d r a c o

Draco woke with a start, his breathing shallow and his heart beating fast. He was lying fully clothed on top of his duvet, and could feel a thick sweat on his forehead. Daylight poured in from the windows; he squinted against it.

A knock sounded from his apartment door. That must have been what had woken him up - someone at the door - but it was just so far away. He groaned. His head pounded as he sat up; he clutched at it, trying to think of a spell for headaches.

Another knock, then a voice: "Draco? Are you there?"

He cursed aloud, stood precariously, and made his way across his living room to his door. Opened it to reveal his neighbour Emily, beaming up at him.

"Hi Draco," she said cheerily. "Are you well? Lovely day outside."

Draco peered at her, trying to remember when he had told her his name. He could feel his shirt clinging to his back, slick with sweat.

"Anyway," she said brightly, "I was just going for a grocery run and noticed some things outside your door, that you might have dropped. Your wallet, and. . ." She held up his wallet and his wand. "I'm not sure what this is," she said, balancing the wand between two fingers and looking very bewildered.

"Oh, shit," said Draco loudly. His head responded with a throb of pain; he held one hand to it and took his things from her with the other. "Sorry," he said to Emily, who seemed startled by his exclamation.

She glanced at his wand again. "So, what is. . ."

Draco sighed heavily. He held it up so that she could take another look. "It's my magic wand," he told her.

Emily laughed loudly. "You Brits, and your British humour," she said. "Very funny."

"Right." Draco backed into his apartment, reaching for the door handle. He considered Obliviating her again, but could not find the energy -

"Oh," said Emily. "Did your friend ever find you?"

"My friend?"

"There was a girl here the other day," she said. "Around two weeks ago. She was looking for you."

He stopped. "What did she look like?"

"She was. . . well, blonde," said Emily. "Average height. Pretty."

Draco stared at Emily, his hand frozen on the door handle. "Did she -" his voice was croaky; he cleared his throat. "Did she say what her name was?"

Emily nodded eagerly. "Oh yes. Her name was. . . Oh gosh, I can't remember now. Daisy, maybe?"

He swallowed. "It wouldn't have been Isobel, would it?"

"Daphne!" exclaimed Emily. Draco released a breath. "Daphne, how could I have forgotten."

"Daphne," repeated Draco, voice hollow. "Right."

"Did she find you okay?"

Draco's hangover was making its way across his body and he was beginning to feel nauseous. "No," he said flatly. "She was probably looking for her sister. Her sister is my - my friend."

"Oh I don't know," said Emily. "She seemed pretty eager to see you."

Draco started to close his door. He hoped she would understand the hint.

"I told her I would let you know she was here," said Emily quickly, "so I'm just following up on my duty."

"Nice to meet you, Emily."

He shut the door. From behind it came a muffled, "You too, Draco!"

Draco threw his wallet at the ground. His headache was splitting, his stomach was unsettled, and he could feel an oncoming fever. He wasn't used to being sick: his mother was good with remedial charms and had, in his childhood, come up with whatever he needed to cure any complaints of aches, pains or illnesses. He had never bothered to learn the charms himself.

He didn't have any coffee, so he flicked on his kettle and threw a teabag into a mug. He put his hands on either side of the sink, leant over it and flexed his arms.

A knock at his door sounded again and he groaned aloud. He had rented this apartment to get away from people, and yet, visitors were arriving every day now.

He had hardly raised his head; had hardly even considered answering the door, when it opened and Astoria walked in. "Good afternoon," she said, hands clasped together in front of her.

"Afternoon," he repeated. "What time is it?"

"It's half past twelve," she said. "How are you feeling?" she looked him up and down. "You don't look very well."

"Some warning might have been nice," said Draco. The kettle clicked off; he busied himself with pouring the boiling water. He opened the fridge and peered into it; it was sparse, as usual. He wasn't sure he could keep anything down, anyway.

When he looked back to Astoria, she was standing beside the kitchen alcove. "We said we would talk today," she said.

"I believe you said we would talk," he replied.

"Don't be immature, Draco."

Draco stifled another groan. "Fine," he said. "Let's talk. But let's go outside, I need fresh air."

It might have been more so that he wanted her to leave his apartment than a need for fresh air, but Astoria complied, regardless. He followed her to the door and together they descended the building stairs in silence. He carried his mug with him: the hot tea splashed around in it as he walked; an imitation of the succession of glasses of whiskey he had held last night. Or perhaps it had been rum. He wasn't sure.

They sat outside on the steps of the apartment building. It was a bright day, but bitterly cold. Astoria shivered beside him, and he looked away pointedly. Across the street was the red-brick corner where he had once thought he'd seen Belly. He stared hard at it, tried to imagine her face there again, looking intently at him with big, dark eyes -

"I've been thinking about it," said Astoria, "and I understand why you don't want to get married. You've known love before; real, romantic love. I understand how that may have ruined your perception of it."

"Ruined it?"

