d r a c o

Draco was running again.

He weaved in and out of London crowds, moving fast; his heavy breath leaving a thin trail of mist behind him in the cold air. The pedestrians were all bundled in thick layers of clothing, but Draco wore no more than shorts and a t-shirt. If he was cold, he couldn't feel it. He wasn't aware of much, except the many trains of thought coursing through his mind, with much speed and little direction.

He hadn't slept. He had tried to; had managed to drop off two or three times, but each time had jerked awake; sat upright with sweat running down his forehead and his heart pounding in his chest. He felt as though he was moving through a surreal, unexpected and entirely unpredictable dream, where the past year and a half had been a nightmare. After the battle, he had found himself with little purpose and no desires: no family name to live up to, no Isobel Young whose company could numb the pain of living in a broken world. Now, she was back, but things were so different. And he had to tread very carefully to make sure he didn't lose her again.

Only twenty-four hours had passed since he'd discovered she was alive. He had thought it so laughable, so desperately stupid that he was casually meeting a girl he had once been in love with at a bar; had showed up delirious and disbelieving, only to find her outside the door of the Leaky Cauldron with her head in her hands and her hair in her face.

He had known immediately that she didn't remember him. Her eyes had flickered with slight recognition, with fear and curiosity. . . But she hadn't looked at him the way she had used to. It was Isobel Young, but not his Isobel Young - not the girl that had shown up on the doorstep of the Manor, and tucked flowers behind his ears at the Great Lake, and stretched her body over his sheets like a starfish. Her expression, when he had seen her by the Leaky Cauldron, had been reminiscent of their fifth year days; when he'd stared at her from across classrooms and cursed himself for being so intrigued by her.

But she was still Belly. Or at least, she was still Isobel Young.

And - it made sense to him, now. The girl he had been in love with before the war would have come straight to him if she could have. He was sure of that. The only thing that explained Belly existing for so long after the war and not coming to find him was that her memories of him had been wiped. He didn't know how it had happened - that she had no recollection of him - but he found himself less preoccupied with the why and more so with the fact that she was alive, now, and he was able to see her, speak to her, touch her. All things that he had accepted he would never be able to do again.

When he got back to his apartment building, his t-shirt clung to his body, drenched with cold sweat. He had run for an hour, maybe more. He didn't know what else to do with himself.

He pushed open his door, and cursed aloud. His mother was sitting in his living room, perched on his couch with her black dress spread neatly around her.

Draco stalked past her and tossed his keys onto his kitchen counter. "Fucking hell, Mother."

Narcissa frowned. "Draco, mind your tongue."

"I won't fucking mind my tongue," said Draco roughly, wiping sweat from his forehead; "Because this is my apartment, and I'll act how I like in it. And I'd appreciate it if you could give some notice before showing up like this."

Narcissa crossed her hands in her lap. "There's no need to be like that, Draco," she said calmly. "I'm just here to see how you're doing."

He stilled. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"A mother can check in on her son," said Narcissa. "And Astoria's mother mentioned that you were acting strangely. Astoria seems to think you want to call off the wedding."

"I wonder what gave her that idea," said Draco. He didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice.

Narcissa's gaze remained steady. "Darling," she said. "You look terrible."

Draco felt his jaw clench. He turned away from her. "Thanks, Mother."

"I'm worried about you," she said. "You really don't look well."

"I've just been for a run, Mother," he said. "Sorry if my sweat bothers you, but if you let me know before you visit next time, maybe we can organise our timing a little better."

"If you could stop being difficult, Draco," said Narcissa, her voice hard, "Then you might sit here beside me, so that we can talk."

Draco drained his glass of water and placed it in the sink. Then, reluctantly, he sat beside his mother. "What is it?"

Narcissa sighed. "Astoria is under the impression that you are no longer willing to marry her."

Draco scoffed, but said nothing.

"I told her mother," said Narcissa, "that I'm sure you're just going through a rough patch, and that you'll see her next week. The Greengrasses will visit us for Christmas dinner, so you and Astoria can make amends then."

