i s o b e l

It was cold inside the Leaky Cauldron. Isobel was wearing at least three layers of clothing, and still, she shivered.

Three layers of clothing and even so, when she put her hand to her chest, she could feel her heart beating through them.

She was sitting in a round booth in the back of the bar. It was ten past one.

She had spoken to Draco for only a few minutes the night before. Or tried to speak to him. He had been so drunk, and so perplexed by her presence, and she had felt a crashing wave of guilt every time he had given her that sad, disbelieving look. As if - he wanted to believe that she was there, in front of him. But it couldn't have been true.

She hadn't known what to do. There had been no plan, no strategy. No beaten path for her to follow. So, in her unsureness and slight derision, she had taken the only piece of parchment she'd had on her. The letter, her precious letter that she'd clung to for months now, that she'd held in her fist like it was a part of her; and she had torn it. She had torn straight through Draco's melancholy words, and scrawled a note on the other side. An invitation to meet her here, so that they could speak; so that they could finally figure everything out.

Her knee jiggled nervously beneath the table. She was beginning to realise how many things might have gone wrong with that invitation.

The Leaky Cauldron was mostly empty, given that it was lunchtime on a weekend. Several individuals were scattered sparsely around the room, their faces barely visible from where Isobel sat. She had bought a beer for herself: it sat untouched in the centre of the dusty table.

At the back of the Leaky Cauldron was the entry to Diagon Alley. She didn't know which way Draco would come from - if he ever showed up. That distressed her even more: she didn't know where to look. Didn't know which door she should watch, to prepare herself for his entry.

The longer hand of her watch turned to three. He was fifteen minutes late.

It was fine, if he was late. That was normal. It wasn't something to worry about.

But God, she was worried. It had been different last night when she had seen him. She had been moving on adrenaline and alcohol, on her anger at Lucius Malfoy. Now, her thoughts were aggressively clear.

Firstly, there were no conclusions to be drawn from a marriage being arranged. Just because someone else had arranged for Draco to marry Astoria, it didn't mean he didn't like her - or even love her. It didn't mean he was unwilling to marry her.

Secondly, Lucius Malfoy was more than just a small annoyance. Draco's family were powerful, and Isobel worried that they had intercepted somehow. She was sure that if Lucius had found out about last night, he would be involved now, somehow - either by preventing Draco from coming to her now, or by joining him. . . If Draco were to arrive accompanied by his parents, or by Astoria - Isobel didn't think she could handle that.

Finally, it had been stupid of her to invite him here with a note placed in drunken hands. To assume that a note was a sufficient, reliable method of communication, that he wouldn't misplace it in his intoxicated state. It had been stupid of her to assume he would remember last night at all.

Memory loss was a formidable thing, had stolen from them moments, months, years. Emotions. It hadn't just torn holes in their tapestry, but had shred it entirely. And she was holding onto threads.

It was silly to worry now, she knew that. Silly to overthink everything when she might be minutes away from talking to him. But her stomach turned and her breath quickened and the smoky, hazy air of the bar made its way into her mouth and through her lungs.

She stood, hands trembling. She needed air.

She stumbled to the door with one hand pressed to her chest, her vision clouding. It was all so much. Why Draco Malfoy, and why her? And why were they being pulled back together with such magnetic force -

It was too much. She left the Leaky Cauldron, tried to stand by its wall but found herself sinking to the ground, breathing quickly; clutching her knees between her arms and pressing her face to her legs.

Long moments passed before strong hands grappled at her shoulders, then at her arms. Pale, white hands.

They extracted her own hands from where they gripped her legs. The slender fingers entwined tightly with her own; pale thumbs rubbed over her palms. She gazed at them a few moments, before looking up at Draco Malfoy.

He crouched in front of her; tears in his eyes, bottom lip shaking.

The sound of the world was returning. She became aware, again, of the people passing on the street, the sounds of the city, the hard pavement beneath her -

But not quite so aware as she was of Draco Malfoy, who was crouching in front of her, holding her hands so very tightly. With such agony and dread, as if he feared she might turn to dust at any moment.

"Hello," she said quietly, trying to curve her mouth into a smile.

She pulled one hand from his - reached it up to wipe an escaped tear from his cheek. What a strange thing, she thought, to sit so closely to Draco Malfoy; to wipe his tears.

When he spoke, his voice was croaky. "Are you hurt?"

"No," said Isobel, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. Her heart was still beating fast, but her breathing had steadied and her vision had cleared. "I'm fine, thank you. Just overwhelmed."

He stared at her. His knees pressed against hers; he tightly clutched one of her hands between both of his.

"You don't remember," he said finally. It wasn't a question.

She took a shaky breath, and shook her head. "How did you. . ." She broke off. "I thought I would have to explain that to you."

