dear draco, pt.

2
2
dear draco, pt. 2
by ana (malfoyuh)

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 Copyright © 2020
dear draco, pt. 2
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying,
without the written permission of the author.
dear draco, pt. 2 was first published on Wattpad in December 2020.
The story of Harry Potter and all its characters belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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For those who love deeply, honestly and without condition; even
when the world tries to harden your heart.

5
6
 My dearest darling love,
I know you hate when I call you that, but I miss you, and I feel that in
this case, I am allowed to. I think you'll understand.
God, I miss you.
When I was younger, I was the kind of person who would scorn all feeling.
I never believed the hype that the world associates with first love - or love in
general, really. I never understood the idea of loving another person so much
that you value their happiness over your own, and make your decisions based
on that. That you think of them with everything you do.
I am a different person now.
When we first met, I thought you were an idiot. I was fascinated by
you, yes, but I hated you, because Gryffindors and Slytherins are
obligated to hate each other. At only twelve years old, we were thrown
into our own defining worlds – Gryffindors were told they were brave
and chivalrous; Slytherins cunning and ambitious. You are twelve. These
are your most valued traits. These will define you from now on. If it hadn't
been for those houses, our story might not have started the way it did. I
hated you, yes, but only because I was wired to do so.
If I hated you so much, why couldn't I keep away from you, Belly?
I fell in love with you at that ridiculous Christmas party. The fairy
lights were tacky and the fruit punch was cheap, but all I could see was
you. I knew it was a mistake; knew I was the walking definition of a man
digging his own grave; but when I looked at you, none of that seemed to
matter. The more you spoke, the more I loved you. You were the lights and
the stars and the intoxicating smell of the city, and you may not have
known it, but I was entirely yours.
And with every day that passed since then, with every word you
spoke; every moment you hated me, loved me, I fell a little bit deeper. It

7
was wrong, but nothing could have made me happier. You were the best
mistake I ever made.
Do you remember when we walked together into the final battle? I
was terrified; my only solace the grip of your hand. But it never occurred
to me that we might not both make it out.
And then that awful fire – sobs and screams and thick black ashes all stuck
in my throat; flames licking at my ankles. Smoke billowing through the air,
scorching my cheeks. But I hadn't said goodbye. My life depended on teetering
stacks of rickety furniture, but I held on for dear life because all I could think
about was getting out, and getting to kiss you one last time.
I never did.
I kept looking for you, running everywhere, asking everyone if they
had seen you. Before I knew it, the battle was over and everyone was
cheering and I was so happy, hardly paying attention to who won and
who didn't, but where were you – and then I saw you.
Crumpled on cold stone ground, your hair tangled across your cheeks.
The entire world had gone cold, had crumbled around me. I could sense
people cheering, bumping me, but how could anyone be happy when you
were gone?
In those moments, all I could think was; a little longer. It's too soon.
Stay a little longer. Please, Belly.
I wasn't even tearful, just. . . breaking, I think. Fading. I started to die
then, and I am still dying, even though people tell me I'm perfectly healthy.
I've realised that people don't really know all that much.
I've been reading over and over every letter you ever wrote me. Each
is beautifully worded and thought out, and I never once wrote back. I'm
so sorry, Belly, I really am, I would give anything – anything – to turn
back time, just to write to you; to answer each one of your letters.
I am pained, inexplicably, because our time was so limited. I am
pained, because there were so many more words to say, so much more
laughter, so many more tears. That short, fragmented time we had; that

8
should only have been the uneasy start of a beautiful life together. An
entire life full of love and happiness and no one – no one – to tell us what
to do, because don't you remember, Belly? The cottage. We had a plan. We
would live in a cottage on the beach and sit in blankets by the huge
windows and watch the rain.
It's hard to explain, and I'm not sure I ever will be able to. But a world
without you, Belly, is a world I don't want to live in; a world I don't even
want to imagine.
I miss you. I miss your touch and your skin and your warm smell.
Your hand in mine, your breaths against mine. Your voice that always
seemed to say more than it was saying. I miss the way you looked in the
morning, the way you smiled with tired eyes, the tips of your fingers on
my cheek. Good morning, I love you. Goodnight, I love you. Your wit, your
temper, your courage. How your hair curled down your back. How your
bones fitted perfectly against mine. I miss you so, so much.
But don't you see, Belly? I'm finally writing back! Why isn't that good
enough? How do I make you come back to me?
I know you're happier now but it hurts. I have had to torture people,
and I have been tortured myself, but no pain will ever compare to this. I
would give the sun, the moon, the stars. I'd give everything I own. I'd give
anything to have you back.
I really hope you're happy, wherever you are.
And I miss you, forever, and I love you, forever.
Yours, always,
Draco.

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10
 prologue

NOVEMBER1999
EIGHTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

isobel

Isobel had watched Draco Malfoy from a young age.

She had been so curious, it left a sour taste in her mouth. Bitter to know
the inside of his mind. To know where all of his hostility came from; if he
really meant the foul insults he flung across hallways to people he didn't
like. If his sneers were really filled with spite and hatred. There was nobody
quite so intriguing as the white-blonde boy who stalked around the
Hogwarts Grounds with his head high and his lip curled, as if the entire
world was against him. Which, to be fair, it probably was.
She used to watch him across the Great Hall, or from the back of a
classroom. Now she watched him from across the street, half hidden by
lampposts and bus stops.
Before Isobel Young and Draco Malfoy ever spoke one word to each
other, she stared at him, incessantly. Continually scorned by Harry and
Ron, who by their third year had reduced Draco to no more than a
playground bully - she became obsessed with trying to understand him.
With finding a crack in his cold surface.

11
 Now more than ever, she wanted to understand him. It was probably,
she thought, the thing she wanted most. Some people wanted money, fame,
power. Success. What Isobel wanted was to understand how someone like
Draco Malfoy had fallen in love with someone like her.
She rested her back against the brick wall. From behind a third floor
window, fifty metres away, Draco was filling an electric kettle at his sink.
This was routine for him at this time of day. A cup of tea after dinner,
another around nine. The times she had stayed longer, he usually had
another around eleven. Big tea drinker. She never managed to stay past
lights out, because Draco tended to stay awake until ungodly hours and she
couldn't risk being the only person left on the street. She couldn't let him
see her.
In school - in all of her staring - she had never seen him drink tea, to
her recollection. This was new.
And the longer, looser hair. That was new, too. It was nice, and, well -
unexpected. The Malfoys used to be so well-groomed. Draco looked a little
dishevelled these days, in a quiet, unthreatening way. He looked very
different to the Draco she knew.
But she had never really known him, she reminded herself, nestling
into her jacket. Her breath was visible in the cold November air. No matter
how hard she had tried, he had always been so difficult to read.
No, she didn't know Draco Malfoy at all.
Draco Malfoy, as she knew him, was a horrid, arrogant, snarky git. He
had tossed insults at her and her friends every time the opportunity arose.
He was selfish and entitled. She hated him, and he hated her.
And yet. . . And yet.
Crumpled in her fist was a torn, yellowing piece of parchment that said
something quite different.
My dearest darling love.
Stay a little longer.

12
 I'd give anything to have you back.
And the nickname. Belly. She hated that, too.
Without warning, Draco turned to face the window. Isobel cursed and
looked down, pretending to pick at a loose thread in her glove. In her
peripheral vision, he stopped for a moment. . . Then, slowly, turned back to
his tea.
She blew out a sharp breath and hurried away, towards the quiet
alleyway where she liked to Apparate. That was enough for tonight. She
really should stay away for a while, to ease any suspicions he might have. If
he realised he was being watched. . . Well, she didn't know what she would
do then.
But then again, that was what she told herself every time. Every time
she came here, she swore she wouldn't return for at least a week or two.
Sometimes she even convinced herself it would be her final visit, that she
would walk away and leave the elusive, confusing Draco Malfoy behind
forever.
But then, she would find herself back again. Watching him. Deducing him.
No, this wouldn't be the last time.

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 zero

There once lived a boy and a girl. They fell in love, but in a world that
was very cruel.
Their world ended.
Their world ended, and it broke them. It broke each of them, in
different ways.
Their world ended, but they were offered a new one.

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 half

My dearest darling love,

Should we never meet again, there are a few things I would like you
to know.
Firstly, you are the love of my life. In this life, what came before, and
whatever comes next. It has always been you; it will always be you.

15
 one

NOVEMBER1998
SIX MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

isobel

Recovery did not follow a straight line; Isobel had learnt that the hard way.
A good day could follow a bad day, and a bad day could follow a good
one. Sometimes she had several good days, sometimes an entire week felt
miserable.
Today was a good day. Well - she suspected her standards had lowered
for "good," given that she never felt particularly joyful, or excited - or
whatever it was that had once made a day good. But she was out of bed, had
sat in the garden for a while, and now felt hungry enough to eat a slice of
toast. That was good enough.
She was home alone at the moment as her mother was out to do their
weekly grocery shop. There was a small supermarket on the corner of the
nearest muggle village, a twenty minute walk away. Isobel and her mother
took turns to do the shop, having decided that going together would attract
too much attention. She usually hated, hated when it was her mother's turn
to go and she had to stay at home on her own, but today she felt. . . Calm,
in her own presence. Not jumpy, not anxious for her mother's return.
Today, she was doing okay.

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 They had lived in this house for half a year now, having moved here
after the battle. Her mother had hoped that the way the house was built -
in a secluded area, surrounded by trees - would mean that their new muggle
neighbours wouldn't take much notice of them. The wizarding community
were to stay away from muggles to keep things safe and stable; that was the
way things were. Unfortunately, the muggles seemed fundamentally
curious, and they were soon getting questions about their jobs, their lives,
the absence of a car in their driveway. Isobel expected the muggles probably
considered them to be quite rude, because they evaded all such questions.
She and her mother kept to themselves, hardly ever leaving the little
countryside house.
She knew it was better this way, but she felt increasingly lonely. She
had seen several muggles of her own age on her few visits to the village, and
wanted desperately to make friends with them. It would be nothing like
having her old friends back, but it would be someone to talk to.
The physical pain that had plagued her for the first few months had
faded a bit now. It had been horrible - searing headaches and sore muscles
- but it had at least been something of a distraction from the immense
weight of loss that stayed with her now, constantly. With everything she
did, her heart ached for the things that were gone; the things that had once
existed so simply.
She hadn't seen her friends since the battle. Maybe that was the worst of it
all. Not being able to see them, speak to them, hug them. Cry with them.
Not being able to hug Ginny. Maybe that was the worst part; knowing
how much her friends, too, had lost. Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Their faces rotated
in her nightmares like portraits, immortalized in her mind. Never to age
again. She often wondered if Hermione had managed to track down her
parents yet. What if she never would?
Or maybe the worst parts were the parts Isobel couldn't remember. The
blur in her mind, when she tried to think back too far, or for too long. Huge

17
chunks of her life, missing from her mind. Maybe there existed worse
things, still, and she was unable to remember them.
Maybe the worst part was not being able to remember those things.
Every day, she trudged around the countryside house with a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders, trying to piece together her memories. She
hoped that remembering something - anything - might make this all less
painful. Her mother was a Healer, which meant Isobel was lucky: Isobel
had it good. It meant that anyone else in this position, who didn't have the
privilege of professional help, would be in more pain. But the
overwhelming feeling that something was missing followed Isobel from
room to room, never leaving.
The overwhelming feeling that of all the things she couldn't remember,
one of them had once been very, very important.
Her first few years at Hogwarts seemed clear enough, given that she
had been so young then. The more recent years were, counterintuitively,
the haziest. She remembered Dumbledore's Army, and spending sixth year
at home after her father died, and having meals in the common room in
seventh year, and standing up to the Carrows. There were blurry snapshots
in her mind of more mundane moments: getting dressed in the dorms with
Hermione, eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table. She had hoped that the
rest would trickle back slowly as time passed, piece by piece until they
formed a whole again. But nothing new came back to her. And her head
hurt if she thought about it for too long.
She remembered the Battle of Hogwarts. Parts of it; flashes. Those
parts haunted her all the time, particularly in the night. Tears, bodies,
screams. That green light. It never left her. She had escaped death by the
skin of her teeth; had felt it come and go. Could feel it now still, lurking over
her shoulder as she spread jam onto her toast.
She shuddered. She wished her mother would come home now.

18
 She took her breakfast to the living room and knelt on the couch to
watch the driveway.
There was something missing. In the big blur of things she had once
known, there was something important, she was sure of it. When death had
brushed past - had decided to leave her be, for a while - it took something
with it. It stole something from her.
She knew it sounded crazy, but she thought she might have lost a part
of herself after the battle.
What she didn't know was that two hundred and twenty-three miles
south east of where she sat, Draco Malfoy was staring at the ceiling of his
one-bed apartment, thinking exactly the same thing.

19
 two

NOVEMBER1998

draco

Draco Malfoy was soaked. His jumper, coat, trousers; everything was
drenched through with bitterly cold rainwater.
It had been raining in London for three days now. He hadn't wanted to
leave his apartment - if it was up to him, he would stay indoors permanently
- but his mother had forced him out for a cup of tea at her favourite coffee
shop. Now, he was climbing the stairs back to his apartment, feeling cold
and frustrated, and planning on locking himself in his bedroom for as long
as he possibly could.
He shoved his key into the lock of his apartment door, considering how
ridiculous it was that mere bits of metal made muggles feel safe in their
homes. No protection charms, just tiny, fragile locks.
He was hungry. He had declined any food and hadn't touched his tea;
had left it turn cold in the cramped, dark coffee shop. Had raised his voice
at his mother and stormed out.
Just as he stepped into his apartment, a door across the corridor was
flung open. His heart sank.
"Hey, neighbour!"

20
 Draco turned to face the woman, forcing a smile that felt more like a
grimace. Emily - a thirty-year-old, curly-haired American woman - moved
close to him and stuck out her hand. He shook it, reluctantly. "Rain catch
you?" she asked. Draco said nothing, so she continued cheerfully. "I don't
know how we haven't met yet. You moved in, what, two months ago?"
He gave a slight nod.
"Right. Well, I know your face, I won't lie. Not to sound creepy, but my
friends and I see you through your window sometimes, when we come back
from nights out. It'll be, like, three a.m. and your light is always still on. You
never sleep, huh?"
"Not much."
"Well, anyway. It's so nice to finally meet you." She leaned forward and
placed a hand on his soaking wet sleeve. Draco stared at it. "Making friends
can be hard sometimes, particularly with the locals, and-" She emitted a
high-pitched, confused giggle as Draco shrugged off her hand to take out
his wand. "Oh. What's that?"
"Obliviate," he muttered, pointing it at her. Her eyes fogged over, and
he stepped into his apartment and shut the door before she could regain
consciousness and see him again.
He had erased himself from Emily's memories over five times now.
Each time she reintroduced herself was painful, but he had concluded that
it was better to endure the same recurrent conversation than to have her
think that they were friends. He shrugged off his coat and slammed his
wand down on the kitchen counter, wondering if all neighbours were so
nosy, or if he had drawn a short straw.
The chatter of radio hosts greeted him, sounding from the small plastic
radio that sat on the windowsill. He had left the window open before he left,
and now noticed a puddle on the wooden floor, where the rain had gotten
in. He lived on the third floor of an apartment block in Hackney, and liked

21
to leave the window open as much as he could. He liked the breeze, and the
noise, too. He didn't like the quiet.
His apartment, he presumed, probably resembled every other one-bed
in London. The kitchen and living room were in the same room, which the
landlord had referred to as "modern" and "open-plan" but Draco thought
was probably a way of justifying the tiny space. He spent most of his time
in the small bedroom off the living area, staring at the ceiling and waiting
for time to go by.
He had expected his family to resent his decision to move to London,
but they had been surprisingly encouraging. They offered him a big
apartment, high-quality furniture, all the rest - they had even offered a
house elf. He soon realised that they thought he was trying to start over; to
move to a big city, turn over a fresh leaf.
He thought they could stuff it.
He had emptied half of his Gringotts vault and exchanged it for muggle
money. Then he visited the first apartment he found in a muggle newspaper
and Confunded the landlord into taking six months' rent upfront. He
bought a mattress and rolled it out on the floor, and decided he had no need
for furniture.
He wasn't looking to start over; he just wanted to be alone. And true
solitude, he decided, came not from escaping to a remote area, but from
existing between thousands of people who didn't give a shit about you. True
solitude came from being invisible.
He didn't want any remnant of the wizarding world to follow him here.
He didn't want house elves or pointless, fancy family heirlooms. He didn't
want to be stared at wherever he went; whispers of what he had done
echoing behind him.
So he moved to a city so densely packed with muggles that he was
unlikely to ever bump into someone who knew who he was. The London
muggles were simple, grumpy, and seemed to always be in a hurry. He

22
began to derive a delirious sense of pleasure from watching people's eyes
skip over him like he didn't exist; from knowing he was completely
irrelevant to their lives. He was somebody - but a nobody, to them. Just a
body.
He had wanted a life with Isobel Young, but she was gone now. So he
settled for invisibility instead.
He opened his fridge and stared into it. There was an old hunk of
cheese, a few eggs and a single slice of pizza leftover from a takeaway he
had gotten three nights ago. The top shelves were bare.
It was very strange to be entirely in charge of taking care of himself,
with no house elves to do the chores he had never learnt to do. He hadn't a
clue how to cook, and had never been taught even the most basic cleaning
spells. He loved autonomy, but wasn't very good at it.
Despite his hunger, Draco was unwilling to leave his apartment for
food. So he filled the kettle, to boil water for tea.
It was nearing 5 o'clock, and the sun was beginning to disappear over
the skyline, so he walked back to the door and flipped on the light. Where
he disliked the quiet, he hated the dark.
It was in the dark that he missed her most.
He felt Belly's absence wherever he went; from his bedroom to the
kitchen to the shop on the corner.
When he went for tea with his mother or to a pub with his friends, it
followed him everywhere.
But in the dark, he felt her absence most strongly. When all of the lights
were off, and the world was quiet - that was when she really haunted him.
That was when he was all too aware of the empty space beside him. That
where he used to put an arm out, to wrap around her waist - now there was
nothing. Just sheets. No warm, soft body. No quiet, steady breathing.
He had started leaving the lights on at night-time months ago, when he
realised the problem. A few weeks later, he bought the radio, which he now

23
left constantly plugged in. Not that he ever listened - he really couldn't give
a shit about what was happening in the world, to be honest - but it helped
to drown out that god awful silence.
He didn't forget that she was gone, he never would. He didn't have brief
moments of forgetting and remembering. This pain was with him
constantly; it never left. But in the dark and quiet, it was worse. So, if he
could help it, he would never be in the dark and quiet again.
He threw his teabag into the sink, where it joined a collecting pile of
other, cold teabags, and took his mug into the bedroom. He placed it on the
ground and lay down on his mattress. Like every night before, and as he
would for many nights after, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking that when
he had lost Isobel, he had lost a part of himself, too.

24
 three

JULY1998

isobel

On the same day that two men in robes showed up on her doorstep,
Isobel found Draco Malfoy in the Daily Prophet.
In the year that had passed since the war, her mother hadn't allowed
her to order the Prophet once. She persisted that news of the wizarding
world would give Isobel flashbacks; that it would trigger the trauma that
the war had caused her. What Isobel needed to recover, according to her
mother, was time.
But the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts came and went, and
Isobel was feeling no less isolated or upset than she had before. After
several more weeks of pleading, her mother finally conceded, and poring
over the paper soon became a morning ritual for Isobel. While her mother
hovered around her, Isobel would spread the paper out on their kitchen
table and study every last inch. Taking in every piece of information she
could about a world she still pretended to exist in.
With the anniversary of the war also came an influx of letters addressed
to her mother from St Mungo's hospital, where she had worked years before
as a Healer. Her mother had been unnerved at first because they hadn't told
anyone where they lived, and she worried that somebody might follow the

25
owls to track down their house. She had very little trust in the world still,
since the war and since Isobel's father's death, but there was a shortage of
Healers at St. Mungo's, and Maggie Young had once been one of their best.
They sent letter after letter, asking for her return.
Her mother was torn, Isobel could tell. Going back to work meant
leaving Isobel alone every day, and also meant re-entering the society that
Maggie had lost faith in years ago. But the hospital and its patients needed
her, and, to Isobel, that seemed reason enough.
While Isobel had recently been feeling a bit better, her mother was
starting to look gaunt and grey. Lonely as she was, Isobel had taken up
hobbies and found ways of passing the time. She had started going out into
the garden more, for one; doing cartwheels in the grass and lying in the sun.
She spent hours in the living room playing their little wooden piano, which
had once sat dusty and touched in their old house. Her mother, meanwhile,
retreated into herself; eating little and sleeping a lot.
Her mother had used to read through the Daily Prophet every morning
before allowing Isobel to even touch it, but had lost the energy recently, and
let Isobel take over and read aloud anything of note. There was little of note
these days; no attacks to speak of, most escaped Death Eaters rounded up
and the ones that walked free tending to keep to themselves. It was,
however, always unnerving to hear about someone who had once been
associated with Voldemort, which was perhaps why Maggie's entire body
went still when Isobel said, "Mum, have you heard much about the Malfoy
family? Since the war, I mean?"
"No," said her mother tightly. "Why?"
Isobel pushed the paper across the table. Stretched across the third
page of the Daily Prophet was a picture of Draco Malfoy. He was at a street
market, standing at a flower stall and holding a small bunch of striped
carnations to his chest. Through strands of white-blond hair, he scowled at
the camera.

26
 "Do you think the flowers are for his mother, or for a girlfriend?" Isobel
pulled the paper back to her, looking curiously at Draco. He looked so much
older than she remembered him. "I know Pansy Parkinson had a thing for
him that he never really reciprocated, but maybe he's changed his mind."
Isobel's mother gripped her coffee cup tighter.
"A surly, handsome and heartbroken baby Malfoy was spotted for the
first time in months at a muggle market," read Isobel aloud. "Who are the
flowers for? A new love interest, perhaps?"
"That's enough, Isobel."
"Oh, I'm sure he's harmless." She skimmed the rest of the article, but it
expressed no more than Rita Skeeter's speculations of a new love interest
for Draco. "I wonder why she says he's heartbroken? No more than the rest
of us, surely?"
She watched Draco drop his gaze for a moment, before looking back up
at the camera, his ice-grey eyes hard. Unable to stop herself, she traced a
finger across his cheek. "God, he looks so sad, don't you think? It must be
difficult -" She glanced up. "No interest in Draco Malfoy, Mum?"
Her mother was staring into her coffee. "I don't have much sympathy
for Death Eaters, no."
Isobel felt her heart drop a little. "That's not what I meant, Mum. I
hated Draco Malfoy in school, you know that. I just think he was a victim
of his circumstances. We all are, I suppose."
Maggie stood and emptied the rest of her coffee into the sink. Saying
nothing, she stood there, with her back to her daughter.
Suddenly, a hard knock sounded at the door. Isobel's mother dropped
her mug into the sink and it shattered. She whirled around, staring at her
daughter, one hand to her chest. Breathing quickly.
Isobel let out a nervous laugh. No one had knocked since their
neighbours when they had first moved in, but she didn't see it as cause for
concern. "Mum, it's okay. A quick Reparo will fix that. I'll get the door -"

27
 "No!"
Isobel stopped, then laughed again. "Mum, I'm perfectly capable -"
A short hallway connected the kitchen to the front door, and veered off to
the side there, to the rest of the house. Maggie moved quickly to the door and
peered through the side window. "It's wizards."
"Really? Do you know them?"
Looking frantic, Maggie grabbed her daughter's elbow and steered her
towards the hallway. "Go to your room, Isobel. Don't come out, okay?"
Isobel shook her mother's hand off her arm. Frowning, she walked to her
room and shut herself inside it, hearing the front door open as she did so.
Sitting down on the floor, Isobel pressed an ear against her bedroom door,
but found that she could hear very little through it. The men stayed for ten
minutes, but Isobel caught only muffled snippets: "Your unbearable loss" . . .
"Haven't heard anything from you" . . . "Just checking in" . . . "So overcrowded"
. . . "Even just part-time. . ."
And then, with her face screwed up in concentration, Isobel heard: "Please
know that our thoughts are with you. To lose both a husband and a daughter is
an incredible loss."
When the sound came of the door closing and the two men saying goodbye,
Isobel ran to her bedroom window. Through the curtains she watched them go,
their green St. Mungo's robes rippling in the breeze.
In the kitchen, Maggie Young sat back down at the table. She put her head
in her hands, and wept.
She wept, because she had lied, and it was all going wrong now. Because
she had acted on a selfish, desperate impulse, and hadn't thought it through.
The Daily Prophet lay beside her, and the picture of Draco Malfoy glared
up at her, still; scolding her. Telling her, you haven't only ruined her life. You've
ruined mine, too.
Maggie Young's daughter was alive, and she was the only person in the
world that knew it.

28
 four

isobel

Isobel steadied herself with a hand on the wall as she walked back down
the hallway. Her legs felt wobbly.
To lose both a husband and a daughter is a great loss.
She remembered waking up after the war; looking up with a throbbing
head and a pounding heart to see her mother. You're safe now, baby. We're
going to be okay now. She had believed it, but for the wrong reasons.
She found her mother in the kitchen, her thin face streaked with tears.
"Mum."
Maggie's forehead furrowed, but she did not look at her daughter.
"Mum, talk to me. Please."
No response. Isobel sat down across from her. "You let everyone think
I was dead, didn't you? I was unconscious and you told people I was dead."
The lump in her throat grew. "And that's why we had to move house, and
why we couldn't ever leave or tell anyone we were here."
Her mother said nothing, so Isobel went on. "All this time, I thought it
was all for our health - I thought I wasn't allowed to see my friends, because
being alone would help me heal. But they think I'm gone?" Her voice
cracked. "Ginny, Neville, Luna - is that what they think?"
Her mother finally looked up. "I'm sorry, Isobel."

29
 "Did you think you could keep me here forever? Did you think that
would help me? Mum, I've been so lonely." Tears welled in her mother's
eyes; Isobel looked away scornfully. "I need some air."
She pushed open the back door, stomping into the garden. She paced
back and forth there, trying to process it all. In all of the time that had
passed since the war, nothing had been what she had thought it was. Her
friends had thought her dead for an entire year now - they had grieved her
and processed her passing. They might even have moved on with their lives:
gone back to school, or started up jobs. And all the while she had been here,
doing absolutely nothing with herself.
The lump in her throat was growing again, so she stopped and bit her
lip, hard. She had thought that this was all normal. That it was normal to
take time off to heal, that she would see everyone she knew again soon.
Over the last year, her mother had become her best friend. How long had
she planned to continue lying?
The door creaked behind her. Her mother moved slowly towards her,
wringing her hands. Isobel turned away.
Maggie spoke timidly. "Isobel, you need to understand. When the war
ended. . . It wasn't immediately clear that things might be safe again. So
many Death Eaters were still alive - nobody was sure that they wouldn't
revolt. And I had lost your father, and for a moment I thought I might lose
you, too - and I couldn't -" Maggie broke off. "I just couldn't handle that. I
acted selfishly, yes - but at the time, it really seemed to be in your best
interest -"
"My best interest?" Isobel repeated. "Mum, you took my life from me."
"You needed to heal," Maggie pressed. "You needed time. For months you
were so weak, there was no question of sending you back to the wizarding world,
and there were Death Eaters still on the loose -"
"But I could have healed and done all that without having to convince
everyone I was dead!" She rounded on her mother. "I could have just -

30
stayed at home, like a normal person, in our old house; I could have stayed
in contact with my friends -"
"No, you couldn't." Maggie shook her head. "That wouldn't have
worked. People would have gone looking for you; there were people that
didn't want you alive, they would have come for you -"
"That's paranoia, Mum. No one would have come for me."
"Isobel, I need you to believe me," said Maggie. "What I did was
impulsive, yes, but all of this has only ever been to keep you safe."
"All of this -" spat Isobel, "has been for you. It hasn't been for me. It's
been so that you can keep some sick control over me."
Her mother had always been petite, but now, looked smaller than ever.
Her eyes had filled with tears again: Isobel felt a stab of guilt.
"I'm not trying to excuse my actions," said Maggie, softly. "I'm only
trying to explain them. I'm trying to make you understand. Given how
much danger you were in - at the time, it seemed right."
"Well, I'm sure my friends' parents didn't fake their children's deaths,"
retorted Isobel, "and I wasn't in any more danger than they were -"
"Yes, you were."
"What does that mean?"
Maggie shook her head again. She was beginning to look very tired. "No
- I shouldn't have said that."
"Mum," Isobel pleaded. "How could that be true? How could I possibly
have been a target?"
Maggie was pale. "Please, just trust me. You were in so much danger,
and the danger didn't stop when the war ended. I was trying to save you. . .
Maybe I'll tell you, one day, and then you'll understand. But not now."
Isobel flung herself away, glaring out across the garden; a scream
building inside of her. "How can you take everything from me, but you can't
tell me why it was so necessary?"

31
 Her mother said nothing. When Isobel looked back, Maggie was on her
knees, doubled over in the grass.
Isobel rushed to her. "Mum?" When Maggie didn't reply, Isobel knelt
beside her. She took her mother's pale face into her hands and said,
urgently, "Mum."
"I'm sorry." Maggie looked back at her, blinking slowly. "Dizzy. I need
to lie down."
Isobel guided one of her mother's arms around her shoulders and they
stood awkwardly. They walked with slow, heavy steps to her mother's
bedroom, where Isobel helped her into bed. Then she headed back to the
kitchen and collapsed into a chair. She sat there for hours, thoughts and
questions circling around her.
That night, she pulled her own duvet over her and wrapped her arms
around her knees. She cried in breathless, gulping sobs, wishing that the
world might be a little less cruel.

draco

Not one of the Malfoy family had served more than a month in Azkaban
after the war.
Lucius had been imprisoned almost immediately, but haggled his
release by providing information about other Death Eaters who had
escaped. Because of their abandonment of Voldemort halfway through the
battle, Narcissa's outright betrayal, and Draco's young age, all three were
pardoned of their crimes and allowed to walk free. The conclusion was that
the Malfoys were no longer dangerous: they no longer had any interest in
playing for Voldemort's side.
The Ministry made this decision in the knowledge that given all of the
Malfoys' wrongdoings over the past two decades, they would never really

32
be free, and the public would make sure to let them know it. The three
Malfoys hardly ever went out, and when they did, were scorned and
ridiculed. Where there used to lie fear in the faces of passersby, now was a
confident, unabashed hatred. Whenever they set foot in any wizarding
community, glares and whispers followed their path. So, for a long time
Lucius and Narcissa kept to themselves; quietly trying to find their feet in
a community where they were no longer welcome.
Immediately after the war, Draco had shut himself in his room. He
didn't sleep, didn't eat, just lay in bed. Days, maybe weeks went by before
Narcissa came in and tried to speak to him. For the first time in his life, he
yelled at her. He locked her out, and soaked his pillow in tears.
Outside his door, there were trials and arrests; friends and family
members getting life sentences. Draco didn't know the first thing about who
escaped and who was sent to trial. To him, it made no difference. His father
went to and from Azkaban, and he didn't bat an eyelid. Nothing mattered
now, in a world where Isobel didn't exist.
Several more weeks went by and Narcissa's appearances became more
regular. She brought him meals, and sometimes sat and stroked his back
for a while. She begged him to let her open the blinds, open the windows,
tidy up a little, but on any such mention he pulled a pillow over his head
and told her to leave.
Evidence of Belly still lay around his room in variations: a jumper
tossed over a chair, a few hair ties on the windowsill. Beside his bed sat the
perfume she had used religiously. He was careful not to move these items,
hoping to keep them just as they were. That way, Belly had been the last
person to touch them. They were positioned how they were because she had
placed them that way. He liked that.
On the day of his trial, Draco pulled off the sweaty t-shirt he had worn for
a week, and changed into the formal clothes his mother had ironed and laid out
for him, considering for the first time the utter pointlessness of formal wear.