"I can't wait."

"Your father and I also think," continued Narcissa, "that you should move out of this apartment, and back to the Manor. We believe you've had enough time to be alone, and that it would be in your best interests to move back home."

Draco sat with his elbows on his knees. His Dark Mark grinned up at him from his pale forearm. He had run through crowds of muggles with it entirely exposed, but no one had given him a second glance. "I'm not moving home," he said gruffly, not looking up from the mark.

"Draco, this apartment is tiny," said Narcissa. "You don't have a job. What do you think goes through people's minds when they hear you've moved in here, just to be alone? What do you think that says about your loyalties?"

Draco tensed his arms. He watched the Dark Mark shift ever so slightly; contorting with the flex of his muscles. "I don't really care."

"Well," said Narcissa tightly, "I think people will have a much harder time doubting the Malfoy name if the Malfoys stuck together a little more."

Draco looked up at his mother. "What do you care?" he asked. "You're married into the family. Why is it that you care more about being a Malfoy than I do?"

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at him. "I care about our family, Draco," she said. "And you'd do well not to let your father hear you speak like that."

Draco hardened his jaw and turned away from her. Whatever loyalties he'd once reserved for the Malfoy name had well and truly vanished. But still, a year and a half ago, Narcissa had risked her life at Battle of Hogwarts, only to find out if Draco was safe or not. That hadn't been for the Malfoy name, that had been for him.

"What do you know about Maggie Young?" he asked, looking back at his mother. "About what happened to her after the war?"

Narcissa blinked. "Very little," she said.

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No, I don't."

He stared at her. "Are you sure?"

"I am quite sure, Draco," said Narcissa, "and your distrust offends me. I don't know what happened to Maggie Young after the war, but if you really want me to, I can try to find out."

"And Father doesn't know, either?"

"No," said Narcissa, firmly. "Your father and I are very much on the same page about your love-life."

Draco rolled his eyes and sat back. "Not on the same page as me, though."

Narcissa reached out to her son and took his hand in her own. "Draco," she said, her voice gentle. "Your father and I have both been very patient with you. With all due respect to Isobel, you were very young when you knew her. It's been almost two years, and you would be doing us a great favour if you tried a little harder to move on."

Draco stared at his mother for long moments, Belly's voice echoing in his head. I don't think we should tell our parents yet. I don't know what could happen if we do. He took a deep breath and said to Narcissa, "You're right."

Surprise flickered in his mother's eyes. "Yes?"

Draco nodded. "I can try harder," he said. "Go out and see friends more, I suppose. Make a little more effort with Astoria."

Intense relief registered in his mother's expression. She cupped his cheek in her palm and smiled at him. "That would be wonderful, darling."

Draco was silent. When his mother rose from the couch to return to the Manor, he was silent. When he showed her to the door and she hugged him and told him she was glad that he finally wanted to try - he was silent. That was what his parents wanted, wasn't it? No talkback, no retaliation. All they wanted was for him to be a quiet, uncomplaining puppet in their show.

When she left, he peeled off his sweaty running t-shirt and crossed the room to his bathroom. He clutched the rim of his sink and leant his weight onto it, watching his reflection.

He had once obsessed over the way he looked; had revelled in the attention of girls at school as if their awe for his appearance said absolutely anything about the kind of person he was. That person - whoever he had been, back then - was nowhere to be found in the mirror, now.

Scars criss crossed his chest, traces of the day that Harry Potter had attacked him in the bathroom. Heavy, dark circles lay under his eyes. His cheekbones stuck out from hollow cheeks, and stubble lined his jaw.

He barely recognised himself. It was a wonder that Belly had recognised him at all.

Fucking hell, he thought. If he wanted a life with Isobel Young, he was going to have to make her fall in love with him all over again.

-

i s o b e l

Isobel stood at the edge of her garden, her winter boots crunching on frozen grass. It was exactly a week before Christmas, now, and it was desperately cold. Ice clung to the bare branches of the trees that loomed over the small garden, blocking out the sun.