Draco looked away from her for the first time. "Something in your eyes," he mumbled.

They stood up together. He was taller than she had expected, and towered over her, now. She felt suddenly awkward and self-conscious, as if they were strangers on a blind date. Or long-lost friends, who were no longer sure how to relate to each other.

Draco was still dressed in his clothes from the night before. His hair usually hung into his eyes, but was now particularly dishevelled, and stuck up at odd angles. Isobel could smell tobacco and bitter alcohol from his black-knit jumper, could see fair stubble along his jawline. Out of pure nerves, she raised a hand for him to shake. He stared at it.

She dropped it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sure this is strange for you, too."

He reached out a hand; drew it lightly along the side of her cheek. Pedestrians bustled around them, but he seemed not to notice; moved his fingers down the side of her neck and picked at her scarf and asked, hoarsely, "How are you real?"

Isobel felt tears prick at her eyes, too. "I have a lot to explain," she told him. "I'm really sorry it's taken me this long for me to reach out to you, Malfoy, I -"

He winced at that; dropped his hands and shoved them in his pockets, and turned his face to stare at the ground as if she had slapped him. "Please don't call me that," he said.

Isobel released a breath. "Sorry," she replied. "Draco, I mean." He didn't respond, so she asked, "Can we go inside? I have a table."

She felt unsteady on her feet, still, and the table she had chosen for them suddenly felt very far away. All the way through the bar, she was aware of his eyes on her. She raised a hand to touch her glass of beer as they sat at the booth: it was lukewarm now, and probably flat.

She clasped her hands in her lap and looked at him: all white hair and long limbs sprawled across the weathered booth; grey eyes fixed on her, taking her in. "You're not hurt?" he asked again.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, that was embarrassing. I just - this is just a lot."

Draco's eyes fell to a scar on her cheekbone - a faint, paper-thin mark she'd had since the war. He raised a calloused finger to it at once; traced the scar. "What's this?"

"Nothing," said Isobel. "I fell in the battle. When I was attacked. . ."

Draco dropped his hand. He pressed his lips together, pain painted across his expression; then said, "I saw you, in the courtyard, lying there. I touched you. You were ice cold." He shook his head; dragged the palms of his hands across his eyes. "This feels like a fucking dream."

"My mother enchanted a necklace," said Isobel. "A deflective charm, against dark magic."

He nodded. "I know."

"You know?"

"Yes," he said. "Your friend - the Weasley girl -"

"Ginny," corrected Isobel.

"She explained it," he said. "I didn't believe her at the time."

"You spoke to Ginny?" she asked.

He sat back, eyes still fixed on hers, no pretences about him. "She came to my apartment. Barged into it like she bloody owned the place."

Despite herself, Isobel smiled. "But you didn't believe her?"

He shook his head. "I didn't think there was a way you could be alive. Because I thought. . . I thought if you were alive, you would have come back to me." He looked at her, then said quickly, "But you don't remember me. So that explains it."

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I remember you from school, from when we were younger."

Draco's fair eyebrows knitted together. "You do?"

"Yes," she said. "I remember you, I just don't remember. . . " She trailed off, and his face relaxed, in understanding.

"Us," he finished.

"Yes."

Draco worked his jaw, clenched and unclenched one pale fist. Then said, "I think that's even worse."

It was Isobel who reached out this time, instinctively touching her fingertips to the back of his hand. "You'd rather I didn't remember you at all?"

"I think so," he said, almost absently. He seemed more occupied with looking at her, with taking in every feature of her face, than discussing any of it.

Isobel swallowed, willing herself not to cry. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know why I can't remember. I've tried so hard to." He didn't reply, so she went on; "Ginny thought it might be the necklace. She thought that my mother charmed the necklace so that it could block my memories of you. But it's not that."

She watched Draco take his bottom lip between his teeth and chew on it. "Do you still wear it?" he asked. He touched the scarf at her neck. "This is mine, by the way," he mumbled.

"It's yours?" she asked, smiling again. "This is my favourite scarf."

He rolled his eyes. "Ever since you stole it from me in seventh year."

"Well, mine now, I suppose," she said. Then added nervously, "Unless you want it back -"

His lips tilted up with the ghost of a smile. "It looks better on you, obviously."

Isobel laughed; breathy and nervous. She unwound the scarf, picked out the silver necklace from beneath her jumper. "I wear this everyday," she said, balancing the tiny star between her finger and thumb. "I didn't know I wore it in school, as well."

Draco's eyes dropped from hers for a moment, to glance at the necklace. "I gave it to you," he said.

"Oh," said Isobel, dropping the necklace back under her jumper. She had been cold earlier; the air was still cold, now, but with him beside her, she felt hot and flustered. "I didn't know that."