33
 The trial lasted an entire day. He mumbled "yes" and "no" answers to the
repetitive questions thrown at him. Though Draco didn't care much about the
outcome of his trial, he realised from its beginning that the Ministry had no
intention of convicting him, but rather, wanted information that could help
them in whatever work they were doing next. They asked about his fellow Death
Eaters; his school friends; his family. What spells he had learnt from Voldemort
and what dark magic he had performed. He stared back at them groggily,
wondering at the alarming amount of energy they all seemed to have. He felt
their disappointed eyes on him as he left, feeling that he had just wasted a day
of their time. He returned to Malfoy Manor with the intention of dropping into
bed for another week, at the least.
But when Draco got back to his room, it had been entirely cleaned out. The
furniture was neat and tidy, and smelt overwhelmingly sterile. The windows
were thrown open, allowing a fierce wind to blow in. And everything that had
once belonged to Belly - every piece that Draco had left of her - was gone.
That was the second time that Draco yelled at his mother. He used a
packing charm to stuff his possessions into a trunk and spent the night on a
couch downstairs. He decided to move to London as soon as he could.
Upon leaving his room and casting a quick glance back at it, for the sake of
nostalgia - Draco noticed something white and very small lying beneath his bed.
It was a tiny flower - a snowdrop - that Belly had once tucked behind his ear,
on a day at the Great Lake. He had preserved it afterwards with a drying spell,
but had soon tossed it into his trunk, not thinking much of it.
Tears stung Draco's eyes. He tucked the snowdrop into the pocket of his
coat, and closed the door of his room. He left the house then, and didn't look
back. There was no plan: he didn't know what he was doing, or for how long he
planned to go. All that he knew was that if he could help it, he wouldn't return
to Malfoy Manor for a very, very long time.

34
 five

draco

Draco was staring at the sky. He had been standing there in his
bedroom, staring, for at least thirty minutes now. His forearms were
starting to cramp from where his hands rested against the windowsill.
He sighed heavily, and moved to lie down on his bed. He decided to
count to one hundred before he would allow himself to look at the sky again.
He had recently gone furniture shopping, so his room was fuller than
he had become used to. He had given himself one day to expend his energy:
one day to get everything he needed, before he was allowed to shut himself
in here again. His haul had included a bed frame, two nightstands and a
couch for the living room. He had thrown in several desk lamps too, and
liked to leave them all switched on, along with the overhead lighting.
He was quite impressed with himself, to be honest. He didn't have
much use for material objects - he never really left his head - but at least his
apartment actually looked like someone lived in it now. It looked grown up.
Sometimes, he would imagine Belly beside him, head nestled into his neck,
one arm across his chest. He liked to imagine it was their apartment, not
just his.
When he wasn't living in a world of daydreams, or otherwise feeling
sorry for himself, he was overwhelmed with a restless anger.

35
 He was angry at the cards the world had played him; at the life he had
ended up with. He was angry at himself - furious - for being so senseless to
have left Isobel's side in the war. He was angry at his younger self, too, for
forcing something that had always been wrong. If he'd never spoken to her
- if he had ignored the constant, overwhelming urges he'd always had to
talk to her, to annoy her, to get her attention. . . If he had never fallen in
love with her, and she with him, she might still be alive.
Mostly, right now, he was angry at his mother, who had decided that
one year was time enough to move on, and was now trying to organise his
marriage to another girl. Was forcing him to meet her, soon. And to buy her
stupid flowers that he didn't have a clue about.
He didn't do anything with this anger, of course. Just lay there and let
it brew.
A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he said
loudly, not moving. The only person that ever knocked on his door was
Blaise, who liked to show up without warning every few weeks or so. Most
of Draco's friends from school had distanced themselves from him a bit.
They seemed to feel uneasy around him, now that he wasn't wearing a mask
of snark and contempt. But Blaise had shown an unexpected compassion
to Draco's situation, and, somewhat forcefully, had made it his mission to
ensure Draco didn't spend all of his time lying in bed.
"Freezing in here," called Blaise, in lieu of a greeting. His footsteps
sounded across the living area. "Can I close a window?"
"No," mumbled Draco. But Blaise seemed either not to hear him, or to
ignore him, because the sound came of a window clicking shut. The London
bumble dimmed to a faint hum.
"Well." Blaise appeared at the door frame. "How are you? Bright in
here, mate. Christ." Squinting, he flicked off the lamp closest to him. "Most
depressed people like the dark, you know." He wrinkled his nose. "And
what is that smell? It's like - burnt sugar -"

36
 Draco rolled his eyes. On the nightstand beside him sat a pink, glass
bottle - Isobel's perfume. He motioned towards it. "I think it's caramel."
"Why do you have that?" asked Blaise - then his expression fell. "It was
hers?"
Draco lay back, saying nothing. He quite liked the perfume, actually -
it wasn't sickly sweet, but a deep, kind of musky smell. Although, he
supposed, it could have smelt absolutely terrible and he would still spray it
all over his room.
"Sorry, mate," said Blaise. "It's, uh - it's not that bad." He looked
pained. "Sweet that you still have it."
"This exact bottle wasn't hers," said Draco gruffly. "Just - she always
used that. So I bought one." He looked at Blaise defiantly, daring him to
laugh, but Blaise shrugged. Draco hadn't bought just one: there were two
more in his wardrobe. He had only recently realised that the bottle of
perfume Belly had used probably wasn't the only one that existed. He had
found the perfume in a tiny, dusty fragrance shop that stood in a corner of
Diagon Alley, and slammed three bottles on the counter, leaving the cashier
looking vaguely frightened. It smelt like her. He didn't care what Blaise
thought of it.
"The lights are a bit much," said Blaise. "Don't you feel - I don't know,
overwhelmed?"
"My senses feel overpowered," said Draco, "if that's what you mean."
"And you like that?"
Draco nodded.
Blaise stared. "Like, it makes you forget? Because if you wanted to
forget, you could just get drunk, like a normal person. Or, well, I have access
to -"
Draco shook his head. Fuck that. He didn't want to forget, he just
wanted it to feel all a little less. He wanted the weight of it all to be a little
less heavy, but he didn't want to forget her, for heaven's sake. Also, he had

37
tried alcohol. The results hadn't been good. He had taught himself to drink
tea instead, and probably drank an unhealthy amount of it now. It was safer
than alcohol.
"Christ," said Blaise again. "I would laugh if this wasn't so pitiful."
Draco usually liked Blaise's company; he was the one person that he
didn't hate leaving his apartment for. But he didn't like when Blaise showed
up like this. It made him feel too seen for his liking.
Blaise leaned back against the wardrobe. He said, gently, "Young
wouldn't have wanted you to be like this, mate. She wouldn't have wanted
you to be so. . . Hung up. You're withering away, Malfoy."
Hearing other people speak Isobel's name had used to rile Draco up.
But he was okay now; he was learning. "Well," he said. "My mother is
already planning my wedding to someone else. So I suppose I can't lock
myself up much longer."
Blaise looked away. "Yes, I suppose not."
Draco sat up. Only recently had the thought occurred to him that it
might actually be rude to remain in bed when he had guests over. So he
moved to the edge of the mattress, and leaned his elbows on his knees.
"How's work?"
Blaise made a face. He had recently secured a very junior position
somewhere in the Ministry's security department. Draco couldn't quite
remember the details. "It's fine," said Blaise. "A lot of reading, not much
doing. A lot of boring old men. Anyway -" he grinned. "The reason for my
visit is to check in on your flower hunt. How did it go?"
Draco frowned. "My what?"
"You didn't know how to buy flowers. . . For Daphne's sister?"
"Oh, yes," said Draco. His mother had given him strict instructions to
buy flowers for Astoria Greengrass, to hand to her on their entirely
orchestrated, inorganic date. He pushed himself off the bed. "I'll show you."
Blaise followed him across the living room and into the kitchen area, where

38
Draco pointed at the carnations he had bought. They were lying
horizontally in the sink, looking a bit wilted. "They're alright, aren't they?"
Blaise blew out a hard breath, which turned into a loud, long laugh. He
slapped a hand on the counter. "Mate. I know you don't have any interest
in the girl, but put them in some water, at least."
Draco frowned. "They're in the sink. I didn't have a vase."
Still chuckling, Blaise took a glass from Draco's cupboard and used an
enlarging charm to make it vase-sized. He filled the glass with water, used
a severing charm to cut the ends of the ends of the flowers and plopped
them into the glass. He grinned again. "Not that difficult."
Draco offered a small smile in return. He supposed the flowers had
been on the rough side, but hadn't expected Astoria to expect too much
from him, given that they didn't actually know one another. The whole
thing - having to meet her, talk to her, go on a date with someone that
wasn't Isobel - felt a bit overwhelming, to be honest. It all seemed so soon.
Apart from the tiny snowdrop that sat on his windowsill, flowers weren't
really the first thing on his mind.
As if he had sensed this, Blaise put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "You
don't have to sweep her off her feet, Malfoy. Just be nice, okay?"
Draco nodded curtly.
"Right," said Blaise. "Well, I'd better be off, I'm seeing my mother for
dinner. She's getting lilies - impeccably cared for, I'll have you know."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."
As Blaise left, he turned to re-open the window. Then he placed two
hands on the frame and leaned on it, to stare up at the sky again.
Narcissa had first mentioned Astoria Greengrass in the November that
followed the war - not much longer than six months' after Isobel's death.
She had lured him in for tea before springing the topic on him. He had
gotten upset, stormed out of the shop, and ignored her for a full month. But
in the past few weeks, she had gradually been bringing up the topic again.

39
It would be good for him, she said, to get to know someone new. To realize
that Isobel Young hadn't been the only good thing in the world. Besides,
she said, everyone else his age was finding a partner now. The wizarding
community was small. If he didn't find someone now, he never would.
She wasn't wrong there - alarmingly, a lot of people his
age were starting to talk of marriage. Even Blaise was getting serious with
a French girl from Beauxbatons. But what Narcissa had wrong was that
Draco didn't care if he never found anyone. He had been alone for most of
his life, and was perfectly fine doing it all again.
He narrowed his eyes at the sky, looking for movement. Any small,
moving thing that might signal an approaching owl. Ginny Weasley, he
decided, was a slow replier.

40
 six

draco

Draco had learnt to like the summer.

He had been home-schooled as a child, by a weedy tutor with wire
glasses and a palpable fear of Draco's parents. He had sat with the tutor for
six hours a day, five times a week - going over and over all of the different
lessons that wizarding children had to learn. Despite learning alone, Draco
still had the same academic structure as other children, which in summer
was a two-month holiday. Two months a year spent alone, wandering
around the Manor by himself.
It wasn't that he didn't like the heat, or the long, dry days. It was the
unending circle of having nothing to do and no one to talk to. His parents
had spoiled him, he knew that. But they had spoiled him with gifts, and
flattery, and a false sense of self-importance. They hadn't spoiled him with
their time. Or with companionship, or affection.
Being alone was something he had come to like. He had learnt, over
time, how to make the most of summer days, if they were spent in only his
own company. He became accustomed to spending hours sitting on top of
the fountain in the garden, or by the window in his bedroom, staring out at
the fields beyond.
He was good at being alone, because his parents had taught him to be.
Which was why he found it ironic that even now he had moved out, they

41
were still finding ways to control his time. That they were fine with him
being alone, but only on their terms. That they could still force him to go
for tea, to visit family, and now, to go on a date with a girl he had never even
met.
He had thought that the strange relationship he had with his parents would
pass with the end of childhood dependency: that when he stopped living under
their roof, he would finally be free from their control and their values.
Clearly not.
He had been given clear instructions to dress nicely for the date. He
had put on a smart pair of trousers and a grey shirt, which he rolled up to
his forearms for practicality's sake. He was clutching a mug of camomile
tea, his fingers wrapped around the hot ceramic. Heart beating fast, he was
staring out of his window into the sky beyond. Still.
Because he had five minutes to go until his mother showed up, and a
letter from Ginny Weasley was yet to arrive.
A week ago, when his mother had set a date for him to meet Astoria, he
had written to Ginny to ask for a picture of Isobel. He had only had two or
three pictures himself, and they had disappeared with the rest of Belly's
possessions on the day of his trial - when his mother had "cleaned up." But
he was sure that the Weasley girl would have one, and if not she, then one
of Belly's other Gryffindor friends. It was something to do with ego that he
hadn't asked sooner.
It had taken him five drafts to whittle down the letter to something
suitably polite - for one thing, forcing himself to use Ginny and her
brother's first names rather than one of the more creative nicknames he
had adorned them with in school. He had hoped this civility would work in
his favour, but Ginny was taking her time getting back to him, so he didn't
know. It was possible she felt angry at him, he thought; blamed him for
Belly's death. Maybe all of her other friends hated him too, now more than
ever.

42
 And then - he threw his mug into the sink and slammed open the
window. As if on command, an owl was sweeping down in the direction of
his apartment. He stretched out an arm to grab an envelope from the bird's
foot - and sure enough, his name was written in a loopy scrawl that he didn't
recognise.
He ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter.

Hi Malfoy,
I could only find a few pictures of Isobel, but I thought you'd like this
one best. It was taken in October of seventh year. She looks happy, and
was happy for a moment, even though it was a miserable time. What I
remember most clearly of seventh-year Isobel was her insistence on being
"over" you. And yet, she stared at you pretty much the entire time.
You know that neither I nor the rest of Isobel's friends ever showed
much approval of your relationship. I want to apologise for that. Your
time together was short and I feel awful that I might possibly have played
a role in limiting it further. Not to give myself too much credit - you were
both always insufferably stubborn - but regardless, I'm sorry.
I really hope you are doing well. I miss her too, you know.
Ginny.

Draco tossed the letter aside. Then, with trembling hands, he slid a
photograph from the envelope.
Belly was sitting in between Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood.
They were in front of a fire, in what he vaguely recognised as the Gryffindor
common room. All three were laughing, tugging a box of cornflakes
between one another.
A knock sounded on the door, and Narcissa's voice came from behind
it. "Draco, darling."

43
 Draco stayed where he was. He carefully tore Longbottom and
Lovegood from the sides of the picture, until it was just Belly left. She
looked at the camera then, and her smile grew. Mischievous. The fire
reflected in her eyes. Her face had haunted him for over a year now, but
that was nothing compared to seeing her like this, her actual features,
smiling at the camera as she used to smile at him.
Narcissa knocked again. "Draco."
"Coming, mother," he called, but didn't move.
"Draco, I won't let you hide from this. I don't want to use Alohamora in
a muggle residence, but if you're going to refuse to co-operate -" Narcissa's
voice stopped. Then came a nervous, "Oh. Hello."
Draco cursed. He tucked the photograph into the pocket of his trousers
and strode to the door. Flung it open to come face to face with his mother
and Emily, his neighbour.
"Hello," chirped Emily. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
Draco stuck an arm out to usher his mother into his apartment. He
tossed an Obliviate back at Emily, and shut the door behind him.
His mother looked at him, wide-eyed. "Draco, I don't think that's legal."
Draco said nothing, and Narcissa cleared her throat. She was dressed for
the occasion, her usual casual black dress upgraded to a flouncier, lace-
trimmed one. As if she was the one going on a date. "Right, well. You've
dressed suitably. You'll need something warm."
"It's summer," said Draco. "I thought we were going for afternoon tea."
"Change of plan," said Narcissa briskly. "The two of you are going for a
walk at St. James' park. We thought it might be more casual, less
overwhelming for the both of you. And it's cool out today."
Draco groaned. The plan had been that they - he, Astoria and all of their
parents - go for afternoon tea, somewhere fancy. He had been banking on
the ability to sit in a corner and say little. "Who's we?"
Narcissa gave him a pointed look. "Astoria's mother and I."

44
 "Right," he said. "The matchmakers."
Noticing a jumper of Draco's hanging on the back of his door, Narcissa
took it and handed it to him. "I don't want to quarrel about this."
"Then don't make me go," mumbled Draco. But he took the jumper
from her obediently; pulled it over his head.
He locked his door from the inside, and Narcissa took his hand. She did
not look at him, but she gave his hand a small, gentle squeeze.
Together they Apparated to Diagon Alley, where they were to meet the
Greengrass family.
Arriving in a wizarding community felt like shedding an invisibility
cloak. It almost was that, in a literal sense, and as they appeared in Diagon
Alley, Draco felt prying eyes turn towards him and his mother.
Narcissa smoothed out her dress and looked around for the Greengrasses,
ignoring their onlookers. Draco felt vaguely amused to see nerves in her
expression. What was she afraid of? That the Greengrass family wouldn't like
them? Or that he would embarrass her?
"Oh, there they are," she said. She stood a little straighter, and shot a
tight-lipped smile over Draco's shoulder.
Draco sighed heavily and turned to face Astoria and her parents. They
were approaching across the cobblestone pavement, looking just as
apprehensive as he felt.
With Isobel's photograph in one trouser pocket and her snowdrop in
the other, he shook Astoria Greengrass' hand. Her eyes were light where
Isobel's were dark: her hair was brown where Isobel's was fair. And she
seemed, like Draco, not all too happy to be there.
He and his mother exchanged pleasantries with the Greengrass family.
The weather, the news, their jobs, their lives. The upcoming turn of the
century. He and Astoria left to make their way to St. James' park, where
they would walk slow, long loops around the green, making small talk and

45
getting to know each other. Standing far enough apart to be strangers, but
close enough to be friends.
And he would find, to his surprise, that he quite enjoyed her company.
She would tell him she was sorry he lost his girlfriend in the war, and place
a consoling hand on his arm. And he would not feel discomforted by it.
He would find comfort in her anger at the world, in the opinions she
had that his parents would scorn. There were thoughts he had had once in
his life and never dared to turn his mind to again, and here she was, voicing
them aloud. Blood purity is a construct built from fear and pretension. It
is inhumane and sadistic to choose status over justice. Arranged marriage
between purebloods is outdated, yet here we are.
And between her controversial opinions, he would find kindness,
compassion and understanding.
He would be surprised by how similar their lives were - their
upbringing and their current circumstances - after having, for so long, felt
so alone.
And on their return to Diagon Alley, she would make a snide remark
about pureblood constructs, that would cause the corners of his mother's
mouth to turn down, and his to turn up.
That night, he would sink into his bed, feeling intensely relieved.
Astoria Greengrass was nothing like the pureblood snobbery he had
known his entire life. She was bitter and smart and very angry. And it was
refreshing.
She would never replace Belly, this he knew. But it wouldn't be all that
bad to have another friend.

46
 seven

SEPTEMBER1999

isobel

The first day her mother went back to work, Isobel visited Sandhaven
Beach.
The next, she visited Scarborough. A little further away, and a little
more to see.
The day after that, her mother worked a twelve-hour shift, so Isobel
had more time. She Apparated to Manchester, and walked around the city
there for a while, visiting museums and cathedrals. She bought ice cream
from a market stall and sat with it on the steps of an art gallery, watching
the crowds of muggles pass her by. Then she Apparated to Liverpool, and
watched the sun go down from a white, sandy beach.
She visited many places, but decided she liked beaches the best. There
was something enchanting about standing at the edge of the water with her
toes curling into the sand, waves drifting back and forth around her ankles.
Staring out at the vast expanse of ocean. Nobody knew much about her,
anymore, but staring out at a world so big, that didn't seem to matter. The
world was big enough to hold a life for her, somewhere, though she didn't
know the details of that life quite yet.

47
 She left the house soon after her mother went to work each day, to buy
herself as much time as she could get. When she returned, she changed into
her sweatpants, curled up with a book on the couch and pretended she had
been there all day long.
The morning of Maggie's first shift at St. Mungo's, she had sat Isobel
down at the kitchen table.
"Don't leave the house. Please."
Isobel had looked into her mother's pleading eyes, and lied. "I won't."
"And don't take off your necklace. Not under any circumstance, okay?"
"I won't," Isobel had repeated, closing her fingers around the silver star
at her neck. That part, at least, wasn't a lie.
But she had left the house. She had gone to many different places, and
soaked in each one. Relished in the crowds drifting by, the people, the
architecture, the landscapes. So many new things to see; so much that she
had missed out on for so long.
She had gone to many places, but not enough. She wanted to go further.
Today though, she was going as far as her mother's room, for the first
time since she had tucked her into bed after finding out what she had done.
She was sacrificing another trip to Scarborough today, to search for Floo
Powder.
Her mother was much better at Apparating than Isobel was, and had
no problem Apparating back and forth to London every day for work. But
Isobel had learnt to Apparate at sixteen, and was not yet very good.
Apparating long distances was tricky, and she could think of few things
more terrifying than getting splinched while alone. She could Apparate to
Manchester, but could make herself go no further.
Isobel's mother had told her that she kept no Floo Powder in the house.
But Maggie was a distrustful, fearful woman. Her fear of war and Death
Eaters pervaded into every aspect of their lives, and Isobel could not
conceive that Maggie had no preplanned escape route from the house,

48
should some unthinkable emergency happen. They had kept plenty of Floo
Powder in their old house, had used it to travel everywhere, and she didn't
believe her mother would have so carelessly thrown it all away, to rely on
Apparition forever. So, as Maggie left for St. Mungo's, Isobel snuck into her
bedroom to look for the green powder.
Maggie had given Isobel the larger of the two bedrooms in the house.
Furniture crowded Maggie's room, and Isobel had to squeeze between the
wardrobe and the edge of the bed to get to a small desk in the corner. This
was where she would start - carefully opening each desk drawer, lifting
Maggie's documents, books and notebooks; all so deliberately gently that
there would be no sign she had ever been there.
Secrecy had twisted its way into Isobel's relationship with her mother,
for now. Her mother was sensitive; fragile after the war. Something had
broken in her, too, when Isobel had been attacked in the battle - or perhaps
far before, when her father had died. In the last few months, things had
been tense between them. Isobel didn't know how to forgive an act that was
so awful, but came from a place of such abundant love - and didn't know
how to fix it, either. She wasn't yet sure how to undo her mother's actions:
how to get off the path her mother had chosen for her. But for now, she
could leave the house, she could explore, after having been inside for so
long. She could find a taste of freedom without upsetting her mother, or
getting her in trouble. So if secrecy was what it would take, that was how it
would be.
There was no Floo Powder in the drawers of Maggie's desk, and Isobel
was beginning to get restless. It was possible her mother had just thrown it
all out, in a moment of panic, but she didn't want to believe that yet.
There was nothing in Maggie's nightstand but a picture of the two of
them and her father; taken years before at a restaurant in France. All three
of them looked sunkissed, happy and healthy. Isobel's cheek pressed into
her mother's shoulder, no secrets between them.

49
 Isobel set the picture down and moved to the wardrobe: a very tall,
wooden thing, and her last resort. With a deep breath, she pulled the door
open. She combed through cardigans, shirts, jumpers . . . And at last, with
her hand reaching high to the top shelf, standing on the tips of her toes, her
fingers brushed against glass. She stretched further, but her hand knocked
the jar away.
Isobel cursed under her breath. Taking her wand from the waist of her
sweatpants, she whispered, "Accio Floo Powder." But nothing happened,
and Isobel almost laughed - her mother must have put a counter-spell on
the jar, for fear of Isobel trying to summon it. As she was doing now.
She grabbed the chair from the desk and dragged it to the wardrobe.
Clambered onto it to see - finally - the bright green powder, staring back at her.
But not just that.
Behind the jar of Floo Powder lay an old, folded piece of parchment.
Just those two things, sitting there, waiting for Isobel to find them. No
concealment charms, just a high shelf.
She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, not wanting to intrude on
anything that might be personal to her mother. But, she supposed, her
mother had stolen Isobel's personal life: surely Isobel was entitled to some
intrusion.
Later, she would wonder what would have happened if she had never
unfolded the parchment.
She would wonder at what point she realised that the writing was a
letter, and that the letter was addressed to her.
She would wonder at what point she noticed that it was signed by Draco
Malfoy.
Curiosity turned to confusion, to anger, to fear. Heart thudding, she
read over it once, then once again. Then she climbed down from the chair,
sat on her mother's bed, and read it a third time.
A letter so full of heartbreak, so sorrowful - yet so unfathomable.

50
 Draco Malfoy, who had been her friends' sworn enemy since day one.
Draco Malfoy, who had heaped scorn and insults and ridicule onto all
of them, at every given chance.
Draco Malfoy, who had been a Death Eater.
She took a breath, and moved her mother's chair back to her desk.
Placed it carefully there, so that it looked just as it had when Isobel had
walked in. She shut the door of the wardrobe, closed her hand around the
Floo Powder, and made her way to the fireplace. And prayed to God that
her mother had connected their house to the Floo Network.

51
 eight

isobel

Isobel had wanted to see London for a long time, but it had been too far.
She had wanted to see Trafalgar Square, and Covent Garden, and Hyde
Park and Buckingham Palace, because the last time she had seen all of those
places, she had been with her father. Together they had marvelled at the
landmarks, how beautiful but foreign they were; that they seemed to mean
so much to the muggle world, yet meant so little to them. For that, it had
been all the more intriguing to watch the crowds surging around statues,
royal guards, and telephone booths; clutching their point-and-shoot
cameras.
But the post office in Diagon Alley had to come first, now. The
landmarks could come later.
She held a letter clamped in each hand. The one in her right was
addressed to Ginny; a rushed, messy note that had taken an infuriating
amount of time to word out. She had figured that explaining herself in
writing might be less shocking than to show up on the doorstep of The
Burrow; didn't know if Ginny even still lived at The Burrow; but didn't
know where to start. After several stressful drafts, Isobel had settled on
copying out her own address, and asking Ginny to visit as soon as she could.
The letter in her left hand - well.

52
 Somewhere between the reading and the rereading, she had
unintentionally learnt off Draco's letter, word for word. As she moved
across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley; her head down and her hood up,
she said them to herself again. I would give the sun, the moon, the stars.
I'd give anything to have you back.
Diagon Alley was busy. Isobel had travelled there hurriedly, not
pausing to think about the busy hour. Crowds surged down the tiny, grey
street. Isobel weaved between them, trying to make her way to the post
office as quickly and inconspicuously as she could, but people pressed
against her on either side. Her breathing quickened and her heart thudded
hard in her chest, but she pushed on, desperate not to be recognised.
She had always been interested in Draco Malfoy, she could not deny
that. Curious to see what a life could do to a soul; to figure out why he acted
as he did. To find moments of softness in all his arrogance. She knew that
he acted the way he did because of the world he had been born into. He was
a deeply scarred product of a deeply scarred family, and he had fascinated her.
It would explain everything. It would explain why her mother was so
protective over her, why she claimed that Isobel was in more danger than
her other friends. Why she kept her locked up now.
She had been fascinated by Draco Malfoy, yes. But she could not
fathom, could not begin to imagine, at what point fascination might have
turned into love.
Isobel's chest was tight and her breathing shallow. She was nearing a
tiny alleyway that led off Diagon Alley, so she ducked into it, and rested her
back against the wall. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and told
herself what she knew.
Her final few years at Hogwarts were a blur. She knew they had
happened; that she was there for fifth and seventh year and at home for
sixth, but could remember them only in shadowy fragments.

53
 She remembered Draco Malfoy, but felt she knew him as a stranger. A
Slytherin boy, born into a family that were loyal to Voldemort for years,
until they suddenly weren't. Until they left the darkness, and chose family
instead. She remembered how hateful he was in their first few years at
school, and how intriguing that had been to her. But she wasn't sure if she
had ever spoken to him, one to one.
All she knew for certain was that there was now a letter in her hand,
claiming that he loved her. A single, crumpled piece of parchment, that
could change everything.
She remembered being attacked at the Battle of Hogwarts, and the
world going dark.
She remembered waking up to a changed life. A new life, where she
didn't know anybody, and nobody knew her.
She remembered her mother's strict instructions to leave her star
necklace on at all times, because her mother had enchanted the necklace,
and that had been what had saved her. Her mother had saved her life, and
Isobel was grateful for that. But she had also stolen it from her.
My name is Isobel Young. I am here. I am alive.
She took another deep breath, and opened her eyes. The street was still
crowded, but the post office was in view at its end, waiting for her. She
stepped out to move off again -
And then threw herself back, and flattened herself against the wall.
Because approaching her, walking together down the centre of Diagon
Alley, were the three Malfoys.
Draco walked between his parents, his eyes fixed on the ground. His
hair fell to his cheekbones, and a frown tugged at his lips. His face was, as
ever, pale. Ghostly.
And Isobel considered, for a moment - that it would be an easier move.
To just - step out in front of Malfoy; to ask him if it was true. If she stepped

54
in front of them now, pulled down her hood - what would he say? How
might he react?
Narcissa's eyes swept over Isobel as if she was part of the wall, but
Lucius' gaze clicked onto her. For a fraction of a second, he faltered, his
hostile eyes locked onto hers . . . But he pulled himself away, and moved on
with his family.
And then they had passed her, and her chance was gone.
"Some nerve," sounded a voice from beside her. Isobel jumped, and
turned: a woman was standing in the doorway of Flourish and Blotts, and
speaking directly to her. "To show up here like that," said the woman. "After
all they've done."
Isobel hadn't noticed the woman standing there. Unnerved, she offered
a small smile, and moved away; heart thudding.
She didn't decide to follow the Malfoys, she just did it.
She crept behind them through Diagon Alley, back the way she came.
Whenever they stopped walking, she would pause; linger by shop windows.
Head down; hood up.
The Malfoys separated outside the Leaky Cauldron, with little
sentiment. Draco barely looked at his parents, before departing down a
busy London road. Isobel trailed after him, moving behind bus stops and
post boxes as she walked. She moved quickly and quietly; eyes fixed on the
white-blond head bobbing in and out of the crowds ahead of her.
After what might have been ten minutes or sixty, with the sun setting
and the sky dim, Draco stopped at a modest, red-brick apartment block.
Isobel watched from across the road as he produced a key from his coat
pocket, unlocked the front door, and disappeared inside.
She stood there, breathless. She could unlock the door
with Alohamora. She could.
Be brave, Gryffindor, she told herself. But her feet didn't move.

55
 A light flicked on on the third floor. Isobel's heart quickened, and she
watched Draco move across his apartment. He filled an electric kettle, then
leaned his arms on his kitchen counter. He sank against it.
He looked different. He was so much older, sadder, and more tired than
the Draco Malfoy she remembered. The Draco she remembered - had
known enough to dislike - was a ghost of the boy she saw now.
Even if this boy had loved her, she realised; she didn't know him. She
didn't know anything about him, and that terrified her.
So, she walked away. She found a deserted alleyway, and Apparated to
Diagon Alley, from where she would return home. Maybe the next day, she
would find herself able to confront him. Or the day after that. Maybe.
But for now, she could not find the courage.

56
 nine

isobel

It took Isobel almost two weeks to work up the courage to visit Draco again.
Two weeks, spent going over and over her thoughts. Spent avoiding her
mother during the day and sneaking to the kitchen for meals in the night.
Lying awake under her duvet, wondering at how quickly everything had
changed.
She had rummaged through all of her possessions; sorted them and
rummaged again; to find any evidence of Draco. A t-shirt, a book maybe, or
another letter. But nothing. The only evidence that Draco Malfoy might
once have loved her consisted of a thousand scribbled words on a crumpled,
tear-stained piece of parchment.
When her mother left the house, Isobel would wrap a blanket around
her shoulders, move to the living room, and think about it all from the
couch instead.
She took to crying, a lot. She had never thought of herself as a
particularly tearful person, but in those two weeks, she cried again and
again. Confusion, sadness and fear swept over her in waves. Immobility.
Helplessness. If it was true - if Draco really had loved her, and she him,
what was the point in pursuing any of it? She didn't remember their
relationship; he remembered it, but thought her dead. And there was no
logic in seeking comfort from a person she barely knew.

