i s o b e l

Isobel felt herself pulled into the spirals of Apparition, her left hand entwined with Draco's and her right grabbing at his black-knit jumper.

In the seconds that they twisted through air and space and time, his arm circled around her shoulders, pulling her close. She breathed in his smell, now familiar - fresh and clean, like peppermint and green apple.

Several months ago, she would never have dared to Apparate so far, so frequently as she did now. It was a dangerous thing, to Apparate with little sense of direction or of the place one was travelling to. She had built up the ability to Apparate long distances, but still it made her nervous to do it so often - made her even more nervous to see Draco do it, too.

Once tarmac materialized underneath their feet and trees curled over their heads, she dropped his hand. Heat rose to her cheeks.

Out of habit, she unzipped her coat as she entered the house and pulled off her shoes. Draco copied her, idly kicking off his shoes by their heels. "Oh, you don't have to -"

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Maggie takes cleanliness very seriously, as I remember."

"Right," said Isobel. "You've been to my old house. Did you meet my mum, then?"

Draco nodded curtly. He didn't say anything more.

He followed her through to the kitchen; she watched him drag out a chair and sit back on it, long legs sprawling. It was immensely strange to see him here, in this setting. To see him sit in his socks in the very room her mother had countless times scorned his name. To see his grey eyes stare at her here in person, rather than from a photograph in a newspaper.

"I'll be right back," she said.

She went to the living room, where a bookshelf covered half the space of the end wall. She pulled out her mother's collection of Healer books one by one, until she had compiled a thick stack. Then she heaved them back to the kitchen where he sat. A cloud of dust rose as she dropped them onto the table. Again, Draco said nothing; his gaze stoic and unreadable.

Isobel sat across from him. "I was hoping we could find something about memory in here," she said. "Now that my mum is out of the house, I can read these without her noticing." Guilt twisted in her gut, once the words were out. As if it were convenient that her mother was in the hospital.

Draco took the book from the top of a pile; nudged it open with his long, slender fingers. "Good idea."

Isobel took a breath. She slid the next book from the pile and opened it to its index page. She traced her finger down the contents, and in the brink of her vision, Draco did the same. The table was small, and though they didn't touch, she felt his legs close to hers. She kept her feet rigid, afraid of accidentally bumping into him.

She flicked forward to her book's chapter on neuroscience, skimming past masses of information about remedial potions, healing spells, diseases and broken bones. Over the past year, since her mother had returned to work, it had frequently occurred to her that she might also like to be a Healer. Isobel had never been good at Potions, which was a requirement for most Healers, but the psychiatric department had always held her interest. Following the war, she guessed that the department was in need of workers now more than ever. But she could hardly work in the psychiatric department while a chunk of her own mind still seemed to be missing.

They sat in the cool kitchen together, with no sounds but the flipping of pages and one another's steady breathing. After an hour, Draco slouched back in his chair, stretching out his arms. His foot brushed against Isobel's and she sat up, startled. The shadow of a smile twitched at his lips. "Find anything yet?"

"All I've found is that Obliviate is irreversible," she said. Beneath the table, she picked nervously at her nails.

"Yes, I've found that too," he replied. "Which is good in the case of my neighbour, on whom I've used that spell multiple times." His eyes flickered over hers. "Not so good if it was used on you, though."

"My mother says I hit my head."

One fair eyebrow rose. "And you believe that?"

Isobel bit her lip. Shrugged. "I suppose I'm more concerned with whether or not I can get the memories back."

She watched him avert his gaze and chew on his cheek. As if he had an opinion on that, but was resisting giving it.

He had calmed considerably since his outburst in his own apartment; had emerged from his shower with wet hair and softer eyes. Isobel was quite certain he wanted nothing more than to go to the Manor, to rage and shout at his father. But here he sat in her dim little kitchen, a stack of dusty medical books in front of him. She wasn't sure why she had invited him here; it wasn't like she couldn't go through these books on her own. Regardless, he had followed her without question.

The intuitiveness of her own responses to his anger had surprised her. Upon seeing him upset, her hands had instinctively found his, and her thumbs had instinctively grazed over his palms. She supposed that while memories had been stolen from her mind, her body remembered him still.

Perhaps that was why she was so aware of touching him now. Why it flustered her so to curl her hand into his; why she felt so afraid to accidentally brush against his skin. Because if she did, she might melt into his touch.

She exhaled slowly, looking back down at her book. She wondered if she should offer him a drink. Or something to eat, even. It seemed trivial and the words would feel silly on her lips, she knew it - but it was common courtesy. Or perhaps she should offer him a couch to take a nap on. She wasn't sure that either of them had slept much, if at all, in the past few days.

"Oh," said Draco, through a yawn. She looked up at him. "Look." He pushed his book towards her. "If memories are extracted - as for a Pensieve - they can be restored to one's mind."

Isobel scanned the page, unsure where to look. "But that's not a method of memory loss, right? I mean. . ." She sighed. "If someone did take my memories of you. That's not how they could have done it."

"No," said Draco. "But perhaps whoever did it was kind enough to extract them for you, so that you could restore them at a later date."