"Yes, ruined it, Draco," she said firmly, "because it's unrealistic. It's not normal to know that kind of love and I believe if you hadn't known it, you'd be happy to marry me. Because you wouldn't think that everyone who ended up with someone had to be madly in love with them."

"Perhaps it's less so that love has been ruined for me," replied Draco, still watching the street corner, "and more so that I've been lucky enough to know it."

She sniffed. "Well, that's an oddly positive way of seeing it."

"What about everything you said?" he asked. "About - arranged marriage, and blood purity being a construct -"

"Blood purity is a construct, Draco," she said, sounding exasperated. "I would never choose someone based on how magical their blood is." She sighed. "But I still think I'd be happier with you than with anyone else."

He looked at her. The corners of her mouth were turned down, red lipstick crinkling. Lines were visible on her forehead, etched deep, making her look much older than she was. "You do?"

"Yes I do," she said. She took the end of her braid between her fingers and picked at it. "And I think that if you tried to leave behind everything you think you know about love and marriage," she said, "and saw it all a bit more realistically, you would understand that we can make this work."

They were silent. He didn't have anything to say to that.

Astoria was angry, all the time. Not at him; just at the world. Her bitterness, indignation and strong resolve had once all been refreshing to him. But he didn't have the energy to reciprocate her opinions, to discuss with her all of these things she cared so strongly about. She had every right to be angry, he knew that. He didn't resent her for it. He just felt guilty for not being able to mirror it.

"Your sister was here recently," he said. "Looking for you, I assume."

"That can't be right," said Astoria calmly. "My sister is in Greece."

"Well, she was here," said Draco. "My neighbour told me she met a Daphne."

Astoria turned to him. "My sister is in Greece, visiting friends," she said, her voice suddenly seething with irritation. "She's been there for the past month. You'd know that if you had bothered to ask me - or any of your friends - how she was doing. Which isn't very well, by the way."

He looked at her, spitefully calm. "I'm only repeating to you what my neighbour told me."

Astoria closed her eyes. He watched her take a deep, exaggerated breath. "I think this is our issue," she said with her eyes still closed. "We don't communicate properly. Perhaps if you took the time to listen to what I was saying, we wouldn't clash like this. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

He looked away impatiently. "The blame is all mine, is it?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you implied."

"Draco, I've had enough of this," Astoria snapped. "You act like you're open to trying a relationship but you're not trying at all. Not even close."

Draco put his tea on the stone step beside him and tried to block out her voice. He was feeling increasingly nauseous. He thought back to the night before and tried to count the drinks he had had. One muggle whiskey when he had arrived, a firewhiskey that Theo had forced on him ten minutes later -

"We're never going to get anywhere," came Astoria's voice, "if you don't put in any effort. If you don't step out of your comfort zone -"

When Astoria had left him in the smoking area and he had returned to the bar, bumped into Blaise - that was where it all got muddled. The whole night was blurry, but that was where the sequence of events cut off; went dark - but he could remember the smell of alcohol and sweat, the crowd, Blaise's voice close to his ear -

"I understand that you're still upset about Isobel," said Astoria. "I understand, and it's such a sad situation -"

He pressed his face into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

She kept speaking; "And I swear my heart breaks for you, but you have to learn to control your emotions -"

And then he saw her again. It came back to him in snapshots: her frantic eyes, the dirty-blonde curl of hair in his hand.

"I'm not telling you to move on," said Astoria. Her voice was faint. "I'm only telling you to visualize the life you have ahead of you."

"Fuck," said Draco. "Wait. Stop talking."

Belly's hand in his. And the tears on her cheeks - it had all felt so real.

The smell of burnt sugar. Pansy's face up close, saying, "I saw her in the bathroom. You never told us she was a ghost."

Belly wasn't a ghost. That was the one thing he was sure of.

Astoria faded back into his vision. She was kneeling in front of him now, looking concerned. "If you're unwell," she was saying, "I can take you to St. Mungo's. You really need to get yourself together -"

"I have to go," he interrupted.

Astoria's face fell. "But we haven't decided -"

"I'm sorry," he said. He took one last look at her, then stood and rushed back into the building; leaving her there on the steps, a cold mug of tea beside her.

He sprinted.

And as he ran up the stairs it became more clear; she became more distinct in his mind - her hair, her anxious expression, the club lights moving over her face, turning it all shades of neon colours - but how could it have been her, really -

He burst into his apartment and found his coat, hanging over the side of the couch. He fumbled through its pockets, looking for some evidence of her -

Then, in the corner of the room - his wallet was lying on the floor, where he had tossed it, its contents spilling out onto the wood. Various identification cards, a mixture of galleons and muggle money, his muggle debit card - and a small, torn piece of yellowing, crumpled parchment.

As he picked it up, he recognised the writing as his own. His stomach flipped as he read the words:

My dearest darling love,

I know you hate when I call you that, but I miss you -

It cut off there. His heart thudded in his chest, his fingers trembled.

He turned over the parchment and his breath caught.

Dear Draco,

Can you meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at one?

I'm sorry it has taken me this long to reach out to you.

From Isobel.