57
 But her thoughts sprang back to him, again and again. His hair, his
shadowy eyes. His apartment. His letter.
One Saturday, she woke up and her sadness had dissolved into anger.
In the pit of her stomach, she felt a deep resentment towards not only her
mother, but towards the world. Towards everyone who had pushed her into
this corner. So, she caught onto that anger, she grabbed it, twisted it; urged
it to grow and spread. She kindled the flame so that it might turn into fire.
Maggie had already left for work, so Isobel pulled on jeans and a
jumper, tugged her curls into a ponytail, and took the Floo Powder from
her mother's room.
She navigated Diagon Alley with ease this time, keeping her head down
and avoiding eye contact. She bought her own Floo Powder, aware that her
mother might notice her own supply was dwindling. There was a loose
floorboard in Isobel's room, under which she kept her unsent letter to
Ginny. She would store the powder there.
Then she Apparated to the alleyway near Draco's apartment. She made
her way to the corner of his street, from where she could see into his living
room. Despite the daylight, lightbulbs gleamed from around his apartment.
But she couldn't see him, so she waited.
It was October now and getting cold, so she pulled her coat tighter
around her. She fidgeted with its zip, not comfortable to be back in the
company of her own thoughts.
It was a late Saturday morning and the street brimmed with
pedestrians, but anxieties gnawed at her mind. Every thought she'd had
about Draco Malfoy and his family; all of the bad things they had done.
Every worry her mother had ever bestowed on her about Death Eaters,
about leaving the house, about walking alone and telling no one where she
was going. Every nightmare that had plagued her since the war.
Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she would see it all again. Bodies,
tears, and blood. A blinding green light. She would close her fingers around

58
her necklace, take a deep breath, and push it from her mind. But the
memories remained nearby, waiting patiently for her to return to them.
They never left.
A light flicked on in Draco's apartment, and Isobel felt that she could
breathe again. Her eyes followed him as he stretched out his arms, pulled
off his hoodie and changed into another one. Ccrossed from one room into
another.
As he boiled water and chose a mug from his cupboard, she watched.
She watched the way he left his teabag in the water for far too long. Watched
the way he stood in his apartment, staring at everything and nothing.
Watched his chest rise and fall as he drank his tea; watched his eyes close
and open.
Watched his gaze pass over her, seeing right through her.
Sadness radiated from Draco Malfoy with intensity. It followed him like
a permanent shadow; like a cloak he couldn't take off. Like he had been
caught in the rain and would never be dry again.
The letter in Isobel's pocket wasn't enough to confirm that he had loved
her, she knew that. But Draco walked with the disposition of a person who
had lost something important; lost a part of themselves, and to Isobel, that
was confirmation enough. Because for the past year, that had been exactly
what she had felt, too.
She didn't remember loving him, and didn't love him now. She didn't
even know him, now, and given that she wasn't yet ready to tell her friends
she was alive, it felt wrong to tell him. She didn't trust this ghostly boy, yet.
But it still felt wrong to disregard him.
So she stayed.
She watched the days grow shorter and colder from that street corner,
with her back against red-brick wall. Watched Draco move through his
apartment with changing clothes, his white-blond hair growing longer and
his posture more slouchy. Blaise Zabini visited him on occasion, she noted.

59
His mother also showed up briefly, now and again, and they would
Apparate away together. Only Blaise stayed.
She mastered the routine of stowing her Floo Powder under the loose
floorboard in her room, of keeping Draco's letter in a pocket. Of going to
see him regularly, as if that might help her decide what to do next.
Once in a while, he would leave his apartment. The lights would flick
off, half a minute would pass, and Isobel would see him cross the lobby on
the ground floor. He would descend the building stairs two at time, and
walk off to the city. Isobel would consistently be unnerved by the starkness
of the opportunity to approach him. How easy it could be to cross the street
and tap his shoulder. But she would, perhaps conveniently, consider it for
a moment too long. And then he would be gone.
She began to take the same comfort in seeing him that one might take
from the presence of a friend. There was safety in his familiarity; stability
in his routine. She felt herself grow closer to him, began to look forward to
each time she could next see his face. A window and a street separated
them, but she hadn't spent so much time with another person in months.
And then, one cold day at October's end, she saw someone else. A girl.
The girl greeted Draco with a hug, and crossed his apartment with the
comfort of being in one's own home. She brought yellow flowers with her,
which she arranged in a vase at Draco's windowsill. She wore expensive
clothing and red lipstick. Long, shiny brown hair cascaded in waves down
her back.
Isobel felt sick.
She watched Draco lean back against his kitchen counter as he spoke
to her, hands in his pockets. The girl listened attentively. She was
captivating as she spoke; all hand gestures and facial expressions.
The girl moved to look out the window. Isobel turned quickly, covering
her face with the hood of her coat. When she looked back, they were talking
again; sparing not a second glance for the girl on the corner.

60
 Moving away down the street, Isobel brushed a tear from her cheek.
Then she scorned herself for crying and broke into a run, back to the small
alleyway.
Without pausing for thought, she Apparated straight home from
London for the first time. The tall trees of their driveway curled over her
head and shivered in the breeze, welcoming her home.
Draco Malfoy was not hers, she reminded herself, as she entered the
countryside house. She tugged down the zip of her coat and flung it over
the coat hanger. She did not remember loving him; did not even know him
properly. He did not know that she was alive.
She didn't know why she felt so very abandoned.

61
 ten

isobel

For the first time in over a year, Isobel was expecting a visitor.
She was nervous. She didn't know what to say or where to start. How
to explain everything that had happened since the war. She busied herself
with frying an egg for breakfast, though she wasn't the slightest bit hungry.
She had been back to the street corner three times since seeing the girl
in Draco's apartment. She had initially forbidden herself from returning,
but three times she crumbled. She stayed for only a few minutes on each
visit. A few minutes to watch him, to know he was okay. A short few
minutes, but enough to put her restless mind at ease.
She wasn't sure what she wanted from Draco, but it often crossed her
mind that it would be much easier if he just saw her; if he noticed her of his
own accord. That way, she wouldn't have to make the decision herself. But
he seemed so aloof, so stuck in his own head all the time. He looked at her,
looked past her, but never saw her.
She thought about him with everything she did. Everywhere she went,
everything she saw. When her mother was in front of her, he was on her mind.
Now, making breakfast, her thoughts were still with him.
Crack, and the egg fell out of its shell, into the sizzling pan. Draco's
white-blond hair, his big hoodies.
Crack, and the butter snapped and spattered. His sadness, his silence.

62
 Crack, and Ginny Weasley was standing by the front door, red hair
obscured by frosted window panes.
Isobel switched off the hob, fingers trembling. She had essentially lived
with Ginny in Hogwarts, had seen her every day for five years. It was almost
comical that she was so afraid to face her now.
The door creaked as she opened it. Ginny stood there on the tarmac,
hair blowing in the wind. Sweat shone on her forehead.
Tears pricked at Isobel's eyes. "Gin."
Ginny's eyes were fixed on Isobel. She raised a hand to her chest, then
dropped it again. Then said, rather astutely; "Holy shit."
Isobel reached out to embrace Ginny; wrapped her arms around her
neck. Ginny leaned into the hug, but only slightly; stiffly. When she stepped
back, Ginny stared at her, still.
Isobel blew out a breath. "Come in," she said, softly.
Ginny followed her through the house and into the kitchen. She stood
by the table, eyes on Isobel.
Isobel kneaded her hands together. "Not like you to be so speechless, Gin."
Ginny shook her head; broke eye contact, finally. "I can't believe it's
really you," she said, quietly.
The knot in Isobel's stomach clenched tighter. "Sit down, please," she
said. Ginny obliged. She unwound her scarf and placed on the chair beside
her; shrugged off her jacket. But she looked uneasy, still. "Can I offer you
tea?" asked Isobel. "Coffee?"
Ginny managed a smile. "Oh, I'll need a coffee for this."
Isobel poured their coffee. Then she sat at the table, and took Ginny's
hand. "Let me explain."
And so, she explained. She explained how her necklace had been
enchanted, how the enchantment had allowed her to survive being
attacked, but not without consequence. How she had been in pain for
months, but felt better now. How her mother had insisted on staying

63
indoors, in this tiny house, for as long as she could get away with. How
Isobel hadn't known that all of her friends thought her dead, until recently.
When she finished, she took a deep breath. Ginny was staring at her;
brow twisted in frustration. "God, I'd love to have a word with your mum."
"She didn't -" Isobel bit her lip, unsure of how to explain it. "Everything
she did - it didn't come from a bad place. She did it all because she was so
afraid of losing me, after having lost my dad, too."
Ginny shook her head dismissively, saying nothing. She ran a hand
through her red hair, and as she did, something glinted. Isobel gasped.
"Ginny. What is that?"
"Oh." Ginny broke into a smile. She extended her hand, and a small
diamond shone from her ring finger. "Turns out Harry Potter is quite the
romantic when he's not running around after Voldemort."
Isobel touched the ring lightly, chewing on her cheek. The world had
gone on without her; of course it had. She squeezed Ginny's hand. "I'm so
happy for you. When's the wedding?"
"Next summer. Will you come?"
Isobel's heart sank. "I'd love to. But . . ."
"But what?" Ginny took back her hand. "You don't think your mum will
have set you free by then?"
"It's not like that," replied Isobel. Her voice came out timid. "I just -
there's a few things I have to figure out, first."
Ginny tapped a fingernail against her untouched cup of coffee. "Such as?"
Isobel sat straighter; clasped her hands together. "Right. Well, I
actually wanted to ask you about Draco Malfoy."
Confusion flickered across Ginny's face. "Okay."
"Well," repeated Isobel. "It has come to my attention. . ." she paused.
"I believe that it is possible we might have dated, at one point."
Ginny stared. "Yes, Isobel, you dated. Why are you being weird about it?"

64
 "Right," said Isobel. She clasped her hands tighter. "The thing is - I
can't remember him."
Ginny's hand flew to her mouth. "What?"
"I can't remember him. Or I mean, I remember him, but I don't
remember dating him."
"Holy shit," said Ginny, again. "Do you think your mum erased your
memories of him? To keep you safe, or whatever?"
Isobel shook her head. "My theory is - the way that my mother
enchanted my necklace. . . I think it's possible that the charm might have
rebounded a bit, so I can't remember certain things. Or I hit my head when
I fell. That's what she said in our first few months here, when I realized
there were things missing, from my mind. Memories I didn't have
anymore." Her necklace was hanging over her t-shirt; she raised a hand to
it, contemplative. "Though of course, I haven't told her that I know about
Malfoy."
Ginny eyed the necklace. "Do you remember anything else, that didn't
have to do with him? From those years - like the DA, the Carrows . . .
Umbridge -"
"Yes, I remember all of that. It's just him."
"Oh, that's not suspicious at all," said Ginny. Then, she grabbed the
necklace and yanked at it.
Isobel slapped her away. "Ouch, Gin." She rubbed at her neck.
Ginny sat on her hands. "I think you should take that off," she said. She
stared at the necklace with apprehension. "What if your mum - in her
enchanting the necklace and all that, what if she took your memories of
Malfoy? And you can't remember him because you wear it all the time?"
Isobel touched the necklace instinctively; protectively. "She enchanted
the necklace long before the war."
"I don't care," retorted Ginny. "Take it off. What if it's blocking your
memories of him? Isobel - take it off, or I'll do it for you."

65
 "Okay," said Isobel, indignant. "Fine. But it's not going to work."
Ginny hummed disbelievingly. She watched with impatience as Isobel
unclasped the necklace, unwound it from her neck, and placed it on the
table between them.
Isobel turned her mind back to Malfoy; saw him walking around his
apartment, drinking tea. Tried to imagine that same Malfoy at the Slytherin
table in Hogwarts.
She shrugged. "Sorry," she said. "But nothing."
Ginny's face fell. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry. I really thought that was it."
Despite herself, Isobel's heart ached. She grabbed Ginny's cold coffee
and emptied it into the sink. Refilled it from the pot.
"I'm sorry, Iz," repeated Ginny. "Anyway, I'm sure it's all fixable.
Memories can be restored, right?"
Isobel sat back down with a sigh. "I hope so."
"So have you told him yet? Malfoy?"
Isobel closed her hands around her mug. "I don't know him."
"Well. You do."
She shook her head. "I don't, though. Don't know if we'd get on; can't
understand how we got together in the first place. And -" she tried not to
look too spiteful - "there's not much point in telling him I'm alive, because
he seems to have a new girlfriend already."
Ginny's eyes widened. "How do you know?"
"Saw them. Together." Ginny was waiting for her to elaborate, so she
said, carefully, "I've been to visit him a few times, actually. Just, like,
without his knowledge. Through a window."
Ginny flung a hand to her mouth, but Isobel wasn't sure if she meant
to conceal alarm or a laugh. "Iz," she said. "That is so creepy."
She frowned. "What else was I supposed to do? I wanted to get to know
him, but couldn't let him know I was alive. And it's not like I watch him that
much . . ." She faltered. "Just a little."

66
 Ginny giggled, then pulled a stern face. "I'll admit your circumstances
are unique. But it's not only an invasion of privacy, you're stalking him.
That's not right."
"I know," mumbled Isobel. "Do you think he would. . . If I told him that,
would he be angry at me?"
Ginny's expression softened. "I think he would be mad at anyone for
that, except you."
Isobel bit her lip. "That's so strange to me," she said. "That he likes me
so much. It's all so weird. I don't remember him, I only remember the bad
parts. I only remember all of us hating him in our first few years at school.
When did we start dating?"
"Your fifth year," said Ginny, without hesitation. "My fourth. In
between DA meetings - at some point, you found the time to fall for him."
"And you approved?"
"Not in the slightest," replied Ginny. Her smile faded quickly. "I feel
terrible about that now."
"Don't," said Isobel, absently. "At what point did he become a Death
Eater?"
Ginny paused. "I think that you should ask him about that. Really, I'm
not the person who should be telling you any of this."
"So you think I should speak to him?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
Dread knotted in Isobel's stomach. She looked at the window, trying to
gather her thoughts. The morning sun was harsh; she squinted against it.
"I'm so different to the person I was back in school," she said, finally. "I
always felt so fearless in Dumbledore's Army meetings, but I'm so scared
now. All the time."
Ginny touched Isobel's hand. "The war changed all of us, Iz. I'm not
trying to - minimize your experience or whatever, really. But you're not

67
alone; we're all different now. There's no coming back from something that
horrific."
Isobel's eyes had filled with tears. "I'm so sorry about Fred."
Ginny nodded; managed a small smile. Isobel took her hand and held
it. "It's weird, without him," said Ginny softly. "Much quieter. But we're
doing okay, now. George runs the joke shop alone, but we all help out now
and again. It's good for him to keep busy, you know?" She grasped Isobel's
hand. "God. I can't believe it's really you, Iz."
Isobel huffed out a laugh. "And I can't believe you're getting married."
"If you come to the wedding," said Ginny, "I want you to be a
bridesmaid. No pressure - I understand that you have a lot to work through.
But if you can be there, I would love that."
Isobel nodded. "I'll let you know."
When Ginny left, sunlight gleamed on the chair where she had sat.
Isobel stared at it for a while, then started to cry, again.
But this time, it wasn't all sadness. There were tears to be shed, yes, but
she didn't feel quite so empty.
This time, there was hope.

68
 eleven

isobel

Isobel Apparated to London the following day. She could not allow
herself to wait any longer, for fear of losing the courage Ginny had inspired
in her.
It was strange to be on this side of the road. Draco's apartment building
seemed suddenly very big, as she climbed its stairs - much more
intimidating when she wasn't stood in the comfort of her shaded street
corner.
The building's glass doors were locked. On the adjoining brick wall
were small columns of numbers and buttons, which she assumed made up
a kind of muggle doorbell system for the apartments. Of course, she didn't
know Draco's apartment number, and had no desire to ring one of his
neighbours. So, she glanced around her to check that nobody was watching,
waved a discrete Alohomora at the lock, and pushed her way into the
apartment building.
The building's lobby was a small, dimly-lit space, crowded with rows of
wooden post-boxes. Isobel moved quickly across it towards a narrow
stairway, not allowing herself time for hesitation.
If Draco's apartment was on the third floor, directly over the apartment
front doors, that meant taking a right after the stairs.

69
 Which meant - that this was his door, here. Secluded at the end of the
third-floor corridor. Rickety, white, wooden - and so terrifying.
Isobel took a deep breath. She hadn't a clue of what she should say to
Draco; had been to afraid to plan it out. She had hoped that once she saw
him, the words would start flowing, but now she wasn't so sure.
She dropped the hood of her coat.
She was wearing makeup for the first time in a long while, which felt
heavy on her face, now. Also, it had taken her over an hour that morning to
pick out an outfit - all to meet a boy she couldn't even remember. She had
no explanation for that.
Except for - what if Draco took one look at Isobel Young, and decided
he didn't want her anymore?
"Be brave, Gryffindor," she mumbled aloud. Then she raised one fist,
and knocked sharply on the door.
And nothing.
She knocked again. Minutes passed - or possibly, very long seconds -
but nothing happened. Nobody came to the door.
He wasn't home.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. It had taken her months to
gather enough nerve to speak to him, and for the first time in all her visits
to his apartment, he wasn't there.
A door swung open behind her and she turned quickly, half expecting
to see Draco emerge. But instead a kind-faced, curly-haired woman smiled
at her, lingering in the doorway of a neighbouring apartment. "Hello," said
the woman. "Can I help you?"
Isobel hugged her coat around her, feeling self-conscious. She nodded
at Draco's door. "Do you know if he's home?"
"The boy that lives in that apartment? He just left, actually, around
twenty minutes ago. I don't know him," said the woman, by way of
confession, "but I heard him go."

70
 "Right," said Isobel. "Okay. I'll just go, then -"
"Are you a friend of his? Girlfriend?"
Isobel felt her face heat up. "Yes. I mean - I'm a friend. You've never
met him?"
"Never," said the woman, contemplatively. "And he's lived here for over
a year. It is so strange, you know. I've met so many of the other neighbours,
but he and I keep missing one another."
Isobel bit her lip to hide a smile, thinking that they might not have
missed each other quite as many times as the woman believed. Or
remembered. She turned to the stairs. "Well, it was nice to meet you."
"Oh, you too," said the woman, sounding disappointed. "What's your
name?"
Isobel paused, one hand on the stairway's railing. If Draco's neighbour
bumped into him before Isobel managed to find him, she might mention
that Isobel had been there. And Isobel didn't think that was something he
should hear from a neighbour.
She could erase herself from the neighbour's memories, as Draco had
clearly been doing. She could, easily. But given that her own memory loss
was causing so much misery right now, to use Obliviate on the woman
would feel very wrong. She didn't think she could bring herself to do that.
Facing the stairway, she combed through her mind for another blonde-
haired person in Draco's life, that she might get away with passing for.
"Daphne," she said finally, turning back around. "Daphne Greengrass."
The woman beamed. "Well, it's nice to meet you too, Daphne. I'm
Emily."
"Could you tell him I'll be back tomorrow? Or. . ." She tried to
remember if her mother worked on Thursdays. "Friday, actually. If you see
him, could you tell him I'll be back on Friday?"
"Sure," said Emily. "You don't have his number?"
"Number?" repeated Isobel, confused.

71
 "His phone number?"
Isobel tried to think back to Muggle Studies in Hogwarts. She wasn't
quite sure what this meant, other than that it was a form of communication.
"No," she replied, feigning nonchalance. "I don't have that."
Emily's brow knitted in concern. "Okay. Well, he never leaves for very
long, if you still want to catch him today. I mean - as far as I can tell." She
looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I can hear his door open and close from
my apartment, that's all, so I've come to notice his schedule. I'm not, you
know, a stalker or anything." She laughed.
Isobel said nothing. It occurred to her for the first time that while Draco
had never noticed her from his apartment, his neighbours easily could have
from theirs. Not Emily, clearly. But perhaps she wasn't as invisible as she
often felt.
"What I'm saying is," continued Emily, "if you wait here, I can't think
you'll be waiting all that long."
Isobel nodded. "I suppose I could wait around for a little while."
Emily stepped back into her apartment. "If you do end up leaving
before he gets back - I'll let him know you'll try again on Friday."
"Thank you," said Isobel. "Really, that's very kind of you."
Emily waved her off. "You Brits," she said, smiling to herself. "Always
so polite. Nice to meet you!"
"Nice to meet you," echoed Isobel, as Emily closed the door.
She sat at the top of the stairs, facing a large window that looked out
over the back alley of the building. She watched the sky turn dim there, as
the sun went down over the city. Winter days were short and
claustrophobic. She rested her head in her hands, closed her eyes for just a
second -
Then a tapping sounded from the window. An owl was perched on the
narrow window ledge; a scrap of paper folded and tied to one of its legs.

72
 Isobel slid open the window. She prayed the letter was from Ginny;
groaned when she recognised her mother's slanted writing.

Isobel,
Where are you? I've been home for over an hour.
I hope this owl finds you quickly. Come home this instant.

Isobel cursed under her breath. She threw one last glance at Draco's
apartment door, then pulled her hood back over her head. She hurried away
down the stairs, out of the apartment, and into the street.
Her mother was not supposed to be off work yet, she had been careful
with that. Even when her mind drifted off into thoughts of Draco, she was
always aware of the time. Always made sure to get back to the house well
before Maggie.
It was just after five, and the street was filled with hurried, hassled
workers making their way back to their homes. She moved through them
as quickly as she could; weaving through bodies; trying to come up with a
good excuse for why she hadn't been at home -
And hit right into a person's chest. Into a big, black hoodie.
"Sorry," she said quickly, moving away from the person, away to the
alleyway from where she could Apparate. She glanced back over her
shoulder -
And saw a white-blond head bobbing away from her, into the throng of
people. Back to his apartment. She had bumped right into Draco, and he
hadn't even noticed.
She stopped in the street, looking back at him. She decided,
spontaneously; instinctively; that her mother could wait. But as she
stepped back towards Draco, a voice spoke from behind her. "Isobel
Young."

73
 Isobel's stomach twisted. She turned slowly, disbelievingly, and looked
into a pair of very cold eyes. "Lucius Malfoy."
Lucius looked down at her. She couldn't remember ever speaking to
this man, but felt she knew him. Felt the fine wrinkles around his eyes were
new; felt their animosity was familiar. Voice laced with malice, Lucius said,
"A word, Miss Young?"
They stepped into the alleyway that Isobel had come to think of as her
own. Always deserted, always sheltered from weather and from people. And
now Lucius Malfoy was looming over her, shrewd and calculating. She
supposed she shouldn't be surprised to see him here; should have guessed
that where Draco went, his parents still followed.
"Where have you come from, Isobel Young?"
"Stupid question," she mumbled. Her cheek, chest and right hand had
all collided with Draco's body: she could feel him there still. Energy
coursing over her skin. She pulled away her hood; gave Lucius what she
hoped was a defiant look. "I'm not telling you where I live, that's for sure."
"You don't live at your old house in Surrey," said Lucius. A thin smile
curled across his face. "Oh, yes, I've been. I needed to make sure my son
hadn't left any important possessions there. You know, family belongings.
. ." Isobel did not know, but she glared at him nonetheless. "Lovely house,"
he continued. "Nice and, well - cosy, shall we say? Rustic?" His smile grew.
"Tell me - whyever did you move out?"
She stood as far away from him as she could; back against an alley wall.
"That's none of your business, Lucius."
"It is, actually," he replied. "Because my son has been rather devastated
over the fact that you don't live there anymore. Or should I say, the fact that
in his mind, you don't live anymore."
Isobel's heart beat fast. If someone had tampered with her memories,
it apparently hadn't been Lucius Malfoy.

74
 "I know for a fact that my son believes you are dead," he continued, his
voice smooth. "He does now; did when I saw you in Diagon Alley two
months ago. So tell me, why is it you have continued to allow him to believe
this?"
Isobel said nothing. Staring back at Lucius; not breaking eye contact,
took everything she had. But she couldn't allow herself to back down.
"Well - your mother is back at work in St. Mungo's," he said. "If you
refuse to fill me in - I suppose I could always ask her."
"Leave my mother out of this."
"But why should I leave your mother out of this," said Lucius lightly,
"when I suspect she had everything to do with this?" He smiled again. "Oh,
how very fun this all is."
"If you'll excuse me -" Isobel made to leave. But Lucius caught her arm;
clamped a hand around it. Dropped his smile.
"I'll let you leave in a moment," he said; voice soft. "But before you go,
you should know one thing. My son is getting married to Astoria
Greengrass, very soon. She was in Slytherin house, and comes from a family
that has had experiences in life that are similar to our own. She is a good
match for Draco, and he is very fond of her. And it would make things much
easier for all of us, including you -" he moved very close to her then, looking
down at her over his nose - "if you stayed out of it."
He stepped back then; a faint trace of pink on his pale, narrow face. His
breath fogged the cold, night air. "Good evening, Miss Young."

75
 twelve

DECEMBER1999

draco

six hours before

Malfoy Manor looked the same as when Draco had left it eighteen
months prior, and as every time he had visited it since then. Which was, he
thought, just as it had looked for his entire childhood. An unchanging,
soulless house, that he had once called home but had never felt like it.
He had no doubt that the paintings that lined the walls now had hung
in their same positions a hundred years before. His ancestors stared at him
as he passed through the hallway; their fair hair and pale skin similar to
Draco's but constructed through oil paint; wealthy and successful in their
time but forgotten in his. The idea that his own portrait might one day hang
on the same wall; that he might hold the same grandeur, had once been
exciting to him.
Now, he could think of few things worse than to have his face hang
alongside the faces of these bleak men.
He didn't like to even visit the Manor, now. Hated it, actually: hated
being reminded of the prisoners that had once resided in its basement, the
tension-filled meetings, the fear that had seized his body every time

76
Voldemort had entered a room. The house he had grown up in became a
torture chamber; his own aunt interrogating streams of prisoners in the
same rooms he had once done schoolwork in. He hated to remember the
way he had sat in his bedroom and been too afraid to do or even say
anything about any of it. It filled him with nausea.
Worst of all, the Manor reminded him of Belly; of sitting with her on
the fountain, of curling up in the guest bedroom, of bringing her breakfast
and kissing her goodnight. Belly and the Manor had used to exist in two
separate worlds - dark and light. He had been stupid; laughably
irresponsible and naïve to mix them.
In a recent shift in the way that Belly haunted him, Draco had begun to
see her. Her face had always frequented his mind, of course, but now she
appeared in his world; a dainty phantom, emerging out of thin air. He
would often be deep in his own thoughts, as he walked or stared out of his
apartment window - that he wouldn't quite realise when he was looking into
her big, dark eyes. He would blink once, refocus, and she would be gone.
He never saw her here, at the Manor. He always felt alone here, when
he visited for dinner or afternoon tea. Always alone, even under the
watchful gaze of his parents.
The silence around the table was thick, intermittently punctuated by
clinks of porcelain tableware. Draco didn't much prefer to go out in public,
but it felt it was more tolerable than this repeated, painful ritual.
"Astoria's mum has a dress picked out," said Narcissa cordially; as if
announcing a pleasant piece of neighbourhood gossip. "It's being imported
from Switzerland."
Draco had been inspecting the bottom of his cup. He looked up.
"What?"
Narcissa gave him an exasperated look. "Astoria's dress, sweetheart.
For the wedding."

77
 "I heard you," said Draco. "I didn't know there were actual plans being
made for the wedding. At least without the bride and groom being
consulted first. Or, you know, getting engaged."
Lucius gave a pointed sigh and looked away. Narcissa frowned.
"Darling. We've been making plans for months."
Draco stared at them. He had been, to his own surprise, fairly tolerant
about the entire affair; had met Astoria when he was instructed to, had
befriended her and hadn't complained often. He had known that his and
Astoria's parents wanted them to get married, but hadn't considered that
they might actually be planning it all, actively. "Do you have a date for it,
then?" he asked. "The wedding?"
Narcissa set down her cup. "As a matter of fact, yes, we do. Next August,
the fourth."
"And were you planning on informing me of that?"
"The date was only decided last week, Draco," said Narcissa. "You
haven't been entirely receptive to the arrangements, so I saw no need to
inform you straight away."
"Receptive," repeated Draco, incredulous. "If you need me to be clearer
about it," he said, "I don't want to marry Astoria."
Narcissa's frown deepened. "I thought you liked her."
"I don't want to marry her," he repeated. "I didn't say anything about
disliking her."
"Did you two have a fight?"
"No," he said. He folded his arms, agitated. "I'm just done playing your
stupid game. I don't want to participate in this. . . perfect little portrait you
want to paint of our family."
Narcissa drew a long breath; pursed her lips. "I think," she said slowly,
"I think you are acting impulsively. You need to give it time; you'll come
around eventually. You're still hung up on Isobel, I understand that. But

78
you need to think about this for a while, before you write Astoria off
entirely."
That was the first time one of his parents had spoken Belly's name since
before the war. Draco tensed his folded arms; glared at his mother, who
went on;
"You and Astoria are similar people. You make sense together."
Draco laughed aloud. What a ridiculous notion, to marry someone
because it made sense. He and Belly had never made sense.
Lucius finally turned his eyes to Draco. He gave him a long, bored look.
"What has inspired this sudden revolt, Draco?" he asked. "Is the Gryffindor
girl still getting into your head, even now she's gone?"
"That Gryffindor girl," said Draco through gritted teeth, "has a name.
And actually, if anyone has been getting into my head, it's been Astoria. She
hates arranged marriage; thinks it's stupid."
Narcissa looked flustered. "Well - her parents think it's a perfectly
lovely idea -"
"She doesn't," said Draco. "And I understand the - the rush of marrying
off your children to publicize something other than your own failed
reputation - but I'm twenty years old, Mother. I don't have to do everything
you want me to, anymore."
"You do, actually," replied Lucius coolly. "As long as you want our
support."
"Your support," echoed Draco. It wasn't a question; he knew what it
meant. "I don't need you anymore, Father. I'll get a job."
Lucius raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? And where will you work, the
Ministry?"
Draco seethed. "Maybe."
Lucius tutted. "An ex - Death Eater, working at the Ministry. In these
times. . . What a funny concept."

79
 Narcissa looked nervously between the two of them. "I think that's
enough," she said.
"All I'm saying is," said Lucius, not taking his grey eyes off his son, "the
Ministry isn't quite what it used to be. The entire wizarding world isn't, in
fact, and right now, it's all rather structured against people like us. So if you
want to escape the confinements of your upbringing, Draco, feel free. Keep
being so sickeningly idealistic." Lucius looked away then; inspected his
own, pale hand. "Just let us know when you come around."
Draco stood from his chair. He looked down at his mother and father
in their perfect, white-tiled kitchen; everything glossy and unblemished.
Drinking from the same cups they had owned since before he was born.
"Well," he said, "I don't think I am going to come around anytime soon. But
thanks anyway."
He left the Manor without looking back at his parents.

five hours before

Back at his apartment, he boiled water for tea; fragments of their

conversation still echoing in his head. He didn't have to do what his parents
told him to. He could survive without their financial support, probably,
though he doubted they would cut him off entirely. It would just make
everything very difficult, if they did. It would be inconvenient, definitely -
but not impossible.
His apartment door swung open, and Blaise walked in. Blaise had
always liked to visit without warning, but these days, showed up without
even knocking; sauntered into the apartment like it was his own. Blaise had
broken up with his French girlfriend recently - or she with him - and his
appearances had become more regular. Draco might once have minded, but
Blaise's intentions were always good.