Back in the summer, their garden had been very green. Her mother had chosen this house for how secluded it was; tucked away in the corner of a countryside road, and shadowed by curling trees. Without the green leaves and wildflowers, the house and its garden seemed sad and colourless.

Isobel curled her socked toes inside her boots, closed her eyes, and pretended she was at the beach instead. Pretended there were waves tipping in the distance, sliding back and forth on the warm, sandy shore, and leaving ripples in the sand. She imagined Ginny, Neville and Luna there with her, standing beside her. That was no longer an out-of-reach dream.

Maybe Draco was there, as well. Maybe his friends, too, if he'd like that. Things were different now, beyond the war and the walls of petty school-group boundaries. Maybe they could all be friends now.

She opened her eyes, only to be met with bare, crooked branches; shivering in the bitter wind.

She walked back into the house through the kitchen and found her mother there, sitting at the table with a copy of the Daily Prophet. Isobel stared at her. She hadn't seen her mother outside of her bedroom in weeks. "Are you feeling better?"

Maggie smiled. "Much better today, thank you."

"That's good," said Isobel. Her mother did look better, actually; her face had some colour in it, and she didn't seem as frail, suddenly. "Can I make you something? Tea, coffee?"

"Coffee would be lovely."

Isobel busied herself with the coffee pot, aware of her mother's eyes following her around the kitchen. She flicked on the stove and watched the coffee heat up for a few moments, before asking with forced casualness, "Mum, why can't I remember Draco Malfoy?"

She turned back to her mother; registered her hardened expression. "I told you," said Maggie. "You hit your head at the battle. You're suffering from memory loss."

"I'm pretty sure, though," said Isobel, "that he's the only thing I can't remember. It seems like. . . Well, I don't know. A targeted memory loss."

Maggie's eyes shifted over the newspaper, not meeting her daughter's. "How would you know what you can't remember?"

"I don't," said Isobel. "It's just strange to me. That I can remember him, but not having a relationship with him."

"You said you're not interested in that."

"I'm not," said Isobel quickly. "It just crossed my mind."

Maggie looked up at her. "Next time it crosses your mind," she said, "Remember that he was a Death Eater. Remember that he tried to kill Albus Dumbledore, and would have done so if Snape hadn't beaten him to it. Remember that it was his kind that killed your father."

Isobel felt a pang in her heart. She knew these things: her mother repeated them to her on occasion. But in the past twenty-four hours, it had become impossible to think of them without seeing Draco's face in a London nightclub: his sad, drunken eyes looking at her as if there was nothing good left on earth. 

So she nodded, poured their coffees and sat beside her mother, saying nothing more of Draco Malfoy.

That night, when the land was dark and her mother was fast asleep in bed, Isobel snuck down the hallway and out of the house, shutting the front door behind her as quietly as she could.

She was going to meet Draco at his apartment. That was the plan, nothing more. They could go for a walk, she thought, or maybe Apparate together to a beach somewhere and look at the stars. Or even just sit in his apartment and talk. She would be happy to do that, too.

She knew she couldn't expect anything from him, and he couldn't expect anything from her. She had said that aloud to him once, and said it to herself on occasion. She sternly repeated to herself, over and over, that a teenage puppy love she didn't even remember could not easily be replicated. That they clearly both had a lot of trauma to process and work through, and a relationship probably wasn't the best for either of them, at the moment. That he was due to get married, anyway, so it was unlikely a relationship was even an option, or ever would be.

But still. There was no harm in seeing him.

She walked down the dark driveway so that her mother wouldn't wake at the loud crack of her Apparition. Then she Apparated to London, to the alleyway near his apartment. She breathed in its familiar smell, and found sudden comfort in the thought that this visit would be different. That this time, she would actually get to see him.

She adjusted her coat, and combed a hand through her hair. Then she walked out of the alleyway, made to turn the corner onto the street where Draco lived -

When her vision went black, she felt the tip of a wand press into her temple, and heard a wicked voice whisper, "Obliviate."