled a pillow over his head and told her to leave.

Evidence of Belly still lay around his room in variations: a jumper tossed over a chair, a few hair ties on the windowsill. Beside his bed sat the perfume she had used religiously. He was careful not to move these items, hoping to keep them just as they were. That way, Belly had been the last person to touch them. They were positioned how they were because she had placed them that way. He liked that.

On the day of his trial, Draco pulled off the sweaty t-shirt he had worn for a week, and changed into the formal clothes his mother had ironed and laid out for him, considering for the first time the utter pointlessness of formal wear.

The trial lasted an entire day. He mumbled "yes" and "no" answers to the repetitive questions thrown at him. Though Draco didn't care much about the outcome of his trial, he realised from its beginning that the Ministry had no intention of convicting him, but rather, wanted information that could help them in whatever work they were doing next. They asked about his fellow Death Eaters; his school friends; his family. What spells he had learnt from Voldemort and what dark magic he had performed. He stared back at them groggily, wondering at the alarming amount of energy they all seemed to have. He felt their disappointed eyes on him as he left, feeling that he had just wasted a day of their time. He returned to Malfoy Manor with the intention of dropping into bed for another week, at the least.

But when Draco got back to his room, it had been entirely cleaned out. The furniture was neat and tidy, and smelt overwhelmingly sterile. The windows were thrown open, allowing a fierce wind to blow in. And everything that had once belonged to Belly - every piece that Draco had left of her - was gone.

That was the second time that Draco yelled at his mother. He used a packing charm to stuff his possessions into a trunk and spent the night on a couch downstairs. He decided to move to London as soon as he could.

Upon leaving his room and casting a quick glance back at it, for the sake of nostalgia - Draco noticed something white and very small lying beneath his bed. It was a tiny flower - a snowdrop - that Belly had once tucked behind his ear, on a day at the Great Lake. He had preserved it afterwards with a drying spell, but had soon tossed it into his trunk, not thinking much of it.

Tears stung Draco's eyes. He tucked the snowdrop into the pocket of his coat, and closed the door of his room. He left the house then, and didn't look back. There was no plan: he didn't know what he was doing, or for how long he planned to go. All that he knew was that if he could help it, he wouldn't return to Malfoy Manor for a very, very long time.