80
 "Malfoy," said Blaise, in lieu of a greeting. "How are the folks?"
"They're fine," replied Draco, trying to keep the grumble out of his
voice. "Same as ever."
Blaise noticed the boiling kettle. He leaned over the counter and flicked
it off. "No more of this," he said, ignoring Draco's scowl. "We're going out
tonight. All the Slytherin folk - Pansy, Nott, Pucey. . ." he counted them off
on his fingers. "And you. Big reunion."
"I'm not in the mood."
"There's no option, Malfoy, you're coming," said Blaise. "You haven't
been out with us in months."
"Not in the mood," repeated Draco flatly. He turned to the window,
rested his forearms on its sill and stared out of it. Wondered if Belly might
spring up again; a ghost on the pavement.
"Malfoy," groaned Blaise. "I'm trying to help you through all of this, I
really am. But you're being impossible, locking yourself up here in this
dingy apartment every day. You're going to waste your life away here -"
"That's fine."
"But we miss you, mate," said Blaise, his tone softening. "Even if you
don't miss us. You've been through a lot of shit, I won't deny it. But the
others - they're going through a rough time too. We all are; we have been
for the past year and a half. And we'd much rather go through it all
together."
Draco didn't reply.
"I'll be back at nine," said Blaise. "If you decide not to come - that's fine.
But you should know that we all want you there."
Draco bowed his head. "They want me to marry her," he said, finally.
Blaise paused. "That's nothing new."
"But they're actually planning it. They're planning the wedding. They
ordered Astoria's dress."
"Well then, marry her," said Blaise. "You like her, don't you?"

81
 Draco frowned. "I don't love her."
Blaise groaned again, loudly. "Holy shit Malfoy, what's happened to
you?"
Draco didn't reply. Blaise slung an arm around his shoulder; positioned
himself beside Draco, facing the window. "Just give us one night," he said
quietly; tone imploring. "Just one night, to remind you of those mad
Slytherin parties we used to have - and then we'll leave you alone. Then you
can let yourself rot away here, and I won't say a word."
Draco smiled, but he was silent.
"I mean," said Blaise. "I'll still visit, of course. But you can rot freely."
Draco chuckled. He wrenched his eyes away from the window and
looked at Blaise. "Fine, Zabini. If it gets you off my back, then fine - I'll go
out with you." Blaise punched the air; Draco rolled his eyes. "Just one
thing," he said, and Blaise feigned a look of attentiveness. Draco took a
breath; felt resentment stir within him. "Astoria's not invited."

82
 thirteen

isobel

two weeks before

When Isobel arrived home, she found Maggie in the living room. Her
mother's face was sallow; her green St. Mungo's robes peeked out from the
blanket she curled under. She did not look up, did not even flinch, as Isobel
entered the room. Just stared vacantly at the coffee table.
Isobel took off her coat and sat silently beside her mother, praying she
wouldn't mention the make-up she was wearing.
"The hospital was overstaffed," said Maggie, finally. Her voice sounded
hoarse. "I asked if I could come home. I wasn't feeling well."
Isobel clasped her hands in her lap. Lucius had left her alone in the
alleyway; she had paced there for fifteen minutes. Half trying to
comprehend what had just happened, half trying to piece together an
excuse to give her mother, to explain why she hadn't been home. She
launched into it: "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I went to a beach in Scarborough,
but I didn't speak to anyone, I promise. I just have to get out of the house
sometimes. You can't keep me locked up here forever, okay?" Her mother
did not look at her, so Isobel said carefully, "I think I should get a job. If not
in the wizarding world, then a job in the village nearby. I want to be more

83
financially independent, and I - I just want to get out more. . ." she trailed
off. "Mum? What do you think, could I get a job?"
Maggie nodded absently. Then said, "there's a scarf in the kitchen. It's
not yours."
"It's new," said Isobel quickly, scorning herself for not having been
more careful. She tried to remember what Ginny's scarf looked like. "I was
cold at the beach the other day. So I bought it for myself."
Maggie raised her face to look at Isobel - without warning, it crumpled.
"I didn't want it to be like this," she said, tears glistening in her eyes. "Us -
lying to each other, all the time. We used to be close."
"We don't lie to each other that much," said Isobel, but the words felt
ridiculous. She took a breath. "What else is there, then? What else have you
lied to me about?"
Maggie closed a cold, thin hand over Isobel's. A tear had escaped: it
glistened on the curve of her cheekbone. "Perhaps, on my side, they are
more so omittances than lies."
"What have you left out, then?" asked Isobel. She thought of Draco,
thought of Lucius' hard grip on her arm. My son is getting married to
Astoria Greengrass. She wondered if her mother knew about the marriage.
Her mother spoke slowly. "I knew how to cast a protective charm on
your necklace because of experiences I've had at St. Mungo's. Because other
people who cast those charms have had to be taken into hospital. There is
a reason it's not a well-known spell. . ." Her eyes filled with tears again.
"Isobel, lives are not easily saved, when dark magic has been involved.
There is always some cost. Enchanted jewellery has a high success rate for
deflecting dark magic, but it doesn't work without an expense."
"An expense?" questioned Isobel. Her heart beat fast.
"The charm was just a precaution, of course," said Maggie. "I hoped you
would never find yourself in danger, but you - the circles you were involved
in -"

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 Maggie caught Isobel's eye, and Isobel conceded. "I know about Draco
Malfoy."
"How did you -"
"It doesn't matter. I haven't spoken to him." Isobel's voice trembled
with apprehension. "Please, go on."
Her mother sighed heavily. Then she looked at her daughter, and said,
"Isobel - enchanted jewellery can save the life of its bearer, but only at the
cost of the deterioration of the person who cast the protective charm."
Isobel felt a lump rise in her throat. "Deterioration?"
Her mother nodded; didn't elaborate. She realised suddenly how very
frail Maggie looked; how thin her face was, how tired her eyes were. After
everything they had been through, everything that had happened - this is
what it had come down to. The beginning and the end; it was all shaped by
a stupid star necklace. Her mother's hand tightened on hers, but it was cold
and frail; void of any consolation.
"I don't understand," said Isobel. Tears stung at her eyes. "The cost of
my life was yours?"
"Not directly," said Maggie. "And not immediately. I'll get better soon,
I just need to rest for a while."
"Did you know this would happen?" asked Isobel. "That it would affect
you like this?"
"The effect is not always immediate, it can take up to a decade." Maggie
closed her eyes. "I know it was selfish of me, to try and keep you to myself.
But you are going to have so much time without me."
Isobel started to cry. "Mum, you should have told me."
Maggie shook her head. "I just wanted some time, Isobel. Where it was
just us, no one else. Where we could pretend to be normal. Last year before
the war, you left me over and over. Every time you were gone, I worried that
something bad would happen to you."
"I don't remember that," said Isobel, wiping at her tears. "I'm sorry."

85
 "It's okay," said Maggie, "I have you now. But that boy. . . he makes you
forget about me."
"Stop it," said Isobel sharply. She was surprised at the harshness in her
own voice, contradicting the tears in her eyes. "I could never forget you,
Mum. Don't say that." She grasped her mother's hand tighter, looked her
in the eyes. Blinked away her own tears. "I'll message St. Mungo's for you,"
she said. "You'll take some time off, and rest for a while. You're not going
anywhere, Mum."

two weeks later; four hours before

Isobel's heart ached to see her mother sick. It was a very frustrating
thing, she realised; when a person you loved was ill, and there was nothing
you could do about it. It was different to her father, who had died suddenly;
had disappeared from their lives with barely a warning. She had always
lamented that she hadn't been able to sit by her father's sickbed, but sitting
by her mother's made her feel unexpectedly helpless and inept.
Her mother's condition was worsening. Isobel had hoped that taking
time off work; resting in bed for several days, would restore her to good
health, and she'd be back on track. She had even entertained the possibility
that her mother might soon become healthy enough go back to work. But
every day was duller and gloomier than the day before, and Isobel didn't
see any sign of progress. Her mother persisted that Isobel was wrong; that
she would get better in time, but her fatigued muscles, her pale face and
weak hands, said otherwise.
Maggie was not well in more ways than one; Isobel could see that now.
Her mother was deeply attached to her company; deeply reliant on Isobel's
presence. Now was not the time for Isobel to take it from her.

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 Ginny wrote one letter every day. It was always the same thing;
variations of the same words: have you told Malfoy? Has your mother
found out? Update me, please. Isobel barely skimmed them before
throwing them to the back of the wardrobe, and finding something to do
for her mother. Bringing her water; making her toast or a vegetable broth.
Those were the only foods she could keep down.
She wondered if she had still been in Draco's life, what might have
happened when he eventually met Astoria. Would he have liked her better,
left Isobel for her? She wondered if Draco got on better with Astoria than
he once had with her.
She wanted, like nothing else, to return to him; if not to speak to him,
then to see him; to see his unruly blond hair, his soft hoodies; to watch the
way he drank his tea, fingers gripping his mug so tight it could shatter -
But he was getting married. He was not just dating Astoria, he planned
to marry her.
Isobel revised these thoughts over and over, contemplating at what
point it might become too late to formally let Draco know she was alive. She
was deep in her thoughts one Friday evening when a tap sounded at her
window, drawing her out of them.
She moved to her bedroom window, pulled back the curtains to see
Ginny; red hair blowing in the dark night air.
Isobel pushed the window open. "We have a door."
"Didn't want to alert your dear mother of my presence," grinned Ginny.
Isobel's chest tightened. Her mother was asleep in her own bedroom,
unlikely to hear Ginny on this side of the house. But she didn't think Maggie
would mind much, anymore. Didn't think she was strong enough to mind.
"Come in, I guess," she mumbled.
Ginny clambered through the window. "Lovely room," she said.
Isobel's room was cramped and cluttered; clothes, books and paper
covering every open surface. There was nothing particularly lovely about it.

87
But she nodded in thanks. "Sorry I haven't replied to your letters. I just -
my mum is sick, and -"
"Not why I'm here," said Ginny dismissively. "God, it's cold outside -"
She rubbed her hands together and blew on them, then looked up at Isobel
with a bright smile. "Harry, Hermione, Ron and I are going out tonight.
And you're coming with us."
Isobel almost laughed. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," said Ginny. "And I have a very good reason." She threw
her arms out wide. "I got onto the Holyhead Harpies. As a chaser, main
squad."
"Ginny - that's wonderful -" Isobel stuttered. "That's brilliant. I didn't
even know you were trying out."
Ginny waved her off. "You had enough of your own issues to worry
about. But it's a good reason, right? For you to leave your house, to see your
friends again?" She glanced at Isobel's door, lowered her voice. "You don't
even have to tell your mum."
Isobel shook her head. "I can't just leave her."
"Oh, come on, Iz," pleaded Ginny. "Think about the trio - think about
seeing them again. They'd want to see you so badly."
Isobel paled. "You didn't tell them, did you? That I'm alive?"
"No, but I'm going to," said Ginny. "Before we go out with them tonight,
I'm going to explain everything to them. I've thought about it for a while,
and I think that's the best way to go about it."
"It's too dangerous," replied Isobel, trying to sound firm. "Not for me,
for my mum. I just - I don't want her to get in trouble. And now she's sick,
and -"
"Iz," interrupted Ginny. "I won't hear it. You've always done this, and
I've had enough." Ginny sat on Isobel's bed and patted the spot beside her;
Isobel sat down reluctantly. "Look," said Ginny. "You have to stop avoiding
everything. This is exactly how you were in school, even if you can't

88
remember it. When you started getting involved with Malfoy you were
scared, so you avoided your feelings. The same thing happened in seventh
year - you liked him so much, but were too afraid to admit it to yourself, or
to us. Admittedly, I didn't like the idea of you dating him then either, so I
didn't mention it. But enough is enough."
Isobel stared at her hands. Ginny made a valid point. She hated it.
"Come on," implored Ginny, voice soft. "I know you want to."
"Why tonight?" asked Isobel. "I appreciate all of it, Gin - but it's a bit
overwhelming. Can't I meet them another time, when I've had more time
to prepare myself?"
Ginny shook her head shortly. "Afraid not. Hermione is always
working; it's rare I get to see all three of them, together. There's no excuse
for them not to come out tonight, you see -" she smiled - "with such big
celebrations on hand."
Isobel frowned, considering. "What about Neville and Luna?"
"Luna is in Ireland," said Ginny, "and Neville is working. He works at
Hogwarts now, did I tell you that? Works with Professor Sprout."
Isobel raised a hand to her mouth, chewed down on a fingernail. "I
think I miss Neville most of all, you know."
Ginny slapped her hand. "Don't bite your nails, it's gross. You'll get to
see Neville soon. Trio first, okay?"
Isobel nodded, slowly. "Okay." It was nine o'clock. Her mother was
asleep: if Isobel left now and was back before the end of the night, she'd
never even know she was gone. And Maggie would surely be alright without
her for a few hours. She turned to Ginny. "Okay, fine. You win. I'll go out."
Ginny sprung up; clapped her hands gleefully. "Excellent! But first-"
she looked Isobel up and down, took in her pilled jumper and faded
sweatpants. She wrinkled her nose, marched to Isobel's wardrobe and
threw it open. "Let's get you dressed."

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 fourteen

isobel

one hour before

For a while, it was bliss.

Stumbling with her friends through cobblestoned lanes: laughter loud
and conversation slurred, the years between them dropping away. As if they
were schoolmates again, young and careless; this time without school rules
and authoritarian teachers.
They had been so kind. Harry, Ron and Hermione; kinder than she
could have dreamed they would be, more understanding and empathetic
than she had ever hoped for.
It was a strange thing, to be back with friends after having been alone
for so long. In the months she had spent on her couch, staring out of her
window, she had worried that isolation might rid her of all social
competencies; that she might forget how to pick up on social queues, how
to make jokes, how to listen and get all of the timings right. But she had
been silly to worry, for it had all flowed so naturally - sitting with her friends
at a round, wooden table, glasses of cider and beer between them - it had
felt right. It had felt safe.
Harry and Ron had gone straight into training as Aurors, after the war.
Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts to complete her NEWTS exams, and

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now had a job at the Ministry, working for the rights of magical creatures.
Off saving the world, of course - Isobel should have expected no less. She
supposed she should feel bitter; or sad, at least, that she had missed out on
such opportunities. But to see them all again brought her enough joy.
They had parted with hugs and kisses, promises to see each other again
soon, strict instructions to be kind to herself.
In her mind, the night had been coming to a close. Her adrenaline had
been wearing off; the coldness of the December night had begun to bite at
her skin. Her mother had been in the back of her mind for the entire night
but now Isobel could not stop thinking about her; worried relentlessly that
Maggie might have woken up, might have realised Isobel had left her.
She was altogether ready to go home. Which was why it had taken her
by surprise when Ginny had kissed Harry's cheek, grabbed Isobel's hand
and tugged her away down the pavement. Had whispered in her ear: "We're
not done here yet."

ten minutes before

Isobel felt blinded by the strobing neon lights. They flashed everywhere
around her: on the club's walls, the floor, the writhing bodies that formed
the dense crowd; everywhere. On the ceiling in the centre of the room hung
a disco ball: the lights bounced from that, too. And when Isobel squeezed
her eyes shut she could see them still, dancing on the backs of her eyelids.
Draco Malfoy was in this club.
She had seen him gripping the counter at the bar, unsteady on his feet.
Surrounded by a throng of faces that she recognised from Hogwarts; all
older now, all drunk.

91
 She needed to find Ginny. Perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through
her bloodstream, the fogginess in her head, the fear at having to face him.
But she needed to speak to Ginny, first, before she faced Draco.
The problem was, Ginny had entirely disappeared. After convincing
Isobel to come into a random club in a dark corner, a small lane of London;
to end their night with a few more songs, a few dances - she was gone. Isobel
had walked the length of the nightclub, combed through the smoking area
and dancefloor, but Ginny was nowhere to be found. And Isobel had a good
idea of why not. Suspected the club was not quite so random as Ginny had
made it out to be.
The bathrooms were her final resort. A wide set of stairs rose from the
dancefloor, leading up to the bathrooms. Isobel stood on the highest stair,
scanning the crowd for a small girl with flaming red hair. But Ginny was
not there. By the bar crowded a group of Slytherins - Isobel recognised
Adrian Pucey, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini. And of course - Draco: the
centre of their attention. He stood stoically in their circle; clutching a
whiskey glass in his hands the same way Isobel had seen him clutch his tea.
Not one of them noticed her at the top of the stairs, looking down at them.
The club's bathrooms were lit by the same coloured bulbs that had
danced along the walls of the dancefloor, but here they were dull,
unchanging. The bathroom reeked of alcohol and vomit, and a heavy bass
vibrated through the dark tiled walls.
"Ginny," Isobel called to the row of stalls. No reply came. "Ginny," she
said again, but knew it was pointless. Ginny had left her here, with every
intention of forcing her to speak to Draco Malfoy.
She turned to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. Her makeup had
smudged; her hair was tangled from pushing through the crowd. "I can't do
it," she whispered to her reflection. "I can't face him. I don't know how to."
He had not seen her. Well, he had seen her - earlier, as she passed by
the bar - but had looked straight through her with sad, tired eyes.

92
 Conversely, she hadn't been able to take her eyes off him. His shock of white
hair made him aggressively conspicuous from the crowd; his pale, sculpted face
stood out wonderfully, but it wasn't that -
It was the way he stumbled; the way he seized the counter and tipped
his head down and looked up at the crowd through his eyelashes. It was the
way he barely responded when his friends threw their arms around him
and shouted into his ear. The way his drink splashed from the edges of his
glass, spilling out onto slender fingers.
He was too drunk. It wasn't right, to meet him now.
The door of a stall behind her creaked open, and Isobel jumped. She
had been sure she was the only one here.
A small, black-haired figure exited the stall; tottered on high heels to
the sink beside Isobel. It was, she realised with a start, Pansy Parkinson.
Isobel turned quickly; hid her face and moved to a stall - trying to hide
before Pansy recognised her -
"Isobel Young." Pansy's voice was soft and distinctly drunken. She
moved to Isobel languidly; sluggishly, and took her by the shoulders.
"Isobel Young."
Isobel stared back at her. Pansy's face was gaunt; her skin grey and eyes
sleepy. Her under-eyes were adorned with silver glitter and black eyeliner.
Pansy's fingers closed into Isobel's shoulders; Isobel winced at the
sharpness of her nails. "You feel so real," slurred Pansy. "No wonder
Draco's having such a hard time moving on, if his ex-girlfriend is a ghost."
Isobel released a breath. "Moving on?" she repeated. The music from
outside sounded loudly in here, too; Isobel raised her voice over it. "From
me, you mean?"
Pansy paused for a long time, staring at Isobel; considering her. "Of
course," she said finally. She blinked. "Stupid little ghost."
"What about Astoria?" asked Isobel. "He's marrying her, isn't he?"

93
 Pansy shook her head very slowly. She dragged Isobel's body closer to
hers; rested her forehead against her own. Up close, Pansy's eyes were
deeply bloodshot. Tiny specks of glitter had found their way into her
eyeballs and between her eyelashes; they shimmered, there. "So sad,"
muttered Pansy. "So sad that you died."
Isobel spoke loudly. "Is Draco marrying Astoria?"
Pansy gave Isobel one final look before releasing her and stumbling to
the mirror. She fumbled in her bag, pulled out a lipgloss. "Arranged."
Isobel could feel sharp wounds; heat rising from where Pansy's nails
had dug into her. "What do you mean?" she asked. Pansy didn't reply, so
she moved hesitantly closer; stood beside her at the counter. Their
reflections stared back at Isobel from the mirror; hazy from the alcohol,
blurring into one another. "Draco and Astoria's marriage is arranged?"
Pansy's lipgloss application was sloppy, but she shot a twisted,
triumphant smile at the mirror. She spoke to her own reflection. "Arranged
marriage is common for purebloods, on our side." She shook her head then,
frustration crossing her face. "Sorry," she said. "No more sides."
Isobel felt too hot. This shouldn't change everything, but it did.
Draco shouldn't be marrying Astoria, but he was.
And Isobel shouldn't be so intrigued by him, so obsessed - she didn't
even know him - but she was.
Pansy regarded Isobel once more. "Poor little ghost," she said. "Move
on, darling. Move on to the afterlife." She gave Isobel a final, pitiful glance.
"So sad," she repeated, and left the bathroom.
Isobel's heart thundered in her chest. She couldn't think about it any
longer; wouldn't allow herself to sink back into the black hole of
antagonistic, malevolent thoughts that had kept her from approaching
Draco time and time again.
She was alive. What he wanted to do with that knowledge was his
problem, not hers.

94
 She did not look back at her reflection. She did not touch her hair,
didn't adjust her clothes. Just walked out of the bathroom and stood at the
top of the stairs, looking out across the club. Searching for a shock of white-
blond hair.
For several long moments, she could not see him. For long moments,
she thought she had missed him; that he had left, gone home, that she
would have to build up the courage all over again -
But then he was there, straight across a crowd of sweaty, faceless
bodies.
And it was not his hair she saw first.
It was his eyes; pale and grey.
They were staring right back at her.

95
 fifteen

draco

two hours before

Alcohol made things clearer.

It was a common misconception, Draco thought; staring down the bar
at hazy faces. People always said that alcohol made the world blurry; that it
numbed pain and obscured thoughts. But despite the firewhiskey coursing
through his bloodstream, the heaviness in his head, the numbness of his
senses - Draco's thoughts were clear.
He needed to forget about Belly.
Or not forget about her, but move on. Leave her behind. He had grieved
long enough.
Fuck. Well, maybe not. His hand moved instinctively to the snowdrop
in the pocket of his jeans, tightened around it. The flower was worn and
weathered, petals falling off, stem decomposing. He couldn't possibly
grieve her long enough, not ever. But apparently, the earth hadn't stopped
turning when he had lost her. And the cracks that had existed before the
war were now chasms.
He raised a hand at the bartender, gestured for another drink. The man
slid a glass over to him: golden liquid shimmered under the bright lights of
the club. Draco wasn't sure what it was. His friends had been ordering

96
whiskeys and rums, finishing them and refilling their glasses with flasks of
firewhiskey they carried in their pockets. He downed the drink in one,
gestured for another.
Across the room, the other Slytherins swarmed a corner in the back of
the club; distinguishable by the long sleeves they wore despite the heat.
Draco's friends had taken their Dark Marks in seventh year, had
surreptitiously shared them in the common room; held smug, hushed
discussions over them at the Slytherin table. He had wondered on more
than one occasion if taking pride in the mark was some vile trend that he
had unintentionally started, or if it had just made everything a bit more
tolerable to pretend that they were cool, back then.
The Dark Marks were almost unbearable, now. They sat starkly on their
forearms, skulls and snakes unfading. They might once have been
considered reminders of their past - battle scars - but now seemed like
damnations, forever branding them as the people they had been at
seventeen. Or the people they had wanted to be, or the people their parents
had wanted them to be. That was their classification now, and it rested
forever on their arms.
From the circle of Slytherins, Theo turned and waved eagerly to Draco.
Draco turned his back to them and moved to the edge of the room. He was
wearing a black knit jumper and was too fucking warm. He missed his
drafty apartment.
He rested his back against the wall. Writhing, sweaty bodies pushed
against each other on the dancefloor in front of him. He closed his eyes and
tried to block them out.
His friends were not doing well. He understood that only now. For
eighteen months his mind had been swarmed with thoughts of Belly,
Voldemort, his family. The neglection from the wizarding world that he was
wilfully enduring.

97
 At first glance, you mightn't have noticed. On the surface, the group of
Slytherins - babbling, laughing, joking - could easily have been the
happiest, most carefree people in the room.
But their smiles were hollow, their eyes were aloof. When he had
approached them, Pansy had stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the sides of his
head and pulled his face down to hers. "We've lost you, darling," she had
said sincerely, "to your camomile tea. And Blaise has told us about the
perfume. It is very sad, and has to stop."
All of them were like Pansy, drunk or high out of their minds. Draco
couldn't blame them for it, he just hadn't thought about it that much.
Hadn't realised they might have been suffering as much as he was.
"Your girlfriend is here," cooed a voice in his ear, suddenly.
Draco jerked away; glared at Theo, who was wearing a diabolical grin.
"What?"
"Astoria. Your wifey, she's here," smiled Theo. He clenched his teeth
together. "And I don't think she's all too happy with you."
Draco squinted at Theo. "How high are you?"
Theo waved him off. "Don't worry about it, Malfoy." He slung an arm
around Draco's neck. "Missed you, man."
As Draco nodded mildly to return the sentiment, Pansy stumbled past
them. "Going to the bathroom," she called. She winked.
"She's not doing well," said Theo, raising his drink towards Pansy.
"She's almost always drunk, and if she's not drunk, she's hungover. She gets
so hungover that most days, she just keeps drinking. . . Like, she keeps
drinking because she knows that if she stops, she'll be hungover. Does that
make sense?" Draco nodded; tried to shrug Theo off him, but he went on:
"We're living together, if you didn't know. She and I, and Zabini. So I. . .
take care of her most days, though I'm not much better than she is." He
paused, smile fading. "I'm worried about her, actually."
"Thank God we have Zabini to look after us," said Draco.

98
 Theo shook his head theatrically, motioning that he couldn't hear him.
"The music -"
"Blaise," said Draco loudly. He leaned back in. "At least Zabini is doing
well."
Theo shook his head again, this time in disagreement. "Mate," he said,
breath warm and heavy, "Zabini is the worst of us all. He gets hammered
every time we come out - goes insanely hard. Come on, let's get another
drink."
Theo detached himself from Draco, and Draco obediently followed him
to the bar. "I don't understand," he said. "He's holding down a job at the
Ministry. And doesn't seem that upset over, uh. . ." he trailed off, unable to
remember the Beauxbatons girl's name.
Theo gripped the bar, intently watching the barman pour their drinks.
"Fired from his job," he said. "He applied with a different name, they fired
him once they found out he'd been a Death Eater." He handed Draco a
drink; clinked his own glass against it with force. "There's no future for
Death Eaters, now. No hope for us."
Draco cursed under his breath. "I need air," he said, trying to pull away.
"Wait." Theo clamped a hand on Draco's arm. His face had split into a
garish, desperate grin. Draco looked away, but Theo pulled him closer.
"Malfoy, it's okay now. Now that we have you back - things are different
now. You can help us through it."
Draco couldn't take any more of it. He shook Theo off; moved out to
the back. A small, cobblestoned region enclosed between buildings made
up the smoking area. He pushed through the people that clustered there
until he found an empty space against the wall; he leaned against it,
breathing hard.
He was so angry at the world. Sick of the social structures, sick of the
people. Sick of living through it all without Belly. Sick of the way her face
followed him.

99
 In the weeks after her death he had dared to hope - with a small amount
of naivety and a huge amount of self-importance - that she might return to
him as a ghost. Ghosts, after all, remained in the material world because
they had something they didn't want to leave behind. Didn't she have
something she didn't want to leave?
But he had waited, and waited, and she had never returned.
If she had been a ghost, she would have approached him. Spoken to
him. If she were a ghost, he knew - it would have been to stay with him.
That was how he knew that everytime he saw her now, it was in his head.
That she was a figment of his imagination, a product of his own mind
playing tricks on him. And he was sick of it.
The worst of all of it, the tipping point, had come as a knock on his
apartment door, minutes after Blaise had left that afternoon. He had
stormed towards it impatiently; I said I would go, Zabini -
But instead of Blaise, Ginny Weasley had marched into his apartment.
Had strode in without invitation; stood in his living room with her hands
on her hips.
He had gaped, dumbstruck by a face he hadn't seen in years. Standing
in the very apartment he had moved into to forget about people like her. Is
there a reason you're here, Weasley?
Your surprise at seeing me tells me you do not yet know, she had said.
Know what? Spit it out.
She had tried to tell him that Belly was alive.
Perhaps she had done it to make fun of him. Or perhaps it was on behalf
of the Ministry, maybe someone was investigating him, trying to get
information by winding him up - he didn't know. It was a slap in the face,
he thought. Taunting him; thinking they could play with him and his
friends like they were dolls. A reaffirmation that their sides still existed.
A lot of people had stood in he and Belly's way when she had been alive,
and Ginny Weasley had been one of them.

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 Fucking torture, that's what it was.
He had told her three times to get out until she finally left. But not
before a new string of questions: what are you up to, these days? Will you
be here tonight? Where will you be going?
He was done with it all - done with the stupid, childish game that the
wizarding world played. The constructs and the hierarchies. He hated
Belly's old friends, hated the Ministry workers, hated his parents for
participating in all of it, too. He was done being a pawn in their game.
A small hand closed on his arm, and Astoria's voice sounded from
beside him. "I've been looking for you for an hour."
Draco pulled away, wobbling on his feet. He was still holding the drink
that Theo had pressed in his hands; it swirled in its glass, precarious. He
turned to Astoria reluctantly, grimaced at her. "I didn't expect to see you
here."
"Pansy invited me," said Astoria. Her long, brown hair was back in a
braid, the red lipstick she always wore was sickeningly bright. And her tone
was icy. "I wasn't going to come along, but then she told me you would be
here. And I thought, huh, that's funny. He didn't mention that to me."
"Right," said Draco. He turned away from her and leaned his back
against the wall again. Resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Are you drunk?"
"Why do you care?"
He heard Astoria sniff. "I don't," she said.
They were silent for a long time, watching muggles file in and out of the
smoking area; the air between them tense. Then he said, "I don't think we
should see each other for a while."
"Were we ever seeing each other?"
"No," he said, "I mean it in a literal sense. I don't want to see you, for a
while."

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 He turned to her: she looked venomous. "Well," she said. "We're
apparently getting married, Draco. So it might be wise for you to get used
to seeing me."
"We don't have to get married though," he said. "I'm right, aren't I?
They can't actually force us."
Her expression dropped. "You don't want to marry me?"
"You do?" he asked. "Astoria, we aren't in love. And you're the one
always saying you don't believe in arranged marriage between purebloods."
Astoria didn't reply for a while. "I suppose I thought that we would
settle for each other," she said, finally. "The wizarding world is very small,
and I figured we were the best options for one another. Of course I didn't
believe we would fall in love, I'm not that naïve. But I didn't think we would
be unhappy."
"We wouldn't be happy, either," said Draco.
Astoria opened her mouth as if to say something else, but decided
against it. She patted Draco's arm twice. "I'm going to go home," she said.
"We can talk about this tomorrow, when you're sober."
Draco left the smoking area shortly after Astoria. If he stayed there too
long, he would start thinking about their conversation; start second-
guessing himself. And he didn't need that, right now.
As headed back towards the bar in search of another drink, he pushed
his sleeves up to his forearms. He was too hot now, and didn't care anymore
if anyone saw his Mark. Those who understood what it meant already knew
who he was. That was the difference between him and his friends, he
thought - while they were branded by Dark Marks, he was branded by his
white hair, pale face and resemblance to his father. He looked like a Malfoy:
that was worse than a Dark Mark.
It was late, but the room was fuller still than he had left it. When he
reached the bar, people crowded around it. He spotted Blaise pushed up
against one corner of the counter and headed towards him; reached over a

102
swarm of girls to wrap a hand around Blaise's shoulder. Blaise turned at
Draco's touch and beamed at him.
Blaise, who had lost both his job and a girlfriend, and had barely
mentioned a word of it to Draco.
He pulled Draco through the crowd, closer to the bar. "Alright, mate?
Astoria find you okay?" Draco nodded. "Good to see everyone again?" asked
Blaise. His breath stank of alcohol. But then, Draco's probably did, too.
"Nott wants me to take care of you all."
"What's that?"
"Nott -" Draco raised his voice - "seems to think I'm the answer to all
of your problems. Wants me to take care of you."
Blaise laughed. "Nah, mate. You know that's not what he means. It's
more that you used to be the - the ringleader, or whatever. It'd be nice to
have your company again, that's all." He squeezed Draco's shoulder. "You
should come round our flat."
A lump was rising in Draco's throat - he gulped it down, feeling
ridiculous. His fingers were beginning to tremble, so he clenched his glass
a little tighter, turned to Blaise: "I can't be your babysitter."
Blaise looked sympathetic. "No one wants you to babysit them, Malfoy.
They want you to be their friend."
Draco nodded. His head was swimming, his eyes were drooping. But
he knew he could do that. For himself, for them. He could be a friend.
The music swelled from somewhere in the room: some repetitive, bass-
heavy pop song. Draco felt the vibrations in his chest, his shoulders; felt the
heat of the bodies around him, hot on his cheeks. "You have to forget about
her, mate," came Blaise's voice, faintly. "It's been too long. You have to
forget about her, so you can come back to us."
Draco nodded again. He could do that, too.