"Yes, I -" He laughed, then. "It was so stupid."

His laugh lit up his entire face; all of the sadness, tiredness and gauntness disappearing momentarily. She looked up at him, mesmerized. "Tell me the story."

He hid his face in one hand for a moment - then resurfaced, looking sheepish. "It was before we ever got involved with each other, like, properly. We were at this dumb Christmas party and you said something painfully pretentious about nothing being special anymore -" he paused for a moment, eyes flicking across her face. "And that everything is so ordinary, these days, that people can buy the stars in the sky."

"Oh," Isobel nodded slowly, understanding. "My own star. I get it."

Draco nodded, smile fading. "Stupid," he repeated.

"It's not stupid," said Isobel, hastily; apologetically. "I just wish I could remember it."

He placed a consoling arm on her hand again; rested it there. Isobel was struck, not for the first time, by how casually he moved around her, how familiar he seemed with her presence. She was sure that he wasn't an affectionate person by nature, but there was an ease in the way he touched her hands, her face, her skin - as if he'd touched it all a thousand times before. Which he probably had, she reminded herself, but it was bewildering still. Because he was, in ways, a stranger to her.

His eyes left hers, and he noticed the beer on the table. "Is this yours?" he asked, looking confused.

She nodded. "Clearly I wasn't in the mood for it."

He laughed, and turned back to her, grinning. "You're drinking beer?"

She frowned. "Is that unlike me?"

He waved an airy hand, still smiling. "Yeah, a bit. You used to be more into the fruity, sugary stuff."

"Oh," said Isobel lightly. "Right."

Draco's smile faded once more, and Isobel felt a twisting knot in her stomach. "What else can't you remember?" he asked. "Aside from our relationship."

Isobel clasped her hands together again, stared at them. "I don't know," she said, twiddling her thumbs. "I don't know what I can't remember, because I can't remember it." She looked up at him quickly, at that. "Sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

He reached out - again, with the touching - and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. "You don't need to apologise to me."

She had been alone for so long. Of course she'd had Ginny, and her mother, but it was strange to sit so close to someone, to see the fragile skin by his eyes crease as he watched her, to see him draw his teeth over his pink lips, to see white-blond hair hang over his vision of her.

She cleared her throat, self-conscious. "I can't stay for long."

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes suddenly wild. "We just got here. You can't just go -"

"I'm sorry, I -"

"You can't just leave me again."

Isobel felt immensely guilty. "I'm sorry," she said. "I need to get home before my mother realizes I'm gone. I need time to process all this. . . And I think you do, too."

He was looking away from her now; staring hard at the table, as if wanting to burn a hole in it. "I want you to understand," said Isobel carefully, "that I can't promise you anything. I don't remember falling in love with you, and - so much time has passed since the war, that I don't know if we'd even work together. I hope that's okay."

His jaw was clenched tight. He stared at the table. "Okay."

"I don't doubt what we had," she said. "But I can't force anything."

"Okay," he repeated.

"I mean," she said, suddenly embarrassed, "I'm not assuming you want anything from me. I know we were younger then, and I know you have an entire life without me, now, and I don't assume that you want me to come in here and mess it all up -"

He looked up at her, stricken. "Belly," he said gruffly, "My life now is half of what it was when I had you. Even with all of the shit we were dealing with back then. I think of you everyday - every moment of everyday - and I think that I am a shadow of the person I was with you. And now you're back, and I swear I might be fucking dreaming, but if there's even the slightest chance of you coming into my life again -"

His eyes had filled with tears again. Before Isobel knew exactly what she was doing, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the tall, blonde boy. She felt him relax; felt the tension fall from his shoulders and move to his arms as he clung to her; threading his hands around her back and to the curve of her waist and holding her body tightly in his, and she had so little recollection of him, but he felt so familiar -

She pulled herself away and sat back, swiping a jumper sleeve against her wet cheeks. He, too, impatiently brushed away tears. "Belly."

She huffed out a laugh. "Belly, yeah. I read that one in your letter. Did I even agree to that nickname?"

"Oh, don't start with that again," he said, his tone light, but his expression nervous. "I can't call you Isobel, that's far too formal." His eyebrows furrowed again. "Where have you been?"

Any visitor of the Leaky Cauldron that day might have shot them an odd look: two young twenty-somethings, speaking earnestly in a dimly lit corner. There was a familiarity between their bodies and an emotion in their language, and yet they sat far enough apart that they might have been strangers. One flat beer stood on the table, long forgotten.

When they departed - he for his nearby apartment, she for the countryside house 200 miles away - he hugged her again; nestled his face in her hair and clung to her as if he were trying to memorize every aspect of her. "Please tell me you'll come back soon," he whispered. She smiled at him; timid and hopeful, and gave him a small, shy nod.