i s o b e l

It was almost two in the morning when they arrived at the nearest park.

The park was quiet, a step away from the city streets but more sheltered and solitary. It had been locked - they had snuck through with an Alohamora - and so, they had the expanse of grass and trees all to themselves.

They had both taken a paper cup from the corner shop's coffee machine. Draco poured wine for each of them, wryly bumped his cup against hers. They sat, talking. The bare trees did little to shelter them from the cold, but the more wine Isobel had in her system, the better she was able to forget that.

The stars were faint; difficult to see from the city and its lights, but the moon shone brightly over the park. Draco sat with his elbows splayed on his knees. He was wearing a black hoodie underneath his jacket; had its hood pulled over his head. Isobel shot glances at him when he wasn't looking her way; studied the bounce of the moonlight against the pale skin of his hands, the soft pieces of hair that stuck out from under his hood.

"I'm sorry I got angry, earlier," he said, angling his face to her. "When I got back from the bar."

"I'm sorry, too. I know I should have stayed home." I just missed you, she thought.

A smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm sick of being locked up," she told him. "I hate it. I hate that house."

"I hate your mother for locking you up."

She gripped her wine; stared into its depths. "I know you do," she said, begrudgingly.

He brushed the backs of his fingers against her hand. "You snuck into the Manor twice," he said. "Snuck past the gates and the doorman and everything. You didn't even know where in the house to find me." He rolled his eyes. "You could've gotten into serious trouble for it. So I guess showing up on my doorstep at midnight isn't exactly surprising behaviour."

She looked back at him, bewildered. She couldn't imagine herself sneaking into Malfoy Manor now; it sounded terrifying.

Draco drained the rest of his wine. "Used to forget your wand everywhere you went as well," he said.

That much she remembered. "My mother has it drilled into me, now, to always check I have it with me."

"Send her my gratitude."

She tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. Her mother and Draco would probably never like each other; might never even meet again. "Can you tell me more?" she asked him. "More things like that, that I can't remember. More about us."

"If you'd like that," he said, and she nodded.

He told her about the Ministry Christmas party, four years before. Told her that he had followed her up onto a roof and they had looked out at the city and she had, for the first time, spoken to him as if he were just a friend. Not Draco Malfoy, just Draco. That she'd swung her legs on the wall and made stupid jokes and he had found himself falling for her. That he'd despised himself for it, but it had happened, irrepressibly.

"And then I bought you that necklace," he said, eyes dropping to her coat pocket, "and you wore it even though you claimed you hated me." He tilted an eyebrow. "Suspicious, I thought."

He went on; told her more. Told her of afternoons they had spent by the lake; of evenings in the library. Of the fights they'd had over Dumbledore's Army, of how she had infuriated him by relentlessly winding up the Carrows. Of how she'd gone to Malfoy Manor and they had sat on top of a fountain and those moments had felt like the only good things in the world.

Isobel huddled her arms around her knees, listening to him. When he finished speaking, a cold breeze blew through her hair; sent shivers down her spine.

"That's not everything," he said. "But that's a lot of it." His jaw hardened as he looked away across the park. "A lot of our time consisted of you being angry at me for all of the shit I did wrong, and me trying to keep away because our relationship put you in danger. But you'd ask me to come back and I'd be too weak to say no; over and over. And I guess that's what's happening again, now. You'd be in much less danger if you weren't here, with me."

"I know," she said quietly. "But I'm here by choice."

He looked at her, face still framed by his hoodie. "There's a lot you don't know, though," he said. "Things that you forgave me for in the past. And if you knew those things now - if you got your memories back, now - I'm not sure you would forgive me again."

She kept her arms around her legs, and her gaze on him. "Like being a Death Eater?" she asked. "And everything you did for Voldemort, and trying to kill Dumbledore?"

His expression was pained. "Yes," he said. "Like that."

"Is that why you don't want to show me your memories?" she asked. "In a Pensieve?"

"I couldn't only show you the good memories. It wouldn't be right."

Isobel sighed. "But I know those things, Draco. My mother tried to paint the worst possible picture of you in the past year, to try to put me off you."

He let out a hollow laugh. "I'm sure she did."

"She told me every possible thing she could think of, that could make me fear you and your family," said Isobel, and Draco's eyes shifted back to hers. "But here I am, in the freezing cold in the middle of the night, drinking wine from a paper cup. With you."

His jaw hardened once more. "I guess so," he said, his voice low.

She looked at him. Maybe it was the night air, maybe it was the silence; maybe it was the alcohol warming her system, but a jolt of bravery ran through her. "I really liked the cottage," she said.

His eyebrows knitted. "Yeah?"

"Especially the big window."

"That's why I bought it," he said. "Because of the window. I thought you'd like it."

"It's incredible."

He smiled. "Good."

"But you never planned to live in it?"