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 He emptied his glass. Thought; Belly had used to drink more than she
should. Had used to drink away her sorrows to a worrying degree, numb
out her anxieties with alcohol -
He hadn't done it, because he'd been too busy watching her.
Because she had been enough of an intoxicant for him. He hadn't
needed any of this; had never wanted it.
But he didn't have her, anymore.

five minutes before

He knew he was too drunk. He felt like he was walking underwater, on

an ocean floor. But who gave a shit, anyway? Who in the world really cared
if he drank himself into oblivion tonight?
For a moment, he had thought he'd seen her again: a blur on the other
side of the room, dirty-blonde hair swimming behind her. He had grabbed
the counter, thrown back another drink, closed his eyes to shut her out
because she was fucking haunting him -
Small, bony hands wrapped around his bare forearms. Pansy's face
appeared, suddenly very close to his, saying, "She's here."
He squinted at her. Pansy drew him closer. "I saw her in the bathroom.
You never told us she was a ghost."
He furrowed his eyebrows, blinked slowly. "You see her too?"
She squeezed his arms. "I love you. I'm going to find Theo."
Pansy disappeared. He stared into the bottom of his glass. Empty
already.
He raised his eyes, and Belly was there. Again. Across the room, on the
second-level landing.
I have to forget about you, Draco thought, watching her move to the
stairs. I'm going to forget about you now.

104
 Belly's eyes clicked onto his - they were wide, frantic.
They moved towards each other like magnets. He moved through the
crowd slowly, through sweaty, faceless bodies, but his eyes were only on her
-
He reached the stairs just as she descended the last one: the world spun
around them as he stared at her - right there, close enough to touch, so real
-
"Leave me alone," he said aloud. He didn't know if he was mumbling, or
whispering, or making any noise at all. The music drowned it all out. He tried
again: "Stop following me. Stop haunting me."
Her mouth moved, but he heard no words. Neon lights moved across
her face, and she was so clear, so fucking vivid, but how could it possibly be
her -
"I'm going to close my eyes," he told her, blinking back tears, "and
forget about you. This is the last time I'm ever going to think about you
again."
She was shaking her head, pointing to her ear, leaning closer to him.
He took one last look at her, took her in. And shut his eyes. Let me forget
you, Isobel Young.
When he opened his eyes, she was still there. Crying, now; her cheeks
wet, eyebrows furrowed. He blinked. He could smell burnt sugar.
He watched his hand move out towards her; watched his fingers comb
through a dirty-blonde curl.
He blinked again. She was still there.

The rest of the night passed in flashes. Belly's small hand in his, her
face close to his, the tears on her cheeks glistening.
She had left him outside with Theo and Blaise, had vanished into night
air. But not before pressing a piece of parchment into his hand, holding it
tightly there, and whispering, "forgive me."

105
 sixteen

draco

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.

106
 "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."

107
 Draco started to close his door.
"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.

108
 "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 -"

109
 "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

110
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.

111
 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.

112
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.

113
 seventeen

isobel

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.

114
 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

115
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.

116
 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?"

117
 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 -"

118
 "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."

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 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 every day,"
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.

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 "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.

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 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 every day - 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

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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.

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 eighteen

draco

Draco couldn't sit still. He had paced around his apartment for an hour,
then up and down the building stairs. Then he had pulled on shorts and
trainers and gone for a run - a bloody run, just to have something to do -
because she was alive and energy was coursing through his entire body and
he didn't know what to do with it all.
When he got from his run, he realised he'd left his apartment door wide
open. Then he remembered he was hungover and got sick into the kitchen
sink.
He was restless. He didn't know how he'd gotten through seeing Belly,
didn't know how he had sat still for over an hour, watching her - how he'd
managed to ask questions, speak and react like a normal person, because
now he didn't fucking know how to cope -
It seemed too good to be true. His mind moved in circles - surely it
couldn't have been her, the love of his life who he'd mourned for the past
year and a half - because she had been dead but then he had started seeing
her and then it had been her, actually her, and then she had sat in front of
him with her dark eyes and perfect skin and thick eyelashes, and either he
was going insane or some higher power had taken pity and given him a
second chance. Brought her back to him, saying, be more careful, this time.

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 But then, he hadn't even really been careful, had he? Because if he had
been careful, he would have stuck with her, protected her. If he'd been
careful, he would have never let her out of his sight again.
He grabbed his trainers from where they lay discarded by the wall, and
pulled them on. Then he left his apartment - made sure to close the door
behind him, this time - and went for another run.

isobel

When Isobel returned home from the Leaky Cauldron, she went
immediately to her mother's room. She opened the door and stuck her head
in. Her mother squinted up from her bed, grey and gaunt, and asked,
"Where have you been?"
"At the shop," said Isobel. "Can I bring you anything? Water?"
Maggie nodded, and nestled back into her pillow. "Water."
In the kitchen, Isobel unwound Draco's scarf and filled a glass of water
from the tap. She could still feel his fingertips on her neck, the back of her
hand, and on the scar on her cheekbone. The scar was negligible, practically
invisible, and he had noticed it. It was surreal. She didn't know what she
had expected from him, but it hadn't been that.
She had prepared herself for a more formal conversation; an exchange
of information, a shaking of hands. But when he had seen her in that
nightclub - all tears and entwined fingers and alcohol and heartbreak - only
then had it begun to occur to her how broken he really was. How shattered.
Over her.
And - she had known they had dated. But to feel his eyes on her like
that, barely leaving her face, to feel the way his arms had wrapped around
her back and clung to her. . . She had known he'd liked her, but not that
much. She had known he was upset, but not like she'd just seen. She had

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known he was afflicted, sure. But she hadn't expected him to mirror her
own treacherous storm of emotions.
She wet a washcloth, then closed the tap and went back to her mother's
room.
Maggie's - deterioration, as she had phrased it - was more than
physical. Sometimes when Isobel walked into Maggie's bedroom, her
mother would look at her with wild eyes, as if she didn't recognise her. As
if she were waiting for someone to sneak in and attack her. Minutes later,
she would be lying back against her pillows, sleeping soundly.
Sometimes, she would grab Isobel's wrist, sit up in her bed and say in
a hoarse voice, "You know about the Malfoy boy?"
"Not much," Isobel would say, gently pushing her mother back down
to her pillows. "I don't know much."
"You won't go near him?"
"No, Mum. I won't go near him."
But other times, Maggie was fine. Coherent and calm. And when Isobel
creaked open the bedroom door, and placed the washcloth and water on
Maggie's bedside table, her mother looked back at her, clear-eyed. "Are you
wearing your necklace?"
Isobel sat down on the wooden floor, cross-legged. "Yes, of course I am."
"Do you ever take it off?"
"No, Mum. You told me not to."
Maggie lay on her side, so that their faces were level. "What about
night-time? When you're sleeping?"
Isobel sighed. "I never take it off."
Maggie nodded, apparently content with these answers. "It protects
you, still," she said. "No one can harm you, as long as you wear it."
A thought occurred to Isobel. "Mum, if the way I was attacked at the
battle is what's made you sick now -" She broke off. "What if I were attacked
again? Would that hurt you even more? Make you sicker?"

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 "No," said Maggie. "It wouldn't."
"Are you sure?" asked Isobel. "Because if it would, I'm taking it off right
now."
"Don't you dare," said Maggie, fear crossing her face. "It wouldn't make
me sicker, I promise."
"Where did I get the necklace from, before you enchanted it?" asked
Isobel. "Did someone give it to me?"
Maggie held her gaze. Then said, "I gave it to you."
Isobel said nothing. She knew it was a lie, she just didn't know why.
What was so bad about admitting Draco might have loved her? Might have
treated her well? It was almost laughable, she thought, that she felt better
inclined to believe a boy she had met the previous night in a club, than her
own mother. But her mother lay there, sick as a consequence of sacrificing
her life for her daughter's, and Isobel found it difficult to be angry. She
stood, kissed her mother's sunken cheek, and left the room.
In her own bedroom, she pulled off her jumper. She laid Draco's scarf
on her bed, pulled the remaining piece of his letter from her pocket, and
fiddled absently with her necklace. All three possessions were different
now; had taken on new meaning, in the light of meeting a boy who seemed
to know her better than she knew herself.
On her wall hung a small, frameless mirror: she walked hesitantly
towards it. She looked at herself, trying to see what Draco Malfoy saw. Dark
eyes, freckled cheeks. . . He had loved this face, once. She didn't know why
that was so difficult to fathom.
A part of her felt silly for ever having questioned whether or not he
would still like her, that they would get on. She felt a twinge of
embarrassment, remembering what she had said to him. I don't doubt
what we had, but I can't force anything. A stupid thing to say, for the first
time he saw her: untactful and harsh, sprung from a mixture of fear and

127
confusion. But it hadn't seemed to deter him. Hadn't seemed to shake the
bewildering affection that he seemed to have for her.
That night, as Isobel lay on her bed and relayed their conversation over
and over, a loud crack sounded from the driveway. She pulled her curtains
aside and saw Draco standing on the tarmac, hands pushed into his
pockets; looking around him. His eyes lit up as he saw her.
She pushed open the window, overwhelmed by a wave of shyness, not
sure how to even greet him -
"Fuck," he said. He had moved to her window: they stood on either side,
looking at each other. "You're real. I didn't dream it."
She smiled. The warm light of her bedroom shone out over his face,
adding a tinge of yellow to his white-blond hair.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I couldn't stay away any longer. The
longest six hours of my life, and then I started questioning if it ever even
happened, and I had to talk to you again."
"It's okay," said Isobel. She kept her voice low, aware of her mother,
asleep in her own bedroom. "How did you find me?"
"I messaged the Weasley girl again," he said. "I've had to communicate
with your friends so much, you wouldn't believe it -" He broke off. "I hope
it's okay I'm here," he said, eyes on her. "I really have nothing to say, I just
wanted to see you."
She nodded, nervous. "I wanted to see you too."
She heard him exhale, his breath shaky.
"Can we speak outside?" asked Isobel, and he nodded. "Sorry - it's just,
if my mum hears you she'll go mental -" She cast around for her slippers,
slid them on hastily, aware of his eyes on her.
He silently held out a hand for her to climb through her window. She
took it, feeling breathless, put one foot on the windowsill and climbed
through, leaning on his hand, then leant her other hand on his arm -

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 She jumped onto the tarmac and dropped his hand. She felt her cheeks
begin to warm. How a single touch could fluster her like that - she didn't
know.
They moved down the driveway, out through the eerie, curling trees,
where she was sure her mother wouldn't hear them. The thought of Maggie
finding Ginny in Isobel's room was one thing; finding Draco was out of the
question. Isobel turned and looked back at the house: only her bedroom
light was on.
"How long have you been here?" asked Draco. "In this house?"
"A year and a half," Isobel answered. The air was chilly: she pulled at
her jumper sleeves. "I woke up here a few days after the battle. I never even
got to say goodbye to my old house. I know that's trivial, but. . ." She sighed.
"But still." She looked up at him. "Were you ever at my old house?"
"Once or twice," he said. "The Manor was bigger, so had more space for
us to hide away from everyone."
"The Manor?" she repeated. "I went to your home?"
Draco blew out a breath: it fogged in the cold air. "Yeah," he said. "You
were there quite a lot, actually." He paused, glanced back at Isobel's house.
"Do you like it here?"
"No," she answered automatically, and hastened to add, "It's lonely. It's
a nice house, but I don't know anyone."
"No neighbours?"
"None that I've spoken to for more than five minutes."
"So no local muggle boy has caught your eye yet?" he asked. A smile
tugged at his lips - sarcastic and well-rehearsed - but his eyes did not meet
it. They stayed on her, tense and nervous.
Isobel shook her head. "No one."
The way they stood in the middle of her driveway should have been
awkward, she thought. Just facing each other, not moving, not touching. It
should have been uncomfortable. But it wasn't, and she wanted him to stay;

129
towering over her with his intense, grey-eyed gaze. She wanted to speak to
him for hours.
"I met your neighbour -"
"I heard," he said. "Emily. I believe she said you were -" the corner of
his mouth twitched - "Eager to see me."
Isobel felt herself blush. "I tried to knock on your door, one time when I
was feeling brave. You weren't home, but she heard me, so I spoke to her -"
He raised a fair eyebrow. "I heard Daphne spoke to her."
"Well," she said. "I couldn't have your neighbour tell you that an Isobel
was looking for you."
"Yeah," he said, in agreement. "I probably wouldn't have taken that
very well. How did you find my apartment?"
Isobel felt her heart drop. "Oh," she said. "Well. I followed you."
He broke into a delectable smirk. "Say that again?"
"I followed you one time, to your apartment," she said. She felt her
heart speed up, said reluctantly, "There's this street corner, and I could see
your apartment from there. I'm sorry - I know that's probably horrible to
hear. But I didn't know you. All I knew was your family history and that I'd
apparently dated you - and I was so afraid to meet you, because I didn't
know anything about you - so I kind of, watched you for a while -"
"You watched me," he said, smirk growing, "through my window?"
"I'm sorry," she said nervously. "I understand how weird that is. But I
hadn't spoken to anybody in a year except for my mum, and no one knew I
was alive - and I was so confused by the idea that I might have dated you -
and I didn't trust you. I suppose I wanted to learn to trust you, at least a
little bit, before I spoke to you." She wasn't sure how to explain it. How to
explain the deep, paralysing fear that her mother had instilled in her of
other people; the certainty that everyone in the world was somehow an
enemy.

130
 Draco's smirk had faded, listening to her speak. "But you trust me
now?"
She nodded. "My mum would be so angry if she found out -" she gave
him a small smile - "but yes, I trust you."
She watched him relax; saw his shoulders untense. "I hope it was all
good things," he said. "That you saw."
"Just a lot of tea drinking," said Isobel. "An alarming amount, actually."
Draco ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah."
"And," she said carefully. "Some visitors."
His face fell. "Visitors?"
"I saw her one time," said Isobel. "Astoria. I heard about the marriage." She
took a breath. "I suppose me showing up like this isn't exactly ideal for it."
He was shaking his head. "Forget about that," he said, looking
distressed. "I'm not going to marry her, no one can force me to. I'll tell my
parents you're alive, they'll understand."
Isobel watched him. "I don't think you should do that, Draco," she said
quietly. "I met your dad one time, near your apartment. He wasn't happy
to see me."
His eyes hardened. "What did he say to you?"
"He just told me to stay away," she said. "It's fine, really -"
Draco looked livid. "He knew? He knows you're alive?"
"Only since he saw me," said Isobel. "That was only a few weeks ago."
"A few weeks," repeated Draco, scathingly. He shoved his hands back
into his pockets and glared at the tarmac. "I've seen him since then."
"I just think it would be best," said Isobel, "if you didn't tell him for a
while, that you know I'm here."
"Why not?" he asked. "I don't care what he thinks."
Isobel looked at him. "Do you trust your father, Draco?"
He shook his head. "No, I don't. And you're right. We'll hold off for a
while." Isobel nodded, and he went on; "Do you think. . ." He broke off,

131
looking pained. He scuffed his shoe against the ground. "I don't think it's
entirely impossible that my father had something to do with your
memories."
"I don't think so," said Isobel. "He seemed surprised to see me, really,
Draco. He hasn't known that I'm alive all this time. I assume he'd just prefer
that you marry Astoria because it would restore your family's reputation. I
mean - no offence -"
"I don't give a shit about my family's reputation," he said flatly. "But
you're right, that's why they want me to marry her. I don't love her, by the
way," he said, meeting her eyes again. "And I certainly don't intend to
marry her."
She stepped closer to him, shivering and wrapping her arms around
herself, her eyes glued to his. She was unnerved by how quickly everything
was happening, how quickly he had accepted that she was alive and was
here now, offering her everything - how quickly she herself was softening
to him -
Then, faintly from the house, sounded her mother's voice. "Isobel?"
If either of them had looked up, they would have seen a heavenly navy sky,
scattered with pinprick stars. But still their eyes were on one another's -
"Isobel," came Maggie's voice again.
"You should go," said Isobel, to Draco. "But I really - I don't think we should
tell our parents yet. I don't know what could happen if we do."
He nodded. "Okay. We'll wait."
She gave him a small, shy smile. "Thank you for coming here."
He raised a hand to her elbow; she felt him pick at the sleeve of her
jumper. "When can I see you again?"
She let out a shaky breath; it fogged up in the air between them. "Is
tomorrow too soon?" she asked. "Tomorrow night?"
Another nod. "Tomorrow is good."
She exhaled again. More foggy air. "Alright."

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 "Alright," he repeated. "I'll go now."
But for long moments he stared at her, and she stared at him; looked
into his grey eyes and wished he didn't have to leave.

133
 nineteen

draco

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

134
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."

135
 "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," 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," 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 her. "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."

136
 "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. "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?"

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 "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 her 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.

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 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 crisscrossed 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.

isobel

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

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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."

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 "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

141
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."

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 twenty

isobel

Isobel slammed an elbow backwards, straight into the stomach of her

attacker. She wrenched a heavy hand from her eyes and staggered forward,
her head reeling.
She felt rough fingers curl into the neck of her coat, hauling her back
into the alleyway. The man shoved her past him, and she glimpsed a sheet
of white hair.
She stumbled forwards, off-balance. When she turned back around,
Lucius Malfoy was advancing towards her with his wand pointed directly
at her heart. His eyes were livid; his pale face was pulled into a sneer. "Back
again, are we?"
Isobel walked backwards until she hit the wall at the end of the
alleyway. She flattened herself against it.
Lucius followed her. "Do you know who I am, Miss Young?"
Her heart thundered. She looked back at him, assessing him.
Calculating. Then, slowly, she nodded.
To her relief, this didn't appear to dissatisfy him. He loomed over her
in the alleyway, ice-white hair and moon-pale face so like Draco's but so
radically different in the way he carried himself. In the way he regarded her
- which in Lucius' case, was with pure and unfiltered hatred.

143
 When he reached her, he pressed his wand into her chest, hard. "Do
you know who my son is?"
Her breath caught. "Yes."
He narrowed his eyes. Pressed his wand harder. "Tell me everything
you know about my son."
Isobel's heart sped fast and her palms were damp with sweat. But she
glared right back at Lucius. Be brave, Gryffindor.
She knew Draco's grey eyes on hers, his intense concern. She knew the
way he gripped mugs of tea, even when they were fresh and hot enough to
scald his hands. She knew the way his slender fingers traced over her
cheekbone, the way his gaze had dropped to the pendant at her neck.
The pendant, which was now red-hot: the shape of a star searing itself
into her flesh.
She knew that he was waiting for her now, in his apartment. That he
was expecting her to arrive any minute now.
She lifted her chin. "He's a Death Eater," she replied, her voice icy. "He
tried to kill Albus Dumbledore. He bullied my friends and I in school.
I hate him." She watched Lucius, refusing to be the one to break eye contact
first. "And I hate you, too."
His mouth curled into a thin smile. "Very good," he said. "And do you
know where you are, right now?"
She knitted her eyebrows together. "No, I don't."
This appeared to content him. "Very good," he said again. "Then let me
leave you with a warning. If you ever attempt to go near my son again, there
will be repercussions. I will find you and your mother, and I will punish you
both for your thoughtless actions." He finally dropped his wand. "And I will
make Draco forget ever laying eyes on you."
Isobel kept her gaze steady. "Why would I go near your son?"
He smiled maliciously; raised two fair eyebrows. "I have no idea."

144
 Then he clamped a hand around her arm again. There was a loud crack,
and she felt herself pulled into dark spirals.
Seconds later, she slammed to the ground. She dropped to her hands
and knees, found herself on icy grass.
She sat back on her heels, breathing fast; digging her fingertips into the
cold ground. She looked around her at an expanse of grass and trees, poorly
lit by sparse streetlights. Lucius Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.
Her hand sprung to the necklace, which was still burning hot, as if it
had been pulled from a fire. She tugged at the clasp, pulled it off and
dropped it into the pocket of her coat. She pressed her hands to her neck,
which was stinging with pain.
He had tried to take her memories. Had tried to make her forget Draco,
again. But the necklace had protected her.
She cursed softly and stood, feeling wobbly on her feet. She was in some
park that she didn't recognise, but it was entirely deserted - probably closed
to muggles for the night, locked from the outside. The air was cold and still,
as though paused in a moment.
It was possible that Draco was wondering where she was by now -
perhaps even realizing that something was wrong - but she couldn't go to
him. What if Lucius was there again? Standing in the alleyway, waiting to
see if she returned? What if he was in Draco's apartment now, and Draco
had no way of warning her to stay away? Then Lucius would know that she
had resisted his enchantment. And then. . . She didn't know what he would
do then. And she wasn't willing to find out.
So, she Apparated back home, greeted by the curling trees of her
driveway.
She took her shoes off before she reached the front door. She held them
in one hand, nudged the handle gently down with the other, and slid inside.
She placed her shoes quietly on the shoe rack and pulled off her coat; her

145
every intention to tiptoe down the hallway and find a way to contact Draco
in the morning.
She flicked her wand and whispered, "Lumos." Light flared from its tip,
illuminating the length of the hallway.
At the end of it sat Maggie, with her arms curled tightly around herself
and her hair covering her face.
For a moment Isobel stood, frozen in place. "Mum."
Then her mother rocked forward and emitted a slow, croaky groan. As
if she were in terrible, terrible pain.
Isobel rushed forwards and knelt beside her. "Mum, can you hear me?"
Twelve hours before, Maggie had sat before her at the kitchen table,
had spoken to her easily, with a sound mind. Now she looked up at Isobel
through tangled, sweat-dampened hair, her eyes misty. She moved her
mouth, but no words came out. Isobel pressed a wrist to her forehead: it
was very hot.
She understood all too quickly. She had been right about the necklace,
and her mother had lied. Every time that Isobel was protected by the
enchantment, Maggie's health would take a blow, in Isobel's place.
Tears pricked at Isobel's eyes. "Shit," she said. "Okay. Okay, come on,
Mum, I'm taking you to St. Mungo's."
If Maggie opposed this decision, she did nothing to show it. Her body
was limp as Isobel heaved one arm over her shoulders and set off down the
corridor.
She did not trust herself to Apparate with her mother in this condition.
Maggie was barely conscious: Isobel could not bear to think what might
happen if one of them got splinched.
It took them long, painful minutes to reach the living room. Isobel
allowed her mother to gently drop onto the mantelpiece. She knelt before
her, pushed Maggie's hair out of her face. "If you can hear me," she said,
"I'm going to get Floo Powder. I'll be right back."

146
 She didn't think her mother could hear her. But if she did, she didn't
show any recognition or irritation at the fact that Isobel knew where to find
Floo Powder when she supposedly barely left the house.
Isobel raced back to her bedroom. She tugged the powder from her
loose floorboard, ran to her desk and quickly scribbled out a letter. Just in
case.

Dear Draco,
My mum is very ill. I've taken her to hospital.

She left the letter on her bed and ran back to the living room. There,
she shot flames from her wand into the fireplace, and threw in a handful of
Floo Powder. She hoisted her mother's arm over her shoulder, stepped into
the fire with her, and called out, "St. Mungo's."

The next morning, she woke in a wooden chair beside her mother's
hospital bed.
They were in a four-person ward; Isobel and Maggie were right by the
door. Pale sunlight filtered in through the shuttered blinds. Isobel stared at
it, bleary-eyed, trying to figure out the time.
Beside her, Maggie slept peacefully, hooked to a drip and snoring
softly. The nurses had seen to her immediately last night, when Isobel had
arrived with Maggie's head slumped against her shoulder. Maggie was to
stay here for at least a week. Better here than in their house, Isobel
understood now - better under the practiced care of the nurses than the
scant help of Isobel's washcloths and glasses of water.
She hadn't had to explain much, to her relief, though she didn't think
she had gotten away with anything, necessarily. The nurse who had taken
Maggie in had asked few questions, but shot suspicious looks Isobel's way.

147
Isobel would answer questions if asked - anything to help them restore her
mother to good health - but would remain silent until then. Maggie had
done wrong, by locking her daughter at home for a year, but Isobel didn't
want her to get in trouble for it. Her mother was suffering more than
enough already.
On the table by the other side of Maggie's bed was a large jug that hadn't
been there when Isobel had finally dozed off, well after midnight. Isobel
recognised the swirling turquoise liquid from Snape's potions class.
Draught of Peace. She looked around at the other patients in the ward -
they too all had their own jugs of the potion.
The ward door opened and a kind-faced nurse in lime-green robes
poked her head in, looking straight at Isobel and Maggie. "Oh good," she
said to Isobel, speaking quietly. "You're up."
She held a tray of toast, yoghurt and fruit, which she carried towards
Maggie's bedside table, and nudged in beside the Draught of Peace. Isobel
bit her lip, wondering if she should mention that Maggie usually couldn't
keep down anything other than toast.
The nurse moved around to Isobel and placed a gentle hand on her
shoulder. "You should go home, love," she said. "We'll take care of her."
"Oh," said Isobel. "Thank you, but I think I should stay with her." She
glanced at Maggie. "I don't think she would like it if I left."
The nurse squeezed her shoulder. "Strictly, darling," she said, "you
shouldn't even have stayed last night. Visiting hours are seven to nine.
She'll be in safe hands until you're back, I promise."
Isobel's heart sank. "Sorry, I didn't realize."
The nurse gave her a warm smile. "She'll be here when you come back,
same ward. So you'll know where to find her."
Isobel stood and dusted herself off. Her back ached, stiff from her sleep
in the wooden chair.

148
 "Feel free to take some Draught of Peace," said the nurse, motioning to
the turquoise potion. "For your journey home. Do you live far?"
"Not too far," said Isobel politely. Maggie would be furious if she told
someone where they lived. "And I'm fine, but thank you."
A new plan was slowly formulating. A plan for which she'd her mind to
be clear; unfogged by Draught of Peace.
She kissed her sleeping mother's cheek and turned to go. As she did,
the nurse said to her, "She really was one of our best Healers, you know.
Clever, selfless. Good with charms."
Isobel nodded. "I know," she said, looking back at Maggie. Her
mother's selflessness was, after all, what had put her in this hospital bed.
She smiled at the nurse. "Thank you again."

She walked the entire way to Draco's apartment, too afraid of the
alleyway, now. It was too hidden away, too shadowed. Too out of sight of
his apartment.
It was barely dawn, and the air was cold and grey. Grumpy muggles in
business suits sped past her, for their last week of work before the
Christmas holidays. When she pulled her wand from the waist of her jeans
to unlock his building door, not one person gave her a second glance.
Draco didn't answer his door for long minutes after her first knock.
Isobel felt herself grow nervous all over again; felt fear creep back over her
like a winter breeze. Felt Lucius' fingers on the back of her neck again,
callous and violent.
She knocked again, softly, and finally the door pulled back to reveal
Draco. His brow creased as he took her in. "Are you okay?"
She nodded quickly. "Sorry I wasn't here last night. I -" She broke off,
looking at him. His eyes were sleepy, his hair was rumpled. He had on a

149
well-worn black t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. Isobel took a breath. "I
have a lot to explain."
He stared at her, then held the door out a little wider. "Come in."

150
 twenty-one

draco

He had waited for her for hours.

Had sat by his window, watching the street for her dark-blonde curls.
Held her dried snowdrop between his fingers, and wondered at what point
it might become reasonable to worry.
She had seemed interested, when she'd last seen him.
Had seemed eager to see him again. But he didn't know. Maybe he'd scared
her off, or maybe she had decided that it was all too much for her. His
family, his past, his Dark Mark. He wouldn't blame her.
When Draco had thrown his cold tea into the sink and finally gone to
bed, he'd lain there for a few hours longer. Not that he was used to sleeping
much, anyway, but that night, it was particularly difficult to switch off his
mind.
He finally decided that he would give her another day. If he didn't hear
anything from her in the next twenty-four hours, he would Apparate to her
house.
When he fell asleep, the sun was already peeking over the horizon.
Two hours later, he had woken to light knocks on his door. He had
buried his face into his pillow, at first; had tried to drown it out, but minutes
later, the knocking persisted. He'd sat up and crinkled his forehead in
thought. The only person he knew who wouldn't have barged in by now was

151
Emily - and her knocks, from what he remembered, were agonizingly
assertive. These knocks were soft - almost timid.
When he opened the door, Belly stood there; her eyes red and her arms
wrapped around herself.
He started, feeling abruptly wide awake. "Are you okay?"
"Sorry I wasn't here last night," she said. His mind raced, trying to think
of one scenario that explained why she was here, of all places, so early in
the morning. "I have a lot to explain."
He held out the door. "Come in," he said. He watched as she walked in
and looked around her; felt suddenly embarrassed at how empty it might
look to her. Just a weathered black couch, an old oak table, and a few books
strewn about the place. "I've never really bothered to decorate," he said.
"I like it," she said, smiling back at him. His heart skipped. "I'm sorry
for showing up so early. I was at St. Mungo's, and they kicked me out." Her
smile dropped. "My mother is sick."
"I'm sorry," he told her. Somewhat honestly.
Belly fidgeted with her nails. "I think she'll be okay," she said, her voice
soft. "She just has to stay there for a little while."
Draco chewed on his cheek. "Would you like something to drink?" he
asked, forcing himself to look away from her. How many times had he
thought of her in this apartment; imagined her face where she was standing
right now.
"I'm fine, thank you," she said. "I was hoping we could go to my house,
actually. Instead of here. I think it might be safer."
He looked back at her, not understanding. "Safer," he echoed.
Belly stared at her hands. "Your dad caught me on my way here last
night," she said quietly. "He tried to erase you from my memories."
Draco felt the world slip away from him; felt his heart begin to thunder
in his ears. "He attacked you?"
"He didn't hurt me."

