i s o b e l

one hour before

For a while, it was bliss.

Stumbling with her friends through cobblestoned lanes: laughter loud and conversation slurred, the years between them dropping away. As if they were schoolmates again, young and careless; this time without school rules and authoritarian teachers.

They had been so kind. Harry, Ron and Hermione; kinder than she could have dreamed they would be, more understanding and empathetic than she had ever hoped for.

It was a strange thing, to be back with friends after having been alone for so long. In the months she had spent on her couch, staring out of her window, she had worried that isolation might rid her of all social competencies; that she might forget how to pick up on social queues, how to make jokes, how to listen and get all of the timings right. But she had been silly to worry, for it had all flowed so naturally - sitting with her friends at a round, wooden table, glasses of cider and beer between them - it had felt right. It had felt safe.

Harry and Ron had gone straight into training as Aurors, after the war. Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts to complete her NEWTS exams, and now had a job at the Ministry, working for the rights of magical creatures. Off saving the world, of course - Isobel should have expected no less. She supposed she should feel bitter; or sad, at least, that she had missed out on such opportunities. But to see them all again brought her enough joy.

They had parted with hugs and kisses, promises to see each other again soon, strict instructions to be kind to herself.

In her mind, the night had been coming to a close. Her adrenaline had been wearing off; the coldness of the December night had begun to bite at her skin. Her mother had been in the back of her mind for the entire night but now Isobel could not stop thinking about her; worried relentlessly that Maggie might have woken up, might have realised Isobel had left her.

She was altogether ready to go home. Which was why it had taken her by surprise when Ginny had kissed Harry's cheek, grabbed Isobel's hand and tugged her away down the pavement. Had whispered in her ear: "We're not done here yet."

-

ten minutes before

Isobel felt blinded by the strobing neon lights. They flashed everywhere around her: on the club's walls, the floor, the writhing bodies that formed the dense crowd; everywhere. On the ceiling in the centre of the room hung a disco ball: the lights bounced from that, too. And when Isobel squeezed her eyes shut she could see them still, dancing on the backs of her eyelids.

Draco Malfoy was in this club.

She had seen him gripping the counter at the bar, unsteady on his feet. Surrounded by a throng of faces that she recognised from Hogwarts; all older now, all drunk.

She needed to find Ginny. Perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream, the fogginess in her head, the fear at having to face him. But she needed to speak to Ginny, first, before she faced Draco.

The problem was, Ginny had entirely disappeared. After convincing Isobel to come into a random club in a dark corner, a small lane of London; to end their night with a few more songs, a few dances - she was gone. Isobel had walked the length of the nightclub, combed through the smoking area and dancefloor, but Ginny was nowhere to be found. And Isobel had a good idea of why not. Suspected the club was not quite so random as Ginny had made it out to be.

The bathrooms were her final resort. A wide set of stairs rose from the dancefloor, leading up to the bathrooms. Isobel stood on the highest stair, scanning the crowd for a small girl with flaming red hair. But Ginny was not there. By the bar crowded a group of Slytherins - Isobel recognised Adrian Pucey, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini. And of course - Draco: the centre of their attention. He stood stoically in their circle; clutching a whiskey glass in his hands the same way Isobel had seen him clutch his tea. Not one of them noticed her at the top of the stairs, looking down at them.

The club's bathrooms were lit by the same coloured bulbs that had danced along the walls of the dancefloor, but here they were dull, unchanging. The bathroom reeked of alcohol and vomit, and a heavy bass vibrated through the dark tiled walls.

"Ginny," Isobel called to the row of stalls. No reply came. "Ginny," she said again, but knew it was pointless. Ginny had left her here, with every intention of forcing her to speak to Draco Malfoy.

She turned to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. Her makeup had smudged; her hair was tangled from pushing through the crowd. "I can't do it," she whispered to her reflection. "I can't face him. I don't know how to."

He had not seen her. Well, he had seen her - earlier, as she passed by the bar - but had looked straight through her with sad, tired eyes.