"That would certainly have been thoughtful," she replied, considering how extremely unlikely it was that that had been the case. Draco pulled the book back towards him, and as she watched his fatigued eyes skip over the page, it occurred to her that he had no hope in the idea either. Her memories were so far gone, now; it seemed they were grappling at thin air.

She closed her book. His gaze lifted back to hers.

"I wish there was a way for you to ask your father if he had anything to do with it," she said. "Without telling him you know I'm alive."

Draco's eyebrows knit together. "I thought you said he seemed surprised to see you."

"He did," said Isobel. "He seemed calm. And curious. If he had Obliviated me after the battle, I'd have expected him to be a bit more worked up about seeing me again." The first time he had seen her, Lucius had been calm. The second time, not so much.

Draco looked away from her, jaw working as he appeared to mull it over. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I'll find a way to ask him without giving us away." He yawned again, and she felt a twinge of guilt at how exhausted he seemed.

She rose to gather the books, but Draco took them from her; lifted them with much more ease than she had managed. "In the living room," she told him, feeling her cheeks turn pink.

She watched his eyes run over the shelves in the living room, taking in the vast display of books.

"Do you like to read?" she asked. She took the medical books from him, slotted them individually back into place. He raised a shoulder in response. "My mother does too," said Isobel. "These are all hers."

Draco said nothing, but his jaw hardened at the mention of Maggie.

"Do you want to go?" asked Isobel. "You're tired." She blushed. "I'm not telling you to leave, but -"

"No," said Draco. "I'll stay." He sank into the couch; rested one foot on his other knee. He raised his eyebrows. "If I'm welcome, that is."

"No, you're welcome here," she told him. She crossed the room to sit at the piano bench. "You just look like you haven't slept."

"That's insulting," replied Draco, dropping his mouth a little and feigning a look of being highly affronted. But dark circles sat conspicuously under his eyes. If Isobel was to look in the mirror, she was sure she'd see the same on her own face.

"I'm tired too," she said. "If you want to go home and rest, I won't take it personally."

"If I'm honest, Belly," he said, "I don't really want to leave you alone here." His eyes dropped to her neck. "Especially if you won't put that necklace back on." She opened her mouth to argue, and he waved an airy hand. "Yeah, yeah, you're doing it for Maggie."

She bit her lip. "Why can't I be left alone?"

"Because -" Draco broke off, his expression darkening. "My father has taken the aftermath of the war very badly. He's been reliant on his status for his entire life, I suppose, and is lost without it. And my marriage to Astoria -" his eyes flickered to Isobel's - "Is my parents' only hope for fixing that status. They don't have another plan. And I don't doubt that my father will do whatever it might take to keep you out of it." He looked away from her. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff. "I'm sorry."

Isobel released a shaky breath. The easiest path of action was, of course, to follow the route that Draco's parents and Maggie all wanted for them. To conform to their family names, relent to the structures of society and never see one another again. Should they choose that for themselves, they could easily avoid all of this adversity. And whatever else was to come.

If only she could make herself resist him, like that. If only they weren't being pulled together like magnets.

"I can't put on the necklace," she said quietly. The silver chain rested in the pocket of her coat, hanging in the hallway. She didn't want to even look at it.

A weary smile tugged at his lips. "I should have expected nothing less," he said. "But I'm afraid that the next time I see you, you won't remember me at all."

"I'm afraid of that too."

He kept his eyes on her. "I guess I won't leave you alone, then."

Isobel swallowed. "Alright."

Draco watched her a moment longer, then slouched back on the couch and rested his socked feet on the coffee table. "Does Maggie mind feet on her table?"

"From you," said Isobel, "Most definitely."

He slouched a little lower, rested his head back against the couch. "What a shame."

Half of Isobel's heart was in St. Mungo's, in the ward with her mother. Half of her mind was there, too, worrying about how she was doing; counting down the hours until she could visit again. But despite herself, she smiled. She drew her feet up to the piano bench; wrapped her arms around her knees.

Draco's eyes fell to the piano, as if he hadn't noticed it. "Do you play?"

She nodded.

"I didn't know that."

"Oh." She pressed her lips into a smile; looked away from him.

"Why are you smiling?"

She shrugged. "I guess it's good to have a few things that you don't know about me."

But Draco frowned. "No, I don't like that I didn't know that. Are you good at it?"

"I'm okay."

His frown deepened. "Play for me, then."

Isobel let out a little laugh. "Of course I won't."

"Why not?"

She stared at him. "Because I won't play for you on command."

Draco's bottom lip jutted out a fraction, in a hint of a sulk. "Very well."

She bit back a grin. "Maybe one day," she told him. But it did not escape her that with Lucius Malfoy on her heels and her necklace discarded in a coat pocket, there was no certainty of a next day to be spent with Draco. She tightened her arms around her legs. "Is there anything we haven't done together?" she asked him. "I mean - is there anything that perhaps, we said we would do, but never got around to?" Something that would be new for both of them, she meant. New memories to be made.

"There was a whole life pulled away from us," said Draco, grey eyes intense on hers. "There was so much left to do."

His words were melancholy, but his tone matter-of-fact. He was speaking a thought that had occurred to him so frequently it had become normalised, to him. Isobel felt a pull at her heart; was prepared to go over and all but smother him in a hug, when a slow, scheming grin spread across his pale face.

"I have an idea."