152
 "But he attacked you," he said again, taking his wand from the kitchen
counter and gripping it tightly. His free hand curled into a fist.
"Unsuccessfully," said Belly. "But the attack hurt my mother, because I
was wearing my necklace. That's why she's in the hospital right now."
Draco's eyes dropped to her empty throat, then sprang back to her. "So
what, he tried to Obliviate you? Did he threaten you?"
She shrugged. "Vaguely." She pressed her lips together; curved them
into a weary smile. "I think it's safe to say," she said, "that he's not a fan of
us being together."
Draco didn't return her smile. "I'm going to go to the Manor," he said.
"You should stay here - I'm going to go over - and -"
She moved towards him; touched her fingertips to his bare arm.
"And what, Draco?" she asked. "What could you possibly say to him, that
could fix this?"
"Fucking - anything -" he said angrily. "He's playing with my life and
now he's playing with yours -"
"I guarantee that if your father finds out you know I'm alive, he'll take
your memories, too." She dropped her hand from his arm. Her eyes stayed
on his: sad and tired. "And I don't know what will happen after that."
Draco's heart thudded. He didn't know, either. Belly had only known
him for a few days, essentially. If he were to forget everything he knew
about her, he wasn't sure that she would fight to get him back.
Now that she was closer, he could see the angry mark the necklace had
left behind; a thin circle around her neck, a tiny red star at the top of her
sternum.
"Where's your necklace now?"
She pulled it from her coat pocket; held the coil of fine silver in her
palm. "It was hurting me," she said. "It's not hot anymore, but it was
burning after your dad. . ." She trailed off. "It's weird, though - I don't
remember it burning me after the war. And. . ." She frowned. "If it protected

153
my memories from being taken last night, I don't understand why it didn't
protect them from being taken before. Does that make sense?"
"You should put it on," said Draco. The words came out in a rush, in a
single breath. And he knew she wouldn't like it, knew she would disagree,
but he couldn't help himself. "You should put it back on, now."
Belly's expression hardened. "My mother is in the hospital because of
this necklace."
"Because of an enchantment she put on it," he said. "Herself. She knew
she would end up there, and yet she told you to keep it on."
Belly shook her head, looking all the more as if he had just betrayed
her, somehow. "That doesn't mean I should do what she says."
"I don't see why not."
"Because she's not well," said Belly, her eyebrows furrowing. "She's not
well - physically or mentally - and she doesn't know what she's doing,
anymore. And I don't see any reason to keep the necklace on just because
she wants me to."
"We know now," said Draco, trying to keep the impatience out of his
voice, "that the necklace has nothing to do with your memories. All it does
is protect you from attack. It keeps you safe."
"At the cost of my mother's life," she said furiously, and Draco gritted
his teeth together. "I never thought it had anything to do with my
memories," she continued. "I never thought that was why she told me to
keep it on."
He stalked past her to the couch, flung himself down and glared at the wall.
She swivelled, following him. "So what?" she demanded. "You're going
to sulk now? How's that going to help?"
They were quiet for long moments, letting her words hang between
them. Then he said, finally, "We had a plan." He looked up at her. "Almost
two years ago, we were lying beside the lake in school and we made a plan.
We would leave this godforsaken puppet life and find a cottage in the

154
middle of nowhere and be free from all of this shit. I guess if we'd done it
sooner, you'd still be you."
Her eyes filled with tears, and he felt a stab of guilt. She was still herself,
of course. She just wasn't his.
Wordlessly, she came to sit beside him on the couch. The necklace was
gone from her hand now, tucked back into a pocket.
"It wouldn't have worked," he said. "I might have left my parents, but
you would never have left your mother. You left Hogwarts for an entire year
for her, when your father died. You would never have abandoned her just
to move away to a stupid cottage."
Just like she wouldn't abandon her mother now. He didn't add that
part, but it went unsaid. He saw it in the way she looked back at him - her
gaze sad, but unapologetic. Unwavering.
She curled her legs under her and turned, fully facing him. "I want to
remember," she said. "Do you have anything that could jog my memory?"
Draco thought of the snowdrop on his windowsill. His only remainder
of her; a tiny, shitty white flower. He shook his head. "My mother threw out
your things after the war."
She bit her lip, stayed silent. He watched her gaze fall to the coffee table,
flickering back and forth between two random points there. She did that
when she was thinking, or trying to work something out. He wished she
knew something like that about him.
Then she exhaled quickly, and looked up at him. "I could watch your
memories through a Pensieve," she said. "That's a great idea, actually. I
don't know why we haven't thought of that before."
Draco didn't respond. He had thought of it, actually, but had hated the
idea. Had selfishly hoped she would never bring it up.
"If you extract your memories, we can find a Pensieve - I'm sure there's
one around somewhere that's available for us to use - and watch them."

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Belly's tired eyes widened with excitement. "We could watch them together,
if you like."
Draco swallowed. His throat felt dry.
The fact that Belly didn't remember him was agony. The fact that he
had to build up her trust all over again, to start from scratch - it was torture.
He would do anything for some evidence - for anything that could prove to
her that they belonged together. But he didn't want her to watch herself fall
in love with him from his perspective.
He was ashamed of the way he had bothered her in fifth year, ashamed
of the way he had annoyed and taunted her until she finally paid attention
to him. He was ashamed of the way he had let her back into his life so easily
time and time again, as if he hadn't known the danger that would put her
in. He didn't know why she had fallen in love with him, but she had. She
had loved him, and it had been good, and that had been that until she hadn't
anymore.
And what else would she see, if she watched his memories? When he
had used a Vanishing Cabinet to bring Death Eaters into Hogwarts, when
he had stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower and pointed his wand at
Albus Dumbledore's heart, when she found out that he had been lying to
her for months. . . She had been so betrayed, by all of that. He remembered
it vividly: scenes of that night still plagued his nightmares; Belly in his
bedroom, backing away from him, the shock on her tear-streaked face. . .
He couldn't show her any of that. She would never love him.
If Isobel Young was to fall in love with him again, it needed to be of her
own accord. Either through restoring her own memories, or if not. . . Well,
he was just going to have to try all over again.
He shook his head, combed a hand through his hair. "I'm so tired," he
said to her, honestly. "Can we talk about it later?"

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 Belly's face fell a little, her disappointment apparent. She wanted to
talk about it now - he could see that. But he didn't know how to refuse her,
right now.
He felt her fingers graze over his clenched fist; watched her offer him a
small, half-smile. "Can we go to my house?"
He nodded, and together, they stood.
He showered and changed as she waited on the couch in his living
room. Then they Apparated together to the countryside house, her small
hand curled in his.

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 twenty-two

isobel

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.

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 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

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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.

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 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

161
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

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necklace back on." She opened her mouth to argue, and he waved an airy
hand. "Yeah, yeah, you're doing it for Maggie."
"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."
Draco kept his eyes on her. "I guess I won't leave you alone, then."
Isobel swallowed. "Alright."
He 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."

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 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.

164
 "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."

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 twenty-three

draco

They bundled up in thick layers of clothing. Belly asked him twice

where they were headed, but he wouldn’t tell her.
She locked the front door, and they stepped out into the cold. As he
took her hand in his, he saw a flash of worry cross her expression. A split-
second of concern as she glanced back at the house, and then her attention
was his.
As they Apparated, he held her tight against his chest. He was afraid of
letting her go, afraid of her being splinched; afraid of letting her slip from
his arms into the whirling spaces of Apparition.
His fearful thoughts verged on irrational, he knew that. But he was
barely accustomed to her company. With his every breath, he was afraid of
losing her again.
His feet found solid ground, and he brought one hand up from her
shoulder to shield her eyes. He spoke into her ear. “You can’t look yet.”
They were standing on top of a sand dune, overlooking a small solitary
cove. He steered her to the edge of the dune, from where they could see the
beach in its entirety.
Wind whipped at his hair and salt air filled his nostrils. He looked down
at Belly; saw a smile pulling at her lips, no doubt feeling the bitter wind beat
at her skin, too. He dropped his hand. “You expected this?”

166
 Belly heaved out a happy sigh as she gazed around at the white beach,
the dark ocean; the grey clouds overhead. She looked back at him. “I might
know you better than you think.”
“Bit of a shit surprise, then,” he replied.
But her smile only grew. “I love the beach. We’ve never been here
together?”
He shook his head. “We’ve never been anywhere together except
school, my house or yours.”
She nodded, clearly satisfied by this information. Happy to be on
something of a level playing field. “But you’ve been here before?”
He raised a shoulder. “Once or twice.”
Belly studied him for a moment longer, then pulled her coat closer
around herself and turned her face against the wind. “It’s pretty.”
The cove stretched for no more than half a mile. It was hidden away
from the main land; enclosed by tall sand dunes on one side and towering
cliffs on the other. When he’d stumbled upon it in the summer after the
war, the sun had blazed hard on his cheeks and the sand had been hot to
touch. Now, the air was icy and the sky a dark grey, but it was idyllic, still.
What he liked most about this beach was that every time he had been
here, there hadn’t been a single other person in sight.
He looked at Belly as she looked at the horizon, hair rippling back; her
chin tilted up against the salty breeze. Thought, he had once looked at her
the exact same way, on top of the fountain in the Manor. Had thought that
he would one day be able to tell her of all the horrible experiences that had
accumulated inside of him, sharp as knives; the way Dumbledore and
Voldemort and the Death Eaters had prowled through his nightmares like
monsters. But before he had been able to tell that to her, she had taken their
place. Had, on the day of the battle, become the person whose face haunted
his days and nights.

167
 She had vanished from his life before he’d gotten the chance to bring
her someplace like this. It wasn’t how he had imagined it might be; her
company precarious, the threat of losing her at any second imminent. But
still, he thought. It was good.
“How cold do you think the water is?”
Draco’s gaze stuttered. “We’re not here to swim.”
“I don’t want to swim, I only want to dip my feet in.”
“It’s December.”
Belly took in his expression, and her face split into a wicked grin. “Are
you afraid, Malfoy?”
He looked back at her. Wondered when, over the course of the last three
days, the use of his last name had become a term of affection. “Of course
I’m not afraid.”
“Take off your shoes,” she said. “I’ll race you there.”
He raised his eyes to the clouds. Shook his head. But she slipped a hand
into his and tugged at it. “Come on.”
He kicked off his shoes, and so did she, and together they ran to the
edge of the water. She bent, rolling her jeans at her ankles, then waded off
through the water. She looked back at him over her shoulder; her face
screwed up. “It’s freezing.”
“No shit,” he called back, but followed her in; pushing through the
discomfort of the cold until he reached her. He stood beside her, eyebrows
knitted together. Feeling as though a hundred needles were pressing on the
bottoms of his feet.
She reached towards him, ran her fingers over his fist. “Relax.”
And he did. For her. Unclenched his fists and felt the waves tip gently
around his ankles.
Belly dropped her hand to her side. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“I think my feet are just numb.”
She laughed. “Well, I think it’s magical.”

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 Magical. Coming from a girl who had actual magic running through her
blood, it was high praise.
“Is this what we had planned?” Belly asked him. Her words were light;
gently inquisitive. “Is this where we were going to run away to?”
He tilted his head. “We didn’t have a specific location. A few months
after I moved to London, I found this. I thought it fit with what we had
imagined.”
Her gaze didn’t leave his.
“But like I said, we wouldn’t really have run away.”
She nodded, silent still. Then her eyes flickered from his, to something
higher up, far behind him in the distance.
He looked to where her gaze rested. On top of a sand dune, surrounded
by dense tufts of long grass, sat a tiny cottage.
It wasn’t visible from the beach, but they had run far enough into the
water to see it. Belly stared at it. “Is that. . .”
Draco ran a hand along his jaw, watching her. He hadn’t wanted her to
see it. Had purposely Apparated to the other end of the cove; hadn’t
expected them to walk out into the sea. Hadn’t planned on showing it to
her, for fear it might scare her.
But she looked back at him; defiant in her calmness. “I want to go in.”
He shook his head. “I don’t. . . It’s nothing. I own it, but there’s nothing
inside. It’s falling apart. Probably rotting by now.”
“But can we go in, still?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “If you want to.”
“I do.” She walked through the water towards him, nudged his elbow.
“It’s freezing out here, anyway.”
He led the way up the curl of dune that led to the cottage. It was steep,
and the wind blew sand hard into his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at
her – she hiked up the sand with long, heavy strides. He wrestled the

169
temptation to take her hand in his, to help her up. That was not something
he could do anymore.
So solitary was the little cottage that no road led to it on the land where
it sat; so long deserted that its path to the beach was overgrown. When he
had seen it, last August, he had felt that it belonged to them. Known it was
what should have been theirs, and didn’t want anyone else to ever set foot
in it. He had bought it without a single intention of using it, or even coming
back to it. He’d thought it would stand here, deserted and rotting; that he
would think of it for the rest of his life and remember what existed in
another.
The front door had caved in; was falling off its hinges, so they walked
around to the back. Here there was no door at all, and half of the brick wall
crumbled away. She led the way into the cottage and he followed, ducking
under the low frame to face what he had expected to never see again.
The cottage had four, maybe five small rooms. It was hard to tell
because of the way that the walls disorderly crumbled into each other;
cluttering the decaying floorboards with bricks and debris. Old furniture
lay around the place, jumbled and broken.
The largest room was at the end of the hallway, nearest the beach. In
the far corner lay the remains of a kitchen. Cabinets, two rickety chairs.
It was no warmer in here than out on the beach. The wind blew in
through every broken window; whipped Belly’s hair around her cheeks. She
was silent, her eyes on the far wall.
A large window stretched over the space of the wall. A wooden bench
had been built underneath it years before, lining the window and the
adjacent wall. It seemed to be sturdy in places, but was broken and rotting
in others. The glass of the window was in some parts shattered, in others
barely sticking. Its panes had discoloured; everything was hazy with dust.
The cottage was no more to Draco now than a sore reminder of the life
they could have had. Months ago, it might have been enough to bring a

170
lump to his throat, but now it felt like an old, lasting bruise, that had been
there for so long he was used to the pain. His eyes stayed on Belly, waiting
for a reaction. Anything.
She walked to the window; pressed her fingers against the grimy glass.
“I read about this in your letter,” she said finally. “We would live in a
cottage on the beach and sit in blankets by the huge windows and watch
the rain. I can see that, here.”
That was enough to bring a lump to Draco’s throat. He didn’t reply.
“I tore off a part of that letter to write a note for you,” she said. “I hope
you still have it. That letter is pretty special to me.”
“Yeah, I still have it.” He looked down at his feet. He didn’t give a damn
about the letter, but it was nice to hear that she did.
She looked back out the window, out at the beach. “It’s perfect, here.”
It was perfect. He knew that. She had always been the one that liked
the idea of living by the beach, not him. He would have followed her
anywhere; would have lived in a tent for the rest of his life if it could make
her happy.
He knew this cottage was exactly what she might have wanted, once.
But he also knew he would be stupid to hope that she would even consider
living here. Not now. Not as she barely knew him, now.
The cove faced south-east, and the sun was beginning to dip over the
horizon. It was by no means late, yet – the sun set early in December – but
he expected she would want to leave, soon. Expected that she would want
to take every minute she could get of the St. Mungo’s visiting hours.

isobel

It was Isobel's move. Everything he wanted was left to her: she needed
to kiss him first, she needed to hug him first; she needed to be the one to

171
say, yes, let's do it, let's abandon everything and move away here. The
pressure was on her.
She couldn't give him that. She couldn't just leave her mother, abandon
her whole life and everything she had planned and move away with a boy
she barely knew. She looked away from the sea, back at Draco. She saw the
pain in his eyes, and saw that he knew it, too.
She had unwittingly uttered several harsh words to him since she had
met him. I can't promise you anything. I can't force anything. She spoke
too much when she was nervous. But this time, she held her tongue.
Here was a boy, offering her everything. Offering his entire life, his
entire self. And she was too afraid to take it.
They left the cottage without saying anything more; the air thick with
unspoken afflictions. As they walked back along the shore under the
dimming sky, she pressed her hand into his and hoped that he understood.

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 twenty-four

isobel

Isobel watched Draco walk away from her, back to his apartment. The
twinkling, coloured Christmas lights that hung around the St. Mungo's
reception trailed him, moving over his hair as he left her.
"See you tomorrow," he had said, one shoulder against the reception
wall; hands hidden in the pockets of his jeans.
Her breath had caught; a hundred suggestions on the tip of her
tongue; come with me, wait for me, let me sleep on your couch tonight,
rather than alone in my quiet, comfortless house -
But she hadn't said it, and neither had he. And then seven o'clock had
come, and she'd had to go. See you tomorrow, Draco.
Never before had that sentence carried so much weight. She wanted a
hundred tomorrows with him, but there wasn't even the certainty of one.
When Isobel arrived at Maggie's ward, Maggie was sleeping. This was
no surprise, but still she felt a twinge of disappointment. She sat, watching
the steady rise and fall of her mother's chest, the fragile, greying skin of her
face. Her mind was in the cottage on the beach.
She had not told Draco how perfect it had been, how incredible - what
a dream it was to sit by a window that looked out over the sea.
It had been derelict, yes, but how easy it might be to rebuild the walls,
to mend the furniture and source new what couldn't be fixed, to clean and

173
repair the glass of the window with the flick of a wand. How thoroughly it
fit with everything she wanted from a home.
But then, he probably knew that already. He knew her.
She sat beside her mother for the full two hours, but Maggie did not
wake. She slept peacefully and barely stirred.
At nine, Isobel stood to leave, arranged the flowers on her mother's
bedside table and placed a kiss on her cheek, when her mother's thin hand
curled around her wrist. "I can't do it."
Isobel paused. "What's that, Mum?"
But her mother mumbled something incoherent, turned her face away,
and Isobel stared at her; can't do what -
She placed a hand on her mother's cheek and instantly, Maggie recoiled
from her touch, flung her head backwards and opened her eyes and stared
at Isobel; "Don't hurt her."
The door of the ward opened, and a nurse's voice rang out. "Visiting
hours are over."
"Wait," said Isobel, turning to the nurse. "Wait, she's telling me
something -"
The man gave her an impatient look, but stepped away, and Isobel
turned back to her mother -
"Lucius."
Isobel froze. "What? Mum, what did Lucius do?"
Again, Maggie showed no indication of hearing her daughter. Isobel's
mind raced.
She stepped forward again, tentatively placing a hand on her mother's
shoulder. "Mum?"
"They can never be happy together," whispered Maggie. Then her eyes
rolled back, and her body began to convulse.
Isobel stumbled back. "Help!" she yelled, looking desperately around
her for the nurse. "Somebody help, please!"

174
 Seemingly out of nowhere, nurses flooded the ward. Isobel was pushed
from her mother's bedside, which was quickly crowded by men and women
in lime-green robes, pressing her mother down and shouting orders, and
Isobel's eyes had flooded with tears -
After minutes, a kind, round face was suddenly in front of hers, and she
recognised the nurse from earlier that day.
"She's had a fit, darling. She'll be fine, but we're going to have to move
her to a private ward."
The nurse led her from the room, out into the corridor. Isobel stood on
her tiptoes, trying to see back into the ward, but the door swung shut. She
brushed tears from her cheeks; turned to face the nurse. "Is that normal?"
she asked. "She seemed so healthy this morning."
But she immediately regretted her question, for the troubled look on
the nurse's expression did nothing to affirm what she wanted to hear. "It
was definitely unexpected," said the nurse, warm eyes full of pity. "We're
going to run some tests."
"Can I stay? Please?"
The nurse shook her head, and Isobel felt ready to burst into tears
again. "We'll be in immediate contact if anything goes wrong."
Isobel wandered around the building for half an hour after leaving,
mulling over the possible ways of sneaking back in. But people in lime-
green robes crowded the lobby, and she saw no path to slip inconspicuously
past them. She didn't have any idea where her mother's new ward was,
anyway.
A small crowd of drunken carol-singers swarmed past her, pulling her
out of her thoughts.
She focused on a flickering streetlight, thinking of Draco. She could go
to his apartment, but she had seen the exhaustion in his eyes; knew he was
probably sound asleep by now. And he wouldn't mind if she woke him, she
knew that. But in the past three days, she had put him through enough.

175
 So, she Apparated back to her house. She willed the tears from her eyes
as she took off her coat; her limbs heavy with fatigue. How she wanted to
be anywhere but here. The freezing cottage on the beach would have
provided more comfort than this desolate house.
She walked to the living room, sank into the spot where hours earlier,
Draco had sat; long limbs and white-blond hair. Where he had looked at
her and said, "If I'm honest Belly, I don't really want to leave you alone."
She picked up a cushion; held it to her face to see if it had picked up his
smell. But there was nothing there.
She found herself overcome by exhaustion. She curled up where she
sat, and fell asleep there.

She woke late the next morning, still in her clothes from the day before
but much better rested. She changed her clothes quickly, then used the Floo
network to travel to Diagon Alley. There, she kept her head down as she
moved through thick crowds; through hundreds of last-minute Christmas
shoppers. If she were, by atrocious chance, to bump into Lucius Malfoy, at
least he couldn't do anything about it here. At least she would have some
time to react; to prepare herself for whatever his next move might be.
On her walk to Draco's apartment, her mind reeled with the sheer
unfairness of it all. How her mother was sick and there was nothing Isobel
could do about it; how there was no comfort she could provide except
company. How exhausted Draco had seemed; how tumultuous it all must
be for him, how entirely unfair it was to mourn a person for a year and a
half, only to find out they'd been alive all that time, only two hundred miles
away.
How she couldn't give him what he wanted, yet; how she just needed
time. But time was exactly the thing that was in short supply.

176
 The words her mother had whispered in the hospital had haunted her
all night long, and plagued her now still. Lucius. They can never be happy
together. Was Lucius in contact with her mother? If so, how did he know
that Isobel had tracked down Draco, but Maggie didn't? It bothered her,
because she didn't know if the words were merely incoherent, nonsensical
mumblings; symptoms of her mother being sick and heavily medicated, or
if there was some meaning to them. Something she should be trying to
make sense of.
The sight of Draco's apartment building brought some comfort. She
ascended the stairs to the building and pulled her wand from the waist of
her jeans. As she had twice before, she flicked an Alohamora at the large
glass door and raised a hand to pull it open.
But a pale hand appeared from behind her; pressed long fingers against
the door so that she couldn't open it. "Watching me through a window
wasn't enough?" came Draco's voice. "Breaking and entering now, are we?"
She turned to face him. He was in shorts and a long-sleeve running
shirt. Sweat gleamed at his temples, in the roots of his hair, and there was
the slightest hint of colour in his cheeks. He raised a fair eyebrow at her,
waiting for a response.
"I couldn't figure out the doorbell system."
"Ah. I can't help you there," said Draco, hand still on the door behind her.
"I didn't know how else to get in."
"In muggle residences," he said, "we use keys."
"I don't have a key."
"I'll give you one."
Her eyes dropped involuntarily to his legs; long and lean. "Aren't you
cold?"
He smiled. "No. You?"
"A little," she said. She was wearing her coat and scarf - his scarf - but
felt chilly, still. She couldn't understand how he walked around in shorts

177
and showed no sign of discomfort, yet cold water and wet sand had freaked
him out so much.
"I can't swim," he said, as if he had read her mind. "Never learnt. Let's
go inside."
She followed him in; watched his t-shirt cling to his back as he climbed
the stairs. "Your parents never taught you?"
He let out a low laugh. "They didn't have time for that kind of thing."
A thousand thoughts ran through Isobel's mind; the primary one being
that he had been content to live at the beach when he couldn't swim. "Did I
know that? Before I lost my memories?"
Draco glanced back at her as they reached his apartment, a thin smile
pulling at his mouth. "Oh, yes. You made sure to make fun of me for it."
She couldn't help but widen her eyes. "Sorry."
He snorted. "Oh, I had enough to make fun of you for. Like the fact that
you're afraid of clowns."
"You know that?"
"Of course I know that." He shoved his door open with a shoulder.
"Clowns. Bloody ridiculous."
A window was wide open in Draco's apartment, but he appeared not
even to notice. She knelt on the couch and watched him over the back of it,
as he filled a glass of water from the sink. Muscles moved in his throat as
he drained the glass.
He raised a hand to the back of his neck. "I need to take a shower. I'll
be quick."
"Okay."
Draco gave her a nod, his expression stoic and unreadable as ever. Then
he crossed the room, to his bedroom. He pulled off his shirt as he went -
one swift movement - and she rested her chin on her hands; watched
muscles ripple across his back.

178
 "If you want tea -" he turned around, and caught her eye. The faintest
smirk twitched at his lips. "If you want tea, I am well-stocked."
She dug her chin into her hands. There were plenty of smart responses
to make to that, but she found herself speechless. Again, her eyes dropped
involuntarily; this time to his chest.
Draco said nothing, but his smirk grew. He disappeared around the
corner and moments later, she heard the shower click on.
She stood, cursing her own awkwardness; moved to the kitchen and
opened a cupboard simply to have something to do with her herself. The
sight of a stack of camomile tea boxes in the cupboard - and nothing else -
made her smile.
She walked to the open window. From here, she could see the end of
the alleyway where Lucius Malfoy had attacked her. She had yet to tell
Draco what her mother had mumbled in St. Mungo's. The fact that her
mother had been, or perhaps still was, in contact with Lucius, could
potentially be very important.
A knock sounded at the door and a split-second later, it slammed open.
She spun, heart in her throat, hand at her waist to pull her wand from
her side - but stopped when she saw Blaise Zabini standing in the doorway.
His head was tilted and he was staring at her with a curious expression.
"Well," he said. "That confirms it, I guess."
Isobel let out a sigh of relief. "Hi, Blaise."
Blaise stood there for a long few moments, giving her the same
perplexed look she had seen several times before, in the faces of Ginny and
her other friends when they had first seen her again. "Theo and I saw you
with him on Friday night," he said, closing the door, "but we haven't been
sure."
"Draco didn't tell you?"

179
 Blaise laughed shortly. He unzipped his coat, threw it over the back of
the couch. "Malfoy tells me nothing. Drilling information out of him is
rather a chore for everyone. Except, I presume, for you."
"I don't remember him," said Isobel, hastily. "I don't remember dating
him. And I don't remember much about his friends either." She cringed as
she said it, and it occurred to her all at once that there was no way it could
have been only Draco that she'd forgotten. It was his whole world; all of his
friends, or at least her interactions with them.
She sat with Blaise on Draco's couch and explained everything to him,
from start to finish; from the enchanted necklace to living in isolation for a
year, to finding the letter, to Lucius and his hostilities, to her mother being
in hospital now.
When she was finished, Blaise looked troubled; stared at Draco's wall
with a heavy crease between his eyebrows. "Lucius Malfoy is a dickhead,"
he muttered.
"Quite," said Isobel. "I used to think that the only thing that could
possibly fix all of this was if I got my memories back - but now, with Lucius
obsessing over Draco like he does. . ." She sighed. "Even if I were to
remember everything about Draco today, I could forget it all again
tomorrow."
Blaise nodded in agreement. "Still," he said, "I think trying to get them
back is a good place to start."
"If only I knew how to do it, though," she said. She thought of her
mother, weak in a hospital bed. What could Maggie possibly do, if Isobel
told her the truth about everything? At worst, she would be angry at Isobel.
At best, she would tell her the truth, in return.
Isobel blew out a long breath. Finding out that she and Draco had dated
had turned her life on its head, but she was well aware that she had done
the exact same thing to him. That returning to him had complicated
everything. For him, for his family. For the girl he was supposed to marry.

180
 "Does Astoria know that I'm alive?"
"I don't think so."
"We should tell her," said Isobel. "I feel awful about that. I don't think
Draco wants to marry her anymore."
Blaise looked weary. "I don't think Malfoy ever wanted to marry her."
"But they planned to. Even if he didn't want it."
"I don't even know if he ever agreed to anything," said Blaise. "I think
it was more so his parents getting ahead of themselves with the whole
wedding thing."
"They have a date for it, though," said Isobel, guilt twisting in her
stomach. "That's pretty serious." She thought of Astoria picking out a dress,
making wedding preparations. Even if Draco had no intentions to go ahead
with the wedding, that was bad enough. She wondered what Astoria
thought of Draco. "What's she like?"
"She's nice," he said. "She and Draco get on, or did for a while. I think
his only real problem with her was that she isn't you."
Isobel felt her cheeks warm at that, but guilt gnawed at her, still. She
was disturbing arrangements for not only a wedding, but for a marriage;
for entire lives.
She pushed the thought away. "And how are all of you? I met Pansy on
Friday night. She thought I was a ghost." She studied Blaise, but like Draco,
his expression was unreadable. His smile was charming, but too bright; too
well-practiced. "I'm sure the aftermath of the war isn't easy for you guys,
either."
Blaise waved a hand, dismissive. "Don't worry about us. We'll be fine.
We have for a year been trying to find ways to make Malfoy happy again, so
I guess you've fixed that a little. He used to have your perfume -" he
furrowed his eyebrows, looking vaguely disgusted - "and would spray it all
over his room. It was pathetic."

181
 Isobel raised a hand to cover her smile. Just last night she had pressed
her nose into a cushion, trying to find the familiarity of his smell.
"What was pathetic?"
Blaise's smile grew, and Isobel turned to see Draco in the doorway of
his bedroom - his hair damp on his forehead, a soft, white towel slung
around his neck.
Draco's eyes flicked back and forth between Isobel and Blaise. "What
have you told her?"
"There are only good things to tell, Malfoy," said Blaise, rising from the
couch and clapping Draco on the back.
Draco's eyes found Isobel's, and she gave him a small smile.
"I'm here to extend an invitation, Malfoy," Blaise said, grinning again.
"Before we all go to our family homes for Christmas, we're going out
tonight. Isobel is welcome to join as well, of course."
Draco was already shaking his head. "Maybe next time, Zabini."
Blaise's face fell, so Isobel said, "You should go, Draco."
"I'm not -" Draco paused. "I can't leave you alone here." He shot a scowl
at Blaise, as if daring him to mock him for that. But Blaise shrugged.
"Maybe I should go along."
Draco stiffened. "You can't. . . No. You can't. People can't know you're
alive."
"I don't see why not," said Isobel. "As long as your dad doesn't find out -"
"He could find out, and that's bad enough."
"Who's going to tell him?"
"Well," said Blaise carefully, picking up his coat from the couch and
lying it over an arm. "I'm just going to go -"
"No, don't go," said Isobel, standing up. "Blaise - you guys will keep the
secret, right? You and Theo won't tell anyone?"
"The thing is," said Blaise, keenly avoiding Draco's glare, "it won't just
be Theo and I. There'll be a few more people there."

182
 "So you can't go," Draco said to her, his voice hard. "And I won't be
there either. So thanks Zabini, that'll be all."
"Malfoy," Blaise sighed, "You really can't keep it a secret for much
longer. I mean - we can try. But even if you don't go tonight, Pansy's going
to find out any day now. Theo can't keep it from her that long. And once
Pansy finds out, she'll tell Daphne -"
"So tell Nott not to be a blabbermouth," said Draco angrily.
"You shouldn't even know, Zabini. You shouldn't even be here."
"Malfoy -"
"I won't go," said Isobel, and they both looked at her. "I'm sorry, that
was a stupid suggestion." She glared at the ground. "I'm just sick of all of
this. But you should go, Draco. I'll be fine."
Draco shook his head, grey eyes on her. "I'm not going."
"Go," she said. She forced a smile. "I need to visit my mother anyway."
His jawline hardened once more. He nodded shortly at Blaise. "See you
later then, Zabini."
Blaise appeared all too happy to leave the tension. "See you later," he
said, opening Draco's apartment door. He shot Isobel another warm smile,
then closed the door; leaving them alone in the drafty apartment.

183
 twenty-five

isobel

It was almost one in the morning. Isobel sat on the steps of Draco's
apartment building, shivering into her coat.
They had spent most of the day in a park, talking for hours, blowing
foggy breaths into the winter air and watching crowds pass by. When the
cold had gotten too much, they had walked back to his apartment and had
takeout and wine on his couch. And she had, the entire time, hardly been
able to tear her eyes from him.
Draco had left her at St. Mungo's, once again with his word to see her
the next day.
Her mother had slept through the visiting hours again, but this time
there was no sleep-talking; no more incoherent mumblings. Isobel had
clutched her hand for two hours, sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair
and willed her mother to get better.
When she got home, the silence was overwhelming, the loneliness
heavy on her heart. She had paced around the house, necklace clutched in
her fist, thinking that tomorrow wasn't enough. She wanted to see Draco
now. If the threat existed of forgetting him at any moment, she wanted to
make the most of the moments they had left.
She couldn't give him everything he wanted. Not yet. The sight of him
in the cottage plagued her; standing in a door frame, pale face stricken with

184
misery. She wasn't ready to give him the life that he longed for, but they
could at least make the most of this one.
When it reached midnight, she Apparated back to his apartment,
thinking that surely he would be back from the bar by now. But she had let
herself into his building and knocked on his door for a few minutes, and
there hadn't been an answer. So she sat outside on the steps, waiting for
him in the cold. Heart beating fast; excited to look into his grey-eyed gaze
once again.
He showed up long after she did, shock of fair hair visible from a whole
block away. She watched him approach, chin in her hands, elbows on her
knees. Wished desperately that she had just trusted and approached him
months ago, so that they might have had just a little more time.
But when Draco reached her, he didn't look happy. He stopped metres
away from her; said, "You shouldn't be out here alone."
Isobel stood. "Hello to you, too."
The streetlights around them cast sharp shadows across his face. "You
should be inside."
She frowned. "You weren't home, so I was waiting for you."
"Next time, just go in," he said, scowling. He walked past her, pulling
his key from his pocket. "That's what everyone else does."
"I can't just walk into your apartment if you're not there."
"Yes, you can," he said. "I'm giving you a key. Wait inside, next time."
She scoffed; watched him unlock the door and shove it open with a
shoulder. "Did something happen at the bar? Something made you angry
and now you're taking it out on me?"
He didn't reply. Just held the door open for her to go in; his back to her.
"Listen, if you don't want me here, I'll go -"
Draco turned back around to her, one hand on the door, the other
clenched into a white-knuckled fist. "Go in, Belly."