Conversely, she hadn't been able to take her eyes off him. His shock of white hair made him aggressively conspicuous from the crowd; his pale, sculpted face stood out wonderfully, but it wasn't that -

It was the way he stumbled; the way he seized the counter and tipped his head down and looked up at the crowd through his eyelashes. It was the way he barely responded when his friends threw their arms around him and shouted into his ear. The way his drink splashed from the edges of his glass, spilling out onto slender fingers.

He was too drunk. It wasn't right, to meet him now.

The door of a stall behind her creaked open, and Isobel jumped. She had been sure she was the only one here.

A small, black-haired figure exited the stall; tottered on high heels to the sink beside Isobel. It was, she realised with a start, Pansy Parkinson. Isobel turned quickly; hid her face and moved to a stall - trying to hide before Pansy recognised her -

"Isobel Young." Pansy's voice was soft and distinctly drunken. She moved to Isobel languidly; sluggishly, and took her by the shoulders. "Isobel Young."

Isobel stared back at her. Pansy's face was gaunt; her skin grey and eyes sleepy. Her under-eyes were adorned with silver glitter and black eyeliner.

Pansy's fingers closed into Isobel's shoulders; Isobel winced at the sharpness of her nails. "You feel so real," slurred Pansy. "No wonder Draco's having such a hard time moving on, if his ex-girlfriend is a ghost."

Isobel released a breath. "Moving on?" she repeated. The music from outside sounded loudly in here, too; Isobel raised her voice over it. "From me, you mean?"

Pansy paused for a long time, staring at Isobel; considering her. "Of course," she said finally. She blinked. "Stupid little ghost."

"What about Astoria?" asked Isobel. "He's marrying her, isn't he?"

Pansy shook her head very slowly. She dragged Isobel's body closer to hers; rested her forehead against her own. Up close, Pansy's eyes were deeply bloodshot. Tiny specks of glitter had found their way into her eyeballs and between her eyelashes; they shimmered, there. "So sad," muttered Pansy. "So sad that you died."

Isobel spoke loudly. "Is Draco marrying Astoria?"

Pansy gave Isobel one final look before releasing her and stumbling to the mirror. She fumbled in her bag, pulled out a lipgloss. "Arranged."

Isobel could feel sharp wounds; heat rising from where Pansy's nails had dug into her. "What do you mean?" she asked. Pansy didn't reply, so she moved hesitantly closer; stood beside her at the counter. Their reflections stared back at Isobel from the mirror; hazy from the alcohol, blurring into one another. "Draco and Astoria's marriage is arranged?"

Pansy's lipgloss application was sloppy, but she shot a twisted, triumphant smile at the mirror. She spoke to her own reflection. "Arranged marriage is common for purebloods, on our side." She shook her head then, frustration crossing her face. "Sorry," she said. "No more sides."

Isobel felt too hot. This shouldn't change everything, but it did.

Draco shouldn't be marrying Astoria, but he was.

And Isobel shouldn't be so intrigued by him, so obsessed - she didn't even know him - but she was.

Pansy regarded Isobel once more. "Poor little ghost," she said. "Move on, darling. Move on to the afterlife." She gave Isobel a final, pitiful glance. "So sad," she repeated, and left the bathroom.

Isobel's heart thundered in her chest. She couldn't think about it any longer; wouldn't allow herself to sink back into the black hole of antagonistic, malevolent thoughts that had kept her from approaching Draco time and time again.

She was alive. What he wanted to do with that knowledge was his problem, not hers.

She did not look back at her reflection. She did not touch her hair, didn't adjust her clothes. Just walked out of the bathroom and stood at the top of the stairs, looking out across the club. Searching for a shock of white-blond hair.

For several long moments, she could not see him. For long moments, she thought she had missed him; that he had left, gone home, that she would have to build up the courage all over again -

But then he was there, straight across a crowd of sweaty, faceless bodies.

And it was not his hair she saw first.

It was his eyes; pale and grey.

They were staring right back at her.