He shrugged. "It was my father's money," he said, a smirk faint on his lips. "It felt good to spend it on something I considered unusable."

She sat back, perplexed. Being able to afford a house that you didn't even plan to use was wealth beyond her understanding. "I think it might have been the most beautiful house I've ever seen," she said. "Needs some retouching, though. The walls for instance, were a bit. . . Non-existent."

He grinned. "Definitely needs a retouch."

When they stood to go, the sky was already getting lighter.

They walked slowly back to his apartment, in no particular rush to get there or do anything at all. As his apartment building appeared at the end of the street; grew closer as they approached, Isobel felt nerves begin to gnaw at her. She didn't want to go; was afraid to even let him out of her sight.

"Is it okay if I stay over?" she asked. Her voice sounded breathless. "I'll sleep on the couch."

She heard him chuckle; looked up to see him shake his head, as if in disbelief.

"I don't like my house," she told him as they walked, hoping that that might clear it up. "It's lonely." She paused. "Wait, why is that funny?"

Draco looked at her, smiling; knitted his eyebrows and said, "No, nothing. But I'm obviously not going to make you sleep on the couch." He brushed a hand over the small of her back, then dropped it; shoved his hands into his pockets. "You can have the bed, I'll take the couch."

She saw no point in arguing with him. "Thank you," she said. Her cheeks felt warm.

When they got back to his apartment, he was suddenly much quieter. She took a shower, brushed her teeth with a spare toothbrush he had pointed out to her. Back in his room, she found that he had left a small heap of clothes for her on his bed; a t-shirt, grey hoodie and plaid pyjama trousers. She pulled them on; breathed in the familiarity of the fabric's smell. The pyjamas pooled around her feet, so she looped them over her waist a few times.

Her grogginess from the alcohol had shifted into fatigue, so she padded back into the living room to say goodnight. Draco was sitting on the couch, arms crossed across his chest and his legs up on the coffee table. He looked up as she came in. His eyes fell to her clothing, and she saw him swallow.

She sat on the couch, facing him. "Thanks for the clothes."

"That's okay."

"And thanks again for letting me stay."

He nodded. "You know I'd prefer you stay here than in your house."

Isobel fiddled with her nails. "Still. Thank you."

There were a hundred other things to thank him for. For being so patient with her, primarily.

"Well, goodnight," she said; still sitting there, facing him.

He watched her. For a split-second, his eyes dropped to her lips. "Night."

They didn't move. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap. He, too, remained tense; unspeaking, just looking at her. Waiting.

She looked away. "Okay. See you tomorrow."

She heard him exhale; looked back and saw that his eyes were still on hers. She stood, walked to his bedroom with the sleeves of his hoodie balled in her fists.

She lay in his bed, pulled his sheets over herself. They, too, smelt like him.

Despite her tiredness, she found that she couldn't fall asleep. She watched the crack of light that shone under the door; waited for him to turn off the living room light. But it didn't go off, and for an hour she lay there, her head spinning with thoughts of him.

Finally she stood, padded to the door and opened it as quietly as she could.

Draco was asleep on the couch, a thick, grey knitted blanket thrown over himself. Still, the overhead lights were on. She furrowed her eyebrows. Had he forgotten to turn them off? Should she do it for him?

She couldn't see his face from where she stood by the door; only the back of his white-blond hair. She retreated into his bedroom, holding her breath; tried to close his door as quietly as possible.

"Belly?"

She looked up. He had raised his head; was looking up at her with sleepy eyes.

"You okay?"

"Sorry," she whispered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

He shifted so that he was lying up on his forearms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just - the lights were on. I thought you were still awake."

"Are they bothering you?"

She shook her head. "No. No, don't worry."

He sat up, looked at her with clearer eyes. "It's just a habit, since the war. I can turn them off if you want."

She exhaled, looking at him for long moments. Then asked, "Do you want to sleep in your bed, instead? The couch doesn't look very comfortable."

She watched Draco's fist curl into the grey blanket. Then he nodded, got up and followed her into the bedroom. He left the door slightly ajar behind him; let a crack of light shine into the room.

He lay on his back, and she on her side. His face was turned to hers, and in the near-darkness, she could just make out his grey eyes. They were on her; his gaze steady.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she whispered.

Underneath the covers, his hand found hers. "It's okay."

"Goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight."

He was the first to close his eyes. Long minutes passed, and she felt quite certain that he had fallen asleep. In the faint light, she tried to memorize every line and curve of his face. Tried to take it all in; tattoo it in her mind, so that she never could forget it again.

He was simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, to her. She had no recollection of knowing him personally, no recollection of visiting his house or speaking to his parents or falling for him at all. But his hand in hers felt right. It felt like it had been there before.

She threaded an arm around his waist, and nestled into him. In the darkness, she heard him exhale, his breath slightly shaky. She held him closer.

For the first time since she had met him, she fell asleep feeling certain that she would still know him when she woke.