185
 "No, I won't," she said, lifting her chin. "Not if you're going to act like
this."
He raised his eyes to the starless sky. For long moments they stayed
there, and she was about to argue further, about to say something else to
wind him up even more, when his gaze drifted back to her. "If you need me
to beg, I will."
She felt her cheeks burn. For a tense few seconds, she stayed where she
was, glaring at him, then grumbled, "No, I don't need that." She pushed
past him, into the building's lobby. "I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, I've heard that one before," he said, tonelessly. "You don't
remember, but that's a common line from you."
Isobel's temper flared. "You can't expect me to know that. And
I can take care of myself."
He rolled his eyes and turned his back on her; took the stairs two at a time.
She hurried after him. "I don't need you to protect me, and you can't be
my bodyguard simply for the sake of putting your mind at ease."
"I don't want to be your bodyguard."
"Then I don't see the problem."
"The problem is," he said, stopping on the stairway and turning to face
her, "you sitting in a dark street on your own. Given that you won't wear
the necklace -"
She groaned. "How can you still hold that against me?"
"I don't hold it against you," he said sharply, "and it's not surprising in
the slightest. But your mother is sick regardless, so I wish you'd just put the
stupid thing on. I'm sure she'd want the same."
Isobel glowered at him, but he looked at her blankly, his expression
almost bored. "Fine," she spat, swivelling. "If you're going to be like this, I'll
just go home." She stomped back down the stairs, refusing to look back at
him. "Forgive me for wanting to get out a bit, after being locked up for a
year and a half -"

186
 Before she could go any further down the stairs, his arms were around
her waist and he had lifted her over his shoulder.
She stared at his back; felt him take the last few steps to his apartment.
"Draco -"
"I forgive you," he said, and she felt him shift his weight as he unlocked
his door, one arm wrapped tightly around the backs of her thighs. "But I'm
afraid I can't let you go."
She gritted her teeth. "Put me down."
She felt a tremor run through Draco's body, and realized that he
was laughing. "All in good time," he said, entirely nonchalantly.
He raised a foot, kicked the door shut behind him and dropped her onto
the couch. She sat up, seething with anger; looked into his amused
expression with disgust.
The lights were off, but street lights shone through the window, casting
hazy shadows around his apartment. In the dim light, she saw him crack a
smile. "Now that we've made ourselves comfortable, would you like
anything to drink?"
"No."
He sank into the couch beside her, lifted one foot to his knee and began
to untie his shoelaces. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she felt her face
begin to warm again.
"No, thank you," she amended, disgruntledly.
Draco's smile pulled at the side of his mouth. "Who's sulking now?"
She sighed, pushed her palms over her knees, let her anger burn out.
"Is this our way?" she asked. "Is this how we act around each other, just -
clashing all the time? Bickering?"
His smile faded. "No, it's not our way. Only over serious things."
She nodded slowly. This was serious enough to clash over; she could
accept that. "What happened at the bar?"

187
 His expression darkened. "Doesn't matter. Astoria showed up, and
everyone was making stupid jokes." He kicked off his shoes. "About the
wedding."
Isobel felt herself soften. "Does she know yet? That I'm alive?"
"No," he said. "But Blaise and Theo know, and they were being
dickheads about it. Trying to see how far they could go with the marriage
jokes."
"I'm sorry."
"They were just trying to be funny."
"You should tell her," whispered Isobel. "Astoria. If you don't want to
marry her, she deserves to know."
"Not yet."
In the low light, she saw his jaw clench. Without meaning to, she
reached out a hand; traced her fingertips along his jawline. His eyes
flickered back to hers, and she dropped her hand, embarrassed. But she
could not drag her eyes from his. "Are you tired?"
"No," he said. "You?"
She shook her head, feeling nerves twist in her stomach. "I didn't think
about that before coming here," she told him. "That you might be tired. And
that, like, it's past midnight. I don't know what I expected."
He turned to face her, his attention entirely hers; but said nothing.
Isobel was aware that she was speaking out of nervousness, aware he
was probably well-acquainted with this embarrassing habit of hers. But she
couldn't stop herself: "I suppose I was afraid that I might fall asleep and
then wake up and not remember you at all. I know that's probably not
realistic, but if all of my memories of you were taken from me now -" Her
eyes skipped back and forth between his - "I would be upset about that, I
think." She took a shaky breath. "Very upset, actually."

188
 "I wouldn't like it much, either," he said, and his words were wry, but
his grey eyes were tense with nerves. Somewhere between them, his hand
found hers, and his fingers intertwined with her own.
"But I wouldn't know that they were taken, of course," she told him.
"And that would make it even worse. Because I wouldn't know what I was
missing."
His hand tightened on hers. "Let's make the most of the night, then."
"Before we have to fall asleep?"
"Yes," he said, lips curving back into a half-smile. "Whenever that
might be."
She smiled back at him, cheeks warming, and silently wished for a way
to never fall asleep again.

draco

one hour earlier

Draco hadn't wanted to go to the bar, he had wanted to stay home and
wait for Belly to visit her mother and then have her attention be his again.
For a while, it hadn't been all that bad. But Astoria had shown up a few
hours after he had, unannounced. Blaise had pulled in a chair for her and
Draco had sat crammed between the two of them; had felt Astoria's cold,
calculating gaze follow every move he made.
He hadn't wanted to be there in the first place, and it made it all worse
to see his friends' eyes follow the pair of them, to watch them stifle their
laughter, to listen to Theo make thoughtless jokes about their supposed
marriage. To feel a stab of discomfort every time Astoria mentioned
something to do with the wedding.

189
 When he had finally excused himself to leave, she had followed him out
of the bar, stormed after him with pursed red lips. "Is something wrong,
Draco?"
The temptation to ignore her and keep walking was strong. But he
stopped, turned back to her in the busy, cobblestone lane. "No, nothing."
"Then why are you so quiet? Why are you leaving so early?"
He gritted his teeth. "Because I don't want to be here any longer."
"Is there somewhere else you need to be?"
He thought of Belly, probably sound asleep in her house by now. "No,"
he answered. "I just want to go home."
"I haven't heard from you in days," said Astoria, her eyes filling with
tears. "Nothing - and when we finally see each other, you can hardly spend
an hour with me. Is the idea of marrying me so depressing to you that you
can't even face me?"
Draco winced. "No," he said. "No, nothing like that -"
"Then what is it? What have I done to make you hate me so much?"
"I don't hate you, Astoria -"
"Then tell me!" she said, her voice shrill. "Because I am doing my very
best to make this work, and am getting absolutely nothing in return!"
He shook his head brusquely, turned away from her. He hadn't wanted
to marry her a week ago, but now it was no longer even a possibility. Not
when Belly was alive. If he had ever intended to marry Astoria, if he had
ever thought it possible to settle for such a relationship - that idea was gone
now, replaced only by thoughts of Isobel Young. But if he told Astoria that,
she would tell her parents and they would tell his.
"Is this what you're going to be like for the rest of our lives?" she asked
him. "Ignoring me whenever you see fit?"
"Astoria," he said, and he saw the glisten of a tear on her cheek. He
shook his head again. "I'm sorry. We'll talk about it at Christmas."

190
 He had no idea what he would say to her at Christmas, when the
Greengrasses came over for dinner. But he would at least have a few days
to think of something.
He was well aware that he was using her. Well aware that it would be
easier to convince his father he didn't know about Isobel, if Astoria
remained under the impression that they would be married. Nonetheless,
it made him feel sick to string her along.
The rest of the Slytherins stumbled out of the bar then, arms slung
around one other. One by one, they noticed Draco and Astoria standing
there, and their chatter faded.
"Lover's quarrel?" asked Adrian, grinning. But the question hung and
died in the cold air, and the group's expressions quickly turned uneasy.
Theo looked at Draco, mouth slightly open as if to say something; as if on
the verge of uttering an apology for the jokes he had made earlier. But he
hugged Pansy to his chest; shrugged helplessly.
Astoria choked out a sob and rushed away with her face in her hands;
Daphne on her heels. Pansy gave Draco a curious look, then detached
herself from Theo and followed after them.
The silence was tense.
"Everything okay, mate?" asked Blaise.
Draco scoffed. "Yeah, everything's perfect, thanks."
At the end of the lane, Astoria stopped by a wall. Pansy and Daphne
threw arms around her shoulders; brushed hair from her face. In between
their fussing, they threw furious, pointed glares back at Draco.
He rolled his eyes, felt fury burn in his chest. Turned to the remaining
Slytherins, who looked uncomfortable.
"Sorry, mate," said Theo, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "The
jokes I made back in the bar - about the wedding. . . They might have been
a bit out of line."

191
 Draco turned his back on his friends and stalked off, but footsteps
quickly sounded behind him. "Malfoy."
He kept walking. "I don't want to talk about it, Zabini."
Blaise appeared beside him. "Malfoy, just tell her."
"Not a chance."
"You're not being fair to her, mate," said Blaise. "She's fully under the
impression that you're going to marry her."
"That's how it needs to be."
"It's not fair, though."
"Life's not fair," spat Draco. He kept walking. "Nothing terrible is going
to happen when Astoria finds out we're not getting married."
"Except that she'll be pretty upset about it."
"Oh, you marry her then, if you're such a bloody saint."
Blaise was silent for a while, and so Draco stopped, whirled around and
prepared to hurl another scathing remark at him. But Blaise was already a
small figure far down the street, headed back in the direction of the others.
He glared at Blaise's retreating back for a long while. Then he turned
his back on them, and walked home.
When he got back to his apartment, Belly was sitting there on his
apartment building steps with her chin in her hands, waiting for him.

He couldn't be angry at her for too long. It infuriated him to see her
sitting out there in the dark, all on her own. But he found such comfort in
her presence that he couldn't help but laugh at her stroppiness; couldn't
help but realize how much he had missed her quick temper.
The streetlights shone dimly through his windows, now, filtering
through Belly's curls of hair and casting strange shadows on the walls. Even
with her there, in front of him, guilt gnawed him as he remembered the way

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he had snapped at Blaise; the way he had turned his back on his friends and
lied to Astoria. He could see no solution for any of this, except to forget
about it all for as long as he possibly could. To spend as many hours as he
could with Belly tonight and ignore whatever was going to come in the
morning.

The shop on the corner of the block was open twenty-four hours, so
they headed there first. Draco made sure to grumble about having to put
his shoes back on after he just took them off, and Belly made sure to tell
him that he was being a brat.
The small, dingy shop was entirely empty apart from the young cashier
on night shift, on the verge of falling asleep at the cash register. Belly and
Draco walked down the aisles with no particular aim, pulling faces at one
another over the tops of the shelves.
They eventually bought a bottle of red wine and headed to a nearby
park, where they could lie on the grass and look up at the starless sky.

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 twenty-six

isobel

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.

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 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.

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 "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?"

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 "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

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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."

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 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?"

199
 "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.

200
 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.

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 twenty-seven

draco

Draco couldn't sleep.

He wouldn't have predicted that. Had he known that this would be the
peculiar course that life would take, he might have expected peaceful nights
following her return. Would have thought that her presence beside him in
bed would be a comfort; a restoration of normality.
Instead he drifted in and out of sleep, restless and paranoid. Every faint
noise was an intruder, breaking in to dispel Draco from Isobel's mind.
Every hazy shadow was an onlooker, ready to whisk her away.
But hours later, with daylight filtering through the bedroom, Belly was
still beside him. One small arm was still wrapped tightly around his middle.
For over a year, he had dreamt of a moment like this, and the deja vu
was overwhelming. He knew the exact sleepy-eyed look she'd give him if
she woke now, dark eyelashes fluttering. He knew the way she would
stretch, the quiet sound of her yawn. He knew all of that, but she barely
knew him at all. Good morning, I love you, she would have said, this time
two years ago. Now she would only say part of it.
She shifted her position in her sleep, moved her hand across his t-shirt
to rest on his shoulder. He breathed out, breathed in; thanked his lucky
stars that she preferred to be here, rather than alone in her house. Finally,
finally, he drifted off to sleep.

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 isobel

There was too much space beside her when she woke. She stretched out
an arm, but was met only with empty sheets. Opened her eyes, saw only an
empty bed.
Panic rose inside her at once. "Draco?"
She got up and moved around the bed to the living room door. Peered
nervously around it, half expecting to see Lucius Malfoy there, waiting for
her. Wand pointed at her heart. But the living room and kitchen nook were
both empty.
"Belly?"
She spun on her heels, hand on her heart.
Draco stood in the doorway of the bathroom, fully dressed; hair
darkened with dampness. Toothbrush in his hand, hanging at his side.
"Oh," she breathed. She hadn't even noticed the sound of the shower
running.
"You alright?"
"Sorry," she said. "I'm jumpy." She tried to push the nervous energy
away; tried to force herself to be calm. "Good morning."
"Morning," he said, mouth curving into a smile. They looked at each
other across the bed, and she swallowed.
Then, the sound came of the front door bursting open. Draco was by
her side in an instant, wand raised as he pushed open the living room door;
nudging Isobel behind him as she scrabbled at her waist for her own wand
-
But in the living room stood Ginny, shaking out an umbrella. She
looked up at Draco and Isobel, standing close together in the doorway of

203
his bedroom, their wands pointed straight at her. Her eyebrows almost rose
into her hairline. "Well, well."
"Fucking hell, Weasley," said Draco. He swung around and stormed
back to the bathroom. Shoved his toothbrush back in its place. "Doesn't
anyone bloody knock anymore?"
His words did not appear to faze Ginny, whose eyes were on Isobel. She
looked positively gleeful. "Isobel Young, you little minx."
Isobel pushed her wand back into her waistband. "What time is it?"
Ginny let out a delighted trill of laughter. "Past noon. Have you been
asleep until now? My goodness -"
"We didn't get to sleep until late -"
"Oh, I bet you didn't."
Draco reappeared at her side, still glaring at Ginny. "What do you want?"
"Pleasure as always, Malfoy," replied Ginny, unfussed. She smoothed
back her long, flame-red hair. "I showed up at Isobel's house as I haven't
heard from her since Friday night, and I was worried about her safety.
When no-one was home, I thought I might pay you a visit, in case you knew
where she was. As it happens -" her smile grew, eyes flicking between the
pair of them - "you know exactly where she is."
"Well, she's safe," said Draco, and Isobel suppressed a smile at the
grumble in his voice.
She walked forward to hug Ginny. Ginny squeezed her arms around her
waist, whispered, "have you forgiven me yet for leaving you alone in a club
at midnight?"
Isobel stepped back, smiling. "Almost."
She tried to remember how much Ginny knew. So much had happened
since she had seen Draco in that nightclub. Her whole perspective of him
had changed; everything she knew about their past relationship had
shifted. Ginny didn't know about Maggie in the hospital, about Lucius
cornering her in the alleyway. She didn't even know about the cottage.

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 She felt suddenly guilty. The past few days had felt like a month, a
tumultuous blur of emotion and being caught up in Draco. They had been
so focused on each other; so swept away in their own little world, that she
hadn't at any point thought to let Ginny know about any of it.
"I wanted to take you to lunch," said Ginny. She gave Draco a hard look.
"If I'm allowed to steal her away for a few hours, that is."
Isobel looked up at him, expecting an absolute refusal; expecting to see
the same fiery glare that he had shot at Blaise the day before. But he was
looking at her. Waiting for her response.
"I think I'll be safe," she told him. "As long as I'm with Ginny, and as
long as we stick to public areas."
He gave a short nod, eyes running down her features. As if Ginny wasn't
even in the room. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
Ginny's eyes flickered between the two of them again, this time with
apprehension. "You two are acting so weird."
"Don't let her out of your sight, Weasley," said Draco, turning his gaze
to her. "Do you understand?"
"No worries, Malfoy," said Ginny, checking her watch. "Should
anything happen to her, you can hold me entirely accountable."
His expression hardened. "Nothing's going to happen to her."
"I'm going to get changed," said Isobel, moving back into the bedroom.
"Draco, maybe you should fill Ginny in on, um. Everything."
Draco looked as though he'd rather do anything else but sit and
converse with Ginny Weasley, but he nodded curtly. Isobel closed the door
of his bedroom, found her things from the day before where she had left
them in a corner. She used cleaning charms to freshen all of her clothing,
and decided to visit home after their lunch for new clothes.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth and combed her fingers
through her curls. When she got back to the kitchen, Draco and Ginny were

205
talking - to her relief - but standing so far apart that they may as well have
been in different rooms. Isobel bit back a smile and went to stand beside
Ginny. Draco's eyes followed her across the room as he said, "So now my
father thinks that I'm marrying Astoria and that Isobel hasn't a clue who I
am."
Ginny looked horrified. She turned to Isobel, looking at her with
newfound respect. "You fought off Lucius Malfoy?"
"Not really," said Isobel. "The necklace did most of the work."
"I knew there was something funny about that necklace."
Isobel shook her head, laughing now. "You're both obsessed with the
necklace," she said, touching her fingertips to the star that still rested in her
coat pocket. "All it does is keep me safe."
"And yet you're not wearing it anymore," said Ginny.
"Only because it's put my mother in hospital."
Ginny squeezed Isobel's arm. "Malfoy told me about that. I'm sorry."
Isobel did not like the way she apologized, as if her mother was too sick
to be helped. "She'll be out of hospital soon," she said, taking the necklace
from her pocket and holding it out in her palm. "I just wish there was a way
to undo the magic." She gave Draco a sidelong glance, knowing that he was
the one who had bought the necklace for her, years before. That it had been
a different thing entirely back then.
"Right," said Ginny, glancing at her watch again. "We need to get going,
or we'll be late."
"Late for what?"
"We're meeting Hermione," said Ginny. "I thought she might be able to
help you with the whole memory situation."
Isobel nodded slowly, understanding. Hermione likely knew far more
about memory loss than the rest of them did, given that she had used a
memory charm on her own parents. Still, it had never occurred to Isobel to

206
ask her for help. Last time she had seen Hermione, Draco had still been a
distant figure who she'd been too afraid to speak to.
She dropped the necklace back into her pocket and turned to Draco,
who leaned against a wall. Arms folded across his chest; grey eyes on her.
"I'll see you later, then."
He gave her a single nod. "Be safe."
"You too," she said, fidgeting with her nails. She wanted to hug him,
but that would feel weird. Forced. They didn't hug. Especially not in front
of Ginny, who was watching them with hawk-like eyes.
But Draco walked with them down the stairs of the building and across
the lobby, where rain beat against the glass door. He brushed the backs of
his fingers against hers, unnoticed by Ginny, then dipped his head to speak
into her ear. "D'you have your wand?"
She turned her face to his; saw the worry in his eyes, a betrayal of his
calm exterior. "Yes," she said. "I'll be fine, I promise."
Ginny pushed open the door, and the sounds of people, traffic and
heavy rain filled the lobby. She opened her umbrella, and Isobel looked
back to Draco, whose eyes were on her, still -
She pulled his fingers into hers, quickly: squeezed his hand. "See you
later."
"See you later," he mumbled, and before Isobel could say or do
anything more, Ginny was grabbing her arm and marching her off through
the rain.
"Sorry to cut the love stuff short," said Ginny, "but you can get back to
it once we've met Hermione."
They huddled together under Ginny's umbrella, weaving in and out of
other pedestrians. Isobel felt her cheeks heat up. "It's not really love stuff."
"What is it, then?"
"It's - I don't know what it is. It's complicated."

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 "We don't have much time," said Ginny. She kept one hand on Isobel's
arm, urging her to move faster. "Hermione's hard to wrangle into dates like
this."
"Ginny -"
"It's the twenty-second of December - it's essentially Christmas - and
she's not free for any longer than her lunch break allows."
"Gin."
Isobel tugged on Ginny's sleeve and Ginny stopped walking, turned to
face her in the middle of the street. "What is it?"
"I just wanted to say thank you," said Isobel, and Ginny pursed her lips;
did little to hide her impatience. "This time last week, I was so. . . So afraid.
I don't know if I would be where I am right now if you hadn't forced me
here. If you hadn't forced me to speak to him -"
Ginny poked her arm. "Don't go soft on me now, Isobel Young."
Isobel felt quite certain that if she tried to express her gratitude
anymore she might begin to cry. So she settled for wrapping her arm
around Ginny's shoulders and snuggling into her side. "Love you, Gin."
She felt Ginny relax. "I love you too, little weirdo." She patted her
cheek. "But if you want any help from Hermione, we need to get going."
Isobel straightened; smiled at her friend. "Okay, let's go."
Ginny had picked out a small, deserted coffee shop to meet Hermione
in, as it was the closest thing she could find to the Ministry, where
Hermione worked. When they walked in, Hermione was already sitting in
a far corner, the back of her thick, curly hair just visible from the doorway.
For ten minutes they caught up, discussing Christmas plans and
Ginny's wedding and everything else there was to gush over, until Ginny
snapped her fingers together and instructed them to talk about the
complexities of memory loss, and nothing more. Hermione explained to
Isobel how she had modified her parents' memories; had swapped around
details of the past in their minds so that they still had a clear narrative of

208
their lives, just a different one to what really had happened. That
modification as such was a reversible way of tampering with someone's
memory; that Obliviate was entirely different.
"Obliviate is more so a way of removing an element of a person's
memory entirely," said Hermione. "That's why recipients of the charm are
left so disoriented. Because a part of their memory has simply vanished,
and nothing is left in its place. Only a blur, where those memories should
be."
Isobel's palms felt clammy. She curled her hands into fists under the
table, watched Ginny say, "That's so dangerous."
Hermione nodded fervently. "Incredibly dangerous, especially given
that it's irreversible. It should be considered an Unforgivable curse, in my
opinion." She fixed her gaze on Isobel. "So, what do you think?"
Isobel's chest felt tight. She spoke weakly. "My mother told me I hit my
head."
Hermione's expression softened. "What do you think?" she repeated,
her voice gentle.
Isobel took a shaky breath. She had avoided the question for so long;
had not wanted to believe that the cause for all of this might be one of the
people she loved most in the world. "I think," she said slowly. "I think the
way you described Obliviate. . . It fits with what my mind has felt like, since
the war."
She clenched her fists tighter, thinking of the days she had spent on the
couch in her living room, trying to remember. Trying to wind back her
mind, only to be met with a blur where there should have been recollections
of experiences and feelings.
"I have a whole storyline with Draco that just doesn't exist in my mind,"
she said. "There's nothing in its place, it's just missing." She looked at
Hermione. "I assume that can't happen just by having hit my head."

209
 Hermione looked back at her, empathy etched deep into her features.
Then she gave a small, sad shake of her head.
Isobel blinked back tears. Finally and very reluctantly, she was
accepting that someone had, at some stage, erased from her memory every
good thing she knew about Draco Malfoy.
"So was it your mum?" asked Ginny, bluntly. "Or Lucius Malfoy?"
"I don't know," said Isobel. She tried to swallow the rising lump in her
throat. "Lucius first saw me in Diagon Alley, one time. Then again outside
Draco's apartment. And both times. . ." She shook her head, remembering
Lucius' confusion the first time he had spoken to her. She had still been
trying to remain out of Draco's sight, while Draco had still been grieving,
and Lucius hadn't understood why. "He didn't seem like he knew my
memories were gone."
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Maybe he's just a good liar."
"Maybe," agreed Isobel. "But if his plan was to Obliviate me again
anyway, I don't see his motivation to lie. Why would he act like he didn't
know that I couldn't remember Draco, only to take my memories again
later?"
Ginny hummed, tapping her fingernails against her coffee cup. "And
your mother?"
She shook her head. "I don't think it was her, either."
Ginny's and Hermione's expressions dropped in synchrony. "No?"
"If my mother had wanted me to forget Draco for good," said Isobel,
"there was so much more she could have done. She could have moved
countries, for one thing. Moved away somewhere where she would be sure
I would never bump into Draco. And I found Draco's letter folded on a shelf
in her wardrobe. No concealment charms, nothing. If she'd wanted me to
forget him, she could have just thrown it away - or at least hidden it a little
better." She shrugged. "If she had taken my memories of Draco, why
wouldn't she destroy the physical evidence of him too?"

210
 Hermione's eyes were wandering over the wall behind Isobel, taking in
her words. Contemplating. But Ginny looked fed up. "I'm sick of this," she
told Isobel. "Let's go to the hospital now, and you'll ask your mother what
happened."
Isobel almost laughed. "You think I haven't tried to ask her?"
But Ginny may as well not have heard her, for she went on: "You're not
five years old, Isobel Young. You need to stand up for yourself, need to stop
pandering to your mother's weird obsession with you and just tell her how
utterly selfish she's being -"
"Hey," interrupted Isobel, temper flaring. "She's not being selfish. She's
ill. She's not in her right mind; hasn't been for months, now -"
"All the better if she's ill," said Ginny, rising from the table. "She'll have
nowhere to run when we ask her what the bloody hell she did to your brain."
Isobel glared up at Ginny from her seat. "She didn't do anything -"
"Fine," said Ginny, "if you want me to rephrase, we'll ask her what the
bloody hell happened to your brain. Happy?"
Hermione reached up a hand; tugged at Ginny's jumper. "Sit down,
Gin," she said quietly.
But Ginny remained standing. "I want to go to the hospital," she said,
adamantly. "I want to ask Isobel's mother what she did, because clearly
we're not going to find the answer any other way -"
"It wasn't her," said Isobel.
Ginny threw up her hands. "Who was it, then?"
Tears had filled Isobel's eyes now. "I've tried asking her," she said. "But
every time she's dodged the question. And I can't push too hard if I don't
want her to realize I've spoken to Draco." She wiped a sleeve across her
eyes. "I don't want to bother her while she's sick, anyway."
A few moments passed in silence, then Ginny sat down again. Folded
her arms across her chest. "Sorry for getting heated," she muttered.

211
 Isobel raised a shoulder. She knew her mother hated the Malfoys; knew
that she lived in perpetual fear of something terrible happening to Isobel.
But still she could not believe that her mother hated Draco enough to
banish him from her memories.
She took a breath. "Anyone have any other ideas?" she asked. "I'm all
out."
But Ginny and Hermione solemnly shook their heads. For the rest of
Hermione's break they sat there, racking their brains, but could think of
nothing.
Ginny slid a hand into hers as they Apparated back to Isobel's
countryside house; stayed close behind her all through the house to pick up
clothes. Gripped her arm as they walked through Diagon Alley and back to
Draco's apartment. All on his command.
Isobel wanted desperately to know who had done this to her; who hated
the idea of she and Draco being together enough to take whole years from
her memory. But all the way back to his apartment, one horrible thought
stayed with her.
All they had achieved today was confirm that she had been Obliviated.
But Obliviation was irreversible.
Which meant that unless there was a vial of her memories lying around
somewhere on this earth - and she really, truly doubted that there was -
She was never getting her memories of Draco back.

212
 twenty-eight

isobel

Ginny waved an Alohamora at the door of the building and left Isobel
in the lobby. Isobel walked slowly up the stairs, the weight of the day's
progress heavy on her heart.
By the time she reached Draco's apartment, she was already crying.
The weight of five days' worth of heightened emotion had finally built up;
was finally taking over and spilling out, and she could no longer push it away.
Could not, for a minute more, pretend that she wasn't gasping for air in a world
that seemed so determined to drown her.
For so long now, she had disregarded the blur that had taken the place
of her memories of Draco. Had pretended it wasn't reality; had moved
forward and ignored it all under the assumption that it wouldn't be her
permanent future. But now she had, in a matter of minutes, confirmed that
that was exactly what it was - that there were years of her life she was never
getting back, ever - and she was wiping tears from her cheeks and
stumbling in through Draco's door, feeling that she couldn't
fucking breathe -

213
 draco

He had seen her coming from his window: had watched her walk back
down the street, Ginny Weasley close by her side. The same window from
which he could see the street corner where she had stood for weeks,
suspicious and untrusting; looking at him and trying to fit together the
puzzle pieces of her own mind. The window where a tiny white snowdrop
lay, untouched, on the sill. He had not yet told her that it was all he had left
from their life before.
Before. . . everything. Before this. Whatever this was.
Belly knocked and pushed open the door at the same time. He turned
to her, and he realized she was crying. He looked into her tear-streaked
face, and within seconds was by her; taking her into his arms and holding
her tightly to his chest.
"I don't -" she said, pressing her forehead into his chest and choking
out sobs - "I can't -"
He held her closer, threaded one hand into her hair. Wondered if she
could feel his heart, thudding in his chest. Wanted desperately to know
what it was that had upset her so, who it was; but forced himself to remain
silent.
Belly slid her arms around his middle, hugging him back. "I'm sorry,"
she said, voice muffled by his jumper.
"Shut up," mumbled Draco.
He slid his hands around to the backs of her thighs, picked her up, and
carried her to the couch. Dropped onto it, with her.
"Sorry," she repeated, pushing hair from her face. "Sorry - I'm crying
again - it's just a lot -" She paused; red-cheeked, puffy-eyed - then lifted a
hand and ran her fingers along his jawline. Despite her tears, her lips tilted
up into a half-smile. "Draco, you look furious."

214
 He could not make himself laugh. "I just want to know if there is
someone I need to murder."
"No, no one." She looked at him, and her eyebrows knit together, and
tears welled in her eyes again as she choked out, "I don't deserve you."
He laughed then, at that. He couldn't not laugh. How ridiculous it was
for her to say she didn't deserve him.
He looked at her: her dark eyes, reddened from crying, the tears caught
between her eyelashes; the wetness on her freckled cheeks. The way she sat
facing him, legs curled underneath her. How fucking insane it was, he
thought, that he was lucky enough to have had her brought back to him, to
have her curled up here in his arms, and that she didn't think she deserved
it.
She brushed away tears. He saw her bite on her cheek, as if trying to
figure out how to phrase the information. Then she said, carefully,
"Hermione explained the difference between memory charms and
Obliviation to me. She explained what Obliviation feels like, when you're
on the receiving end of the charm." She paused, her eyes flicking between
his. "We confirmed that's what happened to me."
"No," he said. "No, that can't be right -"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I think I always knew it, deep down. I was just -
I don't know. Ignoring it all. I was in denial."
"How can you know for sure?"
"Because of the way it feels, it -" She sighed. "There are gaps in my
memory - big blurs that I've never understood. That's where you should be.
That's where you were, for three or four years."
Draco's throat was dry. "But Obliviate is irreversible."
"Yes." Her tears were gone now: her eyes clearer, and fully focused on
him. "So what we had in school," she said softly, "I'll never remember that."

215
 Draco was shaking his head. It was more than just what they had in
school. That had been his entire world. It still was. "But if your memories
were extracted they can be restored -"
"But Draco," she said. "They weren't extracted. We said it ourselves.
What are the chances that whoever took my memories extracted them
first?"
He nodded, feeling helpless. "Slim."
"So this is it," she said. "This is how it's going to be, always."
For the past week, Belly had been the one more preoccupied with
getting her memories back than he was. It made sense: for days he had been
reeling with the revelation that the girl he had loved and lost was here, alive
and present, while she had been confronted with a stranger who she once
had loved but had forgotten all about. He had been more concerned with
talking to her, basking in her presence, than worrying about her memories
all too much, but still -
To know that the Isobel he had known in school, the one who had
changed his entire world within a few short years, was never coming back -
It was pretty fucking painful.
"I'm sorry," said Belly.
"For what?"
"Just - I'm sorry that I'm not the Isobel that you knew. I don't even
really know her, myself."
Draco placed the back of his hand on his thigh and splayed his fingers.
Moments later, Belly's hand; much smaller than his, all thin fingers and
broken nails; followed. She placed her palm on his, and they rested there.
Hand to hand; her fingers stretched across his.
"It doesn't matter to me," he said. "What you know of me is a small
price to pay for having you back. For knowing you're alive and healthy." He
dropped his eyes to their hands. "A price, yes. But one I would pay in a
heartbeat. Over and over."

216
 When he looked back at her, her eyes were on his. "Really?"
"Really."
His throat felt dry, his head light, and for all he knew, they could be the
only two people in the world right now. Here on his couch, in this tiny
apartment.
"I want to watch your memories," she said. "Please."
"Yeah," he said, distractedly. "Of course you can watch them."
"Really?"
"Yeah," he said again. "Whenever we can find a Pensieve."
She might hate him after it: he knew that. Might watch Draco stand at
the top of the Astronomy Tower, pointing his wand at Albus Dumbledore's
heart, and decide she never wanted to see him again.
He didn't want her to watch them. And he knew that even if she
watched them, anyone might still erase her memories -
But still. If she wanted to see his memories, then she would see them.
"So what next?" he asked her. "Do you have any other ideas?"
Belly was quiet for a long while. "Yes, actually," she said finally. There
was a small, almost imperceptible shake in her voice. "I do." She looked
back at him. "I'm going to ask my mother who took my memories," she said.
"And I won't leave the hospital until I get the answer."

isobel

Isobel had always disliked hospitals, and her recurring visits to St.
Mungo's were making the feeling stronger. The whole place was
aggressively sterile; walls polished and gleaming, the overpowering smell
of cleanliness heavy in every room and hallway.
But Draco walked by her side this time, and that made things ever so
slightly more tolerable.

217
 They walked through the hallways, up flights of stairs to her mother's
private ward; Isobel with a bouquet of pink flowers in her arms. It was the
first time she had been out with Draco in a wizarding area, and the contrast
to the muggle streets of London was tangible. She immediately noticed the
recognition that registered in the faces of visitors, patients and the hospital
staff as Draco passed them. The way their gazes lingered as he walked down
the corridor. The way their eyes moved to her, next.
She was less invisible when she was with Draco. That was for sure.
When they reached her mother's ward, she turned to him. "I think you
should stay out here," she said. "For a while, at least. I'll see how it goes."
"Alright," he said, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "Call me if you
need me."
Isobel pushed open the ward door. She didn't want her mother to see
him; felt certain Maggie would freak out if she did. But she also was not
sure she had the courage to ask by herself.
Her mother was very pale. Each time Isobel saw her, between visits,
she was momentarily taken aback by how sickly she had physically become:
how very weak she appeared.
She looked up as the door opened, and Isobel breathed a sigh of
apprehension. She was awake. That meant there was no excuse not to ask
her.
She gave Draco a final look. He leant against the wall, arms folded.
Expressionless as ever: his eyes on her. He couldn't say anything, now, with
the door open. But he gave her a nod, and she understood. She could do
this. She had to.
She stepped into the ward, and Maggie smiled. "I've missed you,
darling."
"I missed you too," said Isobel. She propped open the door with the
doorstop. "Mind if I leave this open? It's stuffy in here."
"Are those flowers for me?"

218
 Isobel moved away from the door, towards her mother's bed. In the
brink of her vision, Draco's grey eyes disappeared from view.
"Of course they're for you." The flowers that were already on Maggie's
bedside table were withering. Isobel took the vase and emptied them into
the bin; arranged the new bouquet in their place. "How have you been
feeling?"
"Good," said Maggie. "Better."
Isobel shrugged off her coat. She wasn't sure that she believed that. Her
mother didn't look any better. And she was still in a private ward.
"Sit down," said Maggie. "What have you been doing, at home? Have
you been lonely?"
Isobel had only been in her own house for one night since she had
found Maggie in the hallway. And then she had slept on the couch; not even
in her own bed. "Yes," she said, sinking into the wooden seat beside
Maggie's bed. "Of course."
She noticed that Maggie showed no empathy for these words. If
anything, her expression brightened. "Is the house quiet, without me?"
Isobel looked away. "Yes."
"Oh dear," said Maggie. "Well, it's a good thing I'll be home, soon."
Isobel nodded. "That's true."
"Is something wrong?"
"No," she said. "No, nothing."
"Then why are you so quiet?" Maggie's dark eyebrows knit together.
"Did something happen?"
"Nothing, I just -" Isobel clasped her hands together. She took a breath.
"A few days ago, you said some things while you were asleep."
She did not expect that her mother's face could get any paler. But at
those words, it did, and Isobel's heart skipped at the change in her
expression. The confirmation that she knew more than she was letting on.

219
 "I'm sure I talk in my sleep all the time," said Maggie. "I'm sure I spout
complete nonsense."
"Well," said Isobel slowly, watching her mother. "You said something
about Lucius Malfoy."
Maggie dropped eye contact at once. "As I said, none of it means
anything."
"Don't you want to know what you said?"
"No." Maggie shook her head adamantly. "No - none of it means
anything."
"But don't you even want to hear -"
"I always speak in my sleep. Your father slept beside me for years and
used to tell me about it all the time." Maggie looked back at Isobel. "He used
to do it too, sometimes. It was funny."
Isobel felt frustration build inside of her. Her mother was purposely
steering the conversation away; was knowingly changing the topic to
something she was more comfortable speaking about. She glared at her
own palms, then said, "I want to know about Draco Malfoy."
There was a long, weighted pause. Isobel looked at the open door of the
ward. Draco stood right around the corner, surely listening to their every
word. And she feared what her mother might say next, but she had to know.
"Mum," she said. "I want to know. You've kept me in the dark for long
enough."
"There's nothing to know," said Maggie.
"That's not true."
"Nothing you need to know, now -"
"That's not true," repeated Isobel. "There's so much to know. So much
that doesn't exist in my mind anymore - and you know why I can't
remember any of it, and you won't tell me -"
"You hit your head."

220
 "No, I didn't." She felt hot, angry tears spill over onto her cheeks. "I
didn't forget everything I knew about him simply by falling and hitting my
head. Someone took my memories. They took them from me and now I
have nothing left of him."
For a few moments, the room was silent again. Isobel looked up, half-
surprised; fully having expected Maggie to come out with another
nonsensical, unfounded response. But Maggie looked just as tearful as her
daughter. "I'm afraid if I tell you," she said, "you're going to go and find the
boy. You're going to speak to him. And that would put you in so much
danger. Again."
Isobel felt sick; her insides riddled with guilt.
She had two options. Either she could walk to the corridor, take Draco's
hand and pull him in - let her mother see who he was, who he really was -
so very different to everything they had come to believe about him and his
family -
Or she could lie. Promise to never speak to Draco, if her mother told
her the truth.
She had just found a crack, with her mother. Had reached a fissure she
had never managed to before; a tiny moment of opening up. A glimpse of
hope that she never had seen before, and she was quite certain that if she
told her mother the truth now - told her that she had betrayed her trust;
had not only spoken to Draco but had hugged him, held him, slept in his
bed - if he walked in now and her mother caught sight of his pale skin, white
hair; so like his father's, the Dark Mark peeking out from his sleeve -
It would be too overwhelming for Maggie.
No, Isobel needed to wait. Even though it made her stomach turn, to
lie like this -
She needed to know what had happened. She glanced at the doorway,
then back at her mother. "I won't speak to him," she said. "I never will."

221
 Maggie looked back at her; the uncertainty distinct in her pallid face.
"How can I know?"
"I have no reason to," said Isobel. "He's a Death Eater."
"Yes," said Maggie. "And his kind ruined everything. They killed your
father. They almost killed you. I don't know how you ever loved him in the
first place."
Isobel ignored the thundering of her heart in her chest, and reached for
her mother's hand. "Will you tell me what happened, now?" she asked.
"Please?"
Maggie Young sighed. She closed her fingers around her daughter's
palm.
And finally - finally - she told Isobel what had happened after the
Battle of Hogwarts.
On the sixth of May in 1998, the day after the Battle of Hogwarts,
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy visited the Youngs' old house in Surrey.
Because Isobel Young had been attacked in the Battle by Alecto Carrow,
and Lucius and Narcissa wanted their suspicions confirmed.
Draco would recover, thought Narcissa. He was shut in his room now,
blinds down and pillows damp with tears, but he would make it through
this.
That was what Narcissa wanted. She wanted Draco to recover; to move
on from Isobel Young. She wanted him to be happy and healthy in a family
that could give him that.
Lucius, on the other hand, wanted his son back. His old son, the son
that had looked up to him and followed in his footsteps wherever he went,
and sworn his loyalty to the family as if it were the most important thing in
the world. Which it should have been. He wanted back the son that wore
the Malfoy name like a badge.
He had always despised Isobel Young. Could have killed her himself, if
Alecto Carrow hadn't beaten him to it. He had hated the girl that had stolen

222
away Draco's attention; had stolen the devotion that had once existed so
very strongly for their family and no one else. He wanted her out of Draco's
life. Out of the Malfoys' world. For good.
And Narcissa maintained that Isobel was dead; that she had seen a
green light fly out of Alecto's wand at Isobel's heart; and Draco had bent
over her; held her face in his hands. But Lucius wanted to be sure.
Because the Malfoy reputation was in fucking tatters. Every possible
thing had gone wrong, and the Malfoys had gone from powerful to scorned
in a matter of minutes -
And there was no way of fixing that as long as Isobel Young was alive.
And he was seething; livid; because for all he knew the Wizarding guards
were ready to whisk him away to Azkaban at any moment, and the only heir
to his family name was torn up over some blood-traitor Gryffindor girl.
He hadn't knocked: had stepped into the Young house as if it were a
public building. Narcissa, nervous and frantic, followed on his heels.
Maggie Young had screamed - had ran into the hallway with her wand
raised, and Lucius had laughed at her; mocked her; had said, Put it away,
woman, before you harm yourself, too. He had pushed past her: it wasn't
her, that he was interested in -
Isobel Young lay on the couch of her living room, unconscious. A tiny,
angry burn in the shape of a star rested on her throat: the only trace of the
magic that had saved her.
The necklace that Draco had given her, and her mother had enchanted
lay on the coffee table: a tiny heap of silver.
And after twenty minutes of shouting and screaming, of derision and
distrust, Maggie Young and Lucius Malfoy had come to the same
conclusion.
They didn't want Isobel and Draco anywhere near one other. They were
bad for each other. They came from separate worlds, and their being
together only caused more harm than good.

223
 "You are going to remove her memories of Draco," Lucius had snarled,
deathly close to Maggie's face, "And tell everyone you know that she's dead.
And you're going to move out of this country to somewhere where you'll
never be found - where she'll never bump into our son, ever. Do you
understand?"
Tears leaked from Maggie's eyes and down her cheeks, but she was
quiet. Saying nothing; her head spinning with what Lucius was suggesting.
A life of safety, for Isobel. A life away from Death Eaters, from all of the
people that had ever hurt their family. A life where the two of them could
live together peacefully, their safety undisturbed.
"Lucius," said Narcissa, "We can't. I won't take Draco's memories from
him. I won't, we can't do that -"
"We won't take Draco's memories," said Lucius. "He will stay in the
Wizarding World, with us, and people will inevitably ask him about the girl.
We would never get away with that." His eyes fell to Isobel, still on the
couch. "He'll get over her," he said. "Soon enough."
Maggie was leaning over her daughter, looking worried. She was a good
witch. She had worked in St. Mungo's for two decades, knew all about
memory spells and could execute one perfectly.
She just knew that if she did, Isobel might never forgive her.
Isobel as she was now, lying on the couch; her memory intact and her
heart belonging to Draco Malfoy - would be furious at Maggie if she knew
what was currently happening.
But surely, thought Maggie. . . Surely what she didn't know - didn't
know anymore - couldn't hurt her.
"But Lucius," Narcissa had said, tears bright in her eyes. "They're going
to comb through all of our memories, when we're taken to trial. That's how
it always goes - they're going to see all of this, are going to count it against
us -"

224
 An unsettling smile had crept over Lucius' face. He had undergone
enough trials at the Ministry to know how the proceedings went. Knew that
a case like this, now that the Dark Lord was gone, was serious enough that
the Ministry were likely to extract and sift through his memories like
documents. That they needed all information they could get in order to find
and convict escaped Death Eaters; that if he wanted any chance of avoiding
imprisonment in Azkaban, he needed as clean a slate as possible -
"That's why Maggie isn't just going to wipe her daughter's memory,"
said Lucius. "She's going to wipe ours, too."
Narcissa's mouth had pursed into a fine line as she slowly understood:
if she and Lucius never knew they had spoken to Maggie, if there was no
memory of this plan for the Ministry to access, it couldn't be counted
against them. And what was more - she wouldn't be able to feel guilty about
any part of this plan, if she couldn't remember it.
"So I have to remember?" asked Maggie. "I'm the only one that will
remember this conversation?"
"Yes," said Lucius. His grey eyes narrowed, menacing. "And if you care
about the safety of your daughter at all, you won't mention a word of it to
her, ever. Do you understand?"
Maggie nodded. Of course she cared about the safety of her daughter.
It was the thing she cared about most.
And so, as Isobel Young was lying unconscious on the couch, Maggie
vanished every good memory her daughter had of Draco Malfoy. In ten
minutes more, she had packed everything they owned into boxes with mere
waves of her wand. Then she turned to Lucius and Narcissa, and
used Obliviate on them, too.
Not one memory was extracted first. Not one memory could ever be
restored.

225
 On the sixth of May in 1998, the day after the Battle of Hogwarts,
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy opened their eyes, and found themselves in the
Youngs' old house in Surrey.
They had absolutely no recollection of how they got there.

226
 twenty-nine

isobel

When Maggie stopped speaking, Isobel was quiet for a long time. She
stared out at the doorway, letting her mother's words sink in.
Her mother had known all of this. For the year they had lived in
isolation in the countryside house, she had known. And she had lied, every
day. Had acted like nothing was wrong. Nothing was different.
Had acted like she hadn't erased years from her own daughter's mind.
Without looking back at her mother, Isobel stood. She walked to the
door, and turned the corner to see Draco. His eyes met hers at once, and
she saw the pain in them, and her anger intensified.
She took his hand and pulled him into the ward. Without hesitation;
without saying a single word, he followed.
Maggie was sitting up in her bed, wringing her hands. When she saw
Draco, her expression flooded with fear. "Isobel," she croaked, "Isobel, you
said you wouldn't -"
Isobel was so filled with rage that her entire body felt tense, but she
dropped Draco's hand and walked to the foot of Maggie's bed.
"I hate you," she said to her mother. She felt a lump rise in her throat
and tried to swallow it down; was so sick of crying all the time - "I hate you,
and I hate that you tried to control my life so that it would make yours
better. You have ruined so much for me."

227
 Maggie was crying now, too, and Isobel ignored the guilt that pressed
at her heart; how dare her mother play with her life as if she were a puppet
on strings -
"You can't be together," said Maggie, her eyes darting between Isobel
and Draco. "It's too dangerous, Isobel - his father is going to find you -"
"He already found me," said Isobel, and Maggie's face paled once more.
"He found me, and he threatened me, but I'm dealing with that on my own
because that's what normal people do. Normal people don't lock up their
daughters - don't shut themselves off from the world -"
The lump in her throat had risen so much that it was difficult to speak.
She felt tears, hot on her cheeks, but did not bother to hide her face or brush
them away. Felt she could do nothing but glare at her mother, who was
squinting up through her own tears:
"Lucius is an evil man," said Maggie. "He will do - anything - to get his
way -"
"So let him try!" said Isobel desperately. "Leave him to it, let me fight
for myself. There were different ways to help me than - than altering my
whole mind -"
She broke off. Felt the betrayal like a dagger, twisting in her gut. "I gave
you so many chances," she said. "I made so many excuses for you. I
overlooked all of the evidence that pointed towards it having been you that
took my memory, because I didn't think you would do that to me. I didn't
think you could."
"I just wanted to protect you," said Maggie, her voice barely more than
a whisper, "I love you."
"That," said Isobel, "was not protecting me. That was trying to change
who I am."
From far away, she felt Draco's fingers at her elbow, on the sleeve of
her jumper. Felt him step closer, saw, in the brink of her vision, his head of
white-blond hair -

228
 She saw Maggie's eyes move to Draco. Saw the shift of fear in her
expression.
And then he spoke. "I understand why you did what you did, Maggie,"
he said. "I understand loving a person so much that you will do anything to
keep them safe." Isobel turned to him, and saw that his eyes were on her,
running down the features of her face as he formulated his sentence. "That
- sometimes - you just want to hold onto them so tightly and never let them
go, because you fear that something terrible might happen if you do."
His gaze dropped to Maggie. "I've felt that way about your daughter for
four years now. Even in the time that I believed I would never see her again
- she was the person I loved most. She's the person I love the most now,
still, and I'm sorry that she is that person for both of us."
Isobel took a shaky breath, but said nothing. Could not tear her eyes
from him, and he kept speaking:
"I'm not sure that this will be of any consolation to you at this moment,"
he said to Maggie, "but I will go to any length to protect her from anyone
who tries to harm her. Including my father." His eyes met Isobel's. He
brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of a single knuckle, right at the
scar on her cheekbone. "If she allows me to, that is."
A heavy silence settled on the hospital room. Maggie stared up at
Draco, fearful and mistrusting. She appeared to be picking through his
words, trying to find a flaw in them. But if she found something she didn't
like, she didn't say it.
Isobel felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. "Do you understand now,
Mum?" she asked. "He wants the same things as you. We're on the same
side."
Maggie shook her head. "No," she said, hoarsely. "He's a Malfoy. You'll
never be on the same side."
"Mum -"

229
 "It doesn't matter how much you care for each other," said Maggie, "you
don't live in a world that allows you to be together. It's too dangerous."
Isobel shook her head, incredulous. She stalked to the chair where her
coat lay, shoved her hand into its front pocket and dug out her star
necklace. "Is there a way to remove the magic from this?" she asked,
holding it out in her palm. "I want it gone." She blinked back tears. "The
magic, the enchantment you put on the necklace. I don't want it there
anymore."
"I can't take back the spell," said Maggie. "I told you, I tied my life to
that necklace. The magic will exist in it until I. . . As long as I. . ."
She trailed off, and Isobel understood. When Maggie died, one day, the
necklace would be back to normal. Until then, it would protect her from
anyone who tried to attack her.
"You should be wearing it," said Maggie. "Please, put it back on -"
"I'm not going to tell you again," said Isobel, her voice cold. "I don't
want your protection. I don't want you controlling my life like you do. I
never asked for any of that."
She dropped the necklace onto the bedside table, beside the pink
flowers she had arranged only an hour before. Then, with her coat in her
arms, she turned her back on Maggie.
She walked out of the room, her mother's quiet cries echoing behind
her.
When she reached the end of the corridor, she turned, expecting to see
Draco behind her. But he was out of sight, still in the ward.
She shut her eyes and curled her hands so tightly into fists that her nails
dug into her palms. She understood that she and Draco hadn't had an easy
relationship; was well aware that they existed on opposing sides of a war.
But it blew her mind that adults persistently thought they knew what the
best thing was for them. Continuously pried and intervened and played

230
with their lives, trying to create the version they liked most. Not giving a
damn, apparently, about what Isobel or Draco wanted for themselves.
When she opened her eyes again, Draco was leaving the ward. Walking
towards her, his own coat slung over a shoulder. When he reached her, he
stopped. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," she said, turning. She feared that if she said anymore than
that, she might begin to cry again - and she had lost count of the amount of
times she had cried that day. "You?"
"I'm angry at my parents," mused Draco, so casually that they might be
discussing the weather. "But not surprised. They've interfered with my life
for as long as I can remember." He held the door of the stairway open for
her. "But I hate that they treated you the same way."
"It was more so your father, by the sounds of it."
"No," he said. "My mother allowed it all to happen. She could have put
her foot down and said no. Tried to stop him. But it didn't sound like she
was opposed to your memories being taken at all."
Isobel looked back at him. Saw a crease between his eyebrows; a
betrayal of his calm exterior, and her chest tightened with anger. "My
mother was the one who allowed it," she said. "She could have just - I don't
know. Told your dad to leave us alone. Shut the door in his face."
"No," said Draco, shaking his head. "After the war, my father was
desperate. Our family's status had been ruined. I fear to think what he
would have done if your mother had refused him."
"But she didn't even try to refuse him," said Isobel. "She didn't fight
back. She wanted my memories gone."
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and crossed the hospital lobby
together. The eyes that followed them only further kindled the flame of
anger she felt. She glared back at the people around the lobby. Wanted to
scream that it wasn't any of their business. That none of them would
understand, anyway.

231
 Draco pushed open the front door of the hospital, and they stepped out
into the cold. "She did it because she loves you," he said. She looked up,
surprised. Saw only the hard lines of his face, looking down at the ground
ahead as they walked. "I know you don't want to hear that. But everything
she did was to keep you safe. Because she loves you, and she's afraid to lose
you."
"I understand her intention," said Isobel, nettled. "But taking my
memories of you wasn't the solution to keeping me safe."
"Wasn't it, though?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets. "She
was trying to erase from your life the thing that put you in the most danger."
"I don't understand why you're defending her," said Isobel - and she
wasn't annoyed, merely perplexed. "She ruined everything for you, as well."
"I know," he said. "But she took your memories and moved out of your
house less than a day after you were almost killed. I'm not saying it was
right. I'm just saying she did it because she'd almost lost you, and she was
afraid to lose you again."
Red and green Christmas lights dotted the street. They moved over
Draco's fair hair as they walked, and Isobel was reminded of the night in
the club; the lights dancing over his disbelieving expression when he saw
her.
"My parents, on the other hand," he said, "didn't do any of it out of
concern for my safety. They did it out of concern for their reputation."
"Hence your almost-engagement to Astoria," said Isobel.
She watched Draco's breath fog up in the cold air. "Yes," he said, and
the crease between his eyebrows reappeared. "Hence why they're rushing
all of that."
They lapsed into silence for a while. Isobel thought about Lucius
Malfoy; remembered the malice he had seen in his eyes. The utter lack of
empathy, his only care for his status. His reputation. Her mother cared too
much for her: perhaps Draco's father cared too little for him.

232
 "What were you talking to my mother about?" she asked. "When I left
the ward. Did she say anything more?"
Draco reached into the back pocket of his trousers. He pulled out the
necklace, and held it out. "She asked me to give this back to you."
His hands were much larger than Isobel's, and in his palm, the chain
was tiny. The silver star glinted up at them; the engravings of Isobel's
initials barely visible under the streetlights.
Isobel opened her mouth to say something disdainful, but he was
already shoving it back into his pocket. "I think it might be safer with me,
for now" he said, and she heard his amusement, light in his voice. "I fear
you might throw it away in a fit of rage."
"That's the memory I want to see first," she said, looking up at him.
"The Ministry Christmas party."
"That seems like a good place to start."
For the rest of the journey back to his apartment, they walked in
silence. And Isobel found that her mind was spinning not with thoughts of
her mother's betrayal, but with thoughts of Draco. Of the necklace that he
had bought for her, long before they had even started dating. Her own star.
As they passed the corner shop where they had bought wine the night
before, Isobel paused. "Can we go in? I need to get something."
They walked towards the shop, which was empty but for the young
cashier. She turned to Draco in the shop's doorway. "Actually, will you wait
outside?" she asked. "It's a surprise."

When she left the shop, tucking a thin plastic bag under her coat, he
was eyeing her suspiciously. She smiled up at him; blinked innocently.
"What?"
"Spit it out, then," he said. "What's the surprise?"

233
 She shrugged, turned on her heel, and they ambled down the street
towards his apartment. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."
Back in his apartment, he flicked on the kettle. She collapsed onto his
bed, pushing all thoughts of her mother as far from her mind as she possibly
could. She closed her eyes and spread her limbs over his bed, then sat up
as she heard him approach his room.
She could not suppress her smile as she looked up at him. "I got you a
gift."
As she stood, she pulled the bag from her coat. His fingers brushed
against her hands as he took it; his eyes on hers.
The bag was filled with small, hard, green plastic stars. "Glow in the
dark stars," she said, no longer able to contain her excitement. "So you can
have your own stars, too. You may take note that you now have many of
your own stars, not just one. So I believe I have won the game."
He was still looking at her. His gaze lazy; a smile pulling at the corner
of his mouth. She wasn't sure if he had even yet glanced at the plastic stars
in his hands. "What's the prize?"
She felt nerves bubble within her. She wasn't sure how to answer that,
so said, "I know we could have just magicked the ceiling to look like the sky,
like in the Great Hall. But these are your own stars."
She reached forward; tore open the packet that still lay in his hands.
"They have these sticky things on the backs," she said quietly. Aware of his
eyes, still following her movements. "And you peel them off and stick them
to the ceiling."
"And they're for here?" he asked. "For this room?"
She nodded. "Or wherever you want them."
"Here is good," he said, taking a handful of stars. "But I don't see why
we should restrict ourselves to the ceiling."

234
 She watched as he stuck a plastic star to the wall, right beside the
doorway. Then another larger star, a foot higher than that. Then another,
over beside the wardrobe.
She joined him, smiling. Together, they covered the opposite wall in
green stars. She stuck a few to the doors of his wardrobe, and another few
to the windows.
Then he hoisted her onto his shoulders. She stuck the rest to the ceiling,
with one hand nervously threaded into his hair, to steady herself.
When they were all out of stars, he crouched to let her down, and they
stepped back to survey their work.
Isobel reached over to the light switch, and flicked it off. The glow of
the stars dimly lit the room, shining from every surface; turning the space
an eerie, blue-green.
She saw Draco's shadow in the dim light; watched him tilt his head back
as he surveyed the stars. She reached towards him, brushed the backs of
her fingers against his hand, and hoped that he understood.
It was no longer dark. There was no longer a need for him to sleep with
the lights on.

235
 thirty

draco

His room was transformed. Stars shone from the ceiling, the wardrobe,
the walls; glowing green and dim.
Belly’s silhouette; her curly hair, faced him in their centre. Awaiting his
response.
Draco had spent long months lying in this room, feeling nothing but
apathy. Utter unwillingness to do anything or go anywhere, little care for
anything or anyone. Staring at the blank walls and seeing nothing but grey.
Having her here, with him, made him feel like he had energy again. Like he
could actually deal with life, again. Maybe even enjoy it.
And his breath was catching; a thousand words were hitching on the
tip of his tongue, because he didn’t know how to express how unbelievable
it was that she was here, in front of him; that they had just stuck plastic
stars to his walls together. . . It was astonishing. She was astonishing.
Belly drew her wand from her waistband and waved it at the stars. In
unison, their glow intensified, the room became lighter, and he could now
make out her features, tinged green; her dark eyes blinking up at him. “Is
that better?”
“Yes,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Thank you. This is good.”
And then her fingers were on his again; the lightest brush, the faintest
touch of skin. One that he had felt a thousand times before, but it was

236
enough to set all his nerve endings on edge. “Thank you,” he said, again, his
voice low.
He stepped closer. Heard her take a shaky breath, but she too was
moving closer, and her eyes darted to his lips and he knew – he knew that
the world did not want them to be together and all hell might break loose if
they resisted that, but all he could see was her; all he could feel was her
fingers curling into his –
She took another step closer. And then his front door burst open.
He pushed Belly away, out of sight, into a corner by the head of his bed.
Then he ripped open his bedroom door.
His gut tightened with anger as he caught sight of Astoria walking in.
“Astoria,” he said, through gritted teeth. In the brink of his vision, he
saw Belly step closer. He gave her the slightest, most imperceptible shake
of his head that he could manage.
“Draco,” Astoria replied haughtily. “I know we’ll see one another at
Christmas, but I would rather sort it out now.” She combed her dark hair
behind her shoulders. “Without our families watching.”
Draco blinked. “Sort what out?”
Astoria stared at him. “Everything,” she said, heatedly. “This entire
mess. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else, since our argument at
the bar.”
“I – fuck.” Draco closed his eyes, head reeling. He knew he owed her an
explanation, but Belly was standing feet away from him – feet away
from Astoria, and all he could think about was getting Astoria out of his
apartment and away from them.
He opened his eyes. “What’s today’s date?”
“The twenty-second,” said Astoria. “My family is visiting yours for
Christmas dinner on Saturday. Heavens, Draco, you need to get it together –“
“Let’s just wait until Christmas,” said Draco. “Alright, Astoria? Our
families will help us figure it out.”

237
 “They’re not our therapists,” spat Astoria. She took another step
towards him; stopped by his couch. Draco leant against the doorframe and
looked steadily back at her. Prayed that she wouldn’t come any closer.
“We’re adults, Draco,” she said. “We have to figure this out on our own.
They’ve sorted out every other element of this marriage for us; we have to
take some responsibility ourselves.”
“What happened to hating arranged marriage?”
“That’s the point,” she said. “Our parents are literally determining the
course of our lives, and as we don’t have much say in it, I’d prefer we figure
out how to bloody communicate with each other on our own.”
Draco glanced over his shoulder at Belly – saw her widened eyes,
urging him to tell her. But Astoria would see his parents on Saturday, and
he could not risk them finding out that he knew Belly was alive.
“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he said gruffly. “Also, I’d
really, really appreciate it if you knocked, the next time you decide to show
up unannounced.”
“Why?” asked Astoria, narrowing her eyes. “Am I interrupting
something?”
“No, but –“
She nodded behind him, at his bedroom. “Have you got a girl in there,
or something?”
“Astoria,” he said coolly, “who would I possibly have in my bedroom?”
She returned his gaze with a steely glare. “Some muggle girl, I don’t
know. I don’t even care anymore.” She crossed her arms. “I never expected
us to have anything more than a platonic relationship but I hoped that that
would be enough for you. And if it’s not, I’d like you to tell me now so that
I can save myself the embarrassment.”
“For God’s sake –“
“Answer me truthfully,” she said. “Do you plan to marry me or not?”
“I don’t have time for this right now.”

238
 “You never have time for this!” said Astoria, raising her voice. Her eyes
filled with tears, and Draco saw Belly take yet another step closer –
“When are you ever going to pay attention to anyone but yourself?”
asked Astoria. “When are you ever going to face reality and realise who you
are, and who your family is and the duty you have –“
She broke off, taking a shuddering breath. Draco saw the tears on her
cheeks, and his gut twisted with guilt. But it was not enough for him to tell
her the truth. So he kept his mouth shut, and said nothing.
Astoria shook her head in disbelief. She stormed to his front door, flung
it open. “You never make any effort,” she told him, her voice icy, “and I
don’t want to bloody marry you either.”
She left, slamming the door behind her. Draco heard her footsteps
stomping away, all the way down the stairs.

isobel

The moment the door slammed, Isobel ran to the window. She just
wanted to see Astoria. If she wasn't allowed to talk to her.
The front door of the apartment building opened with a bang, and
Astoria stormed out; stalked off through the frosty weather.
Then she stopped, whipped her head back to look up at Draco's
apartment; long hair flying in the wind. And for a split-second, her eyes
rested on Isobel.
Isobel sprang back, out of sight; hurried to the living room, to Draco.
"I think she saw me," said Isobel. "Actually, no. No, she probably didn't -"
The colour drained from Draco's face. "She saw you?"
"No," said Isobel. "I probably just imagined it. Her eyes met mine for
just a second, but surely she couldn't see through the window. Right?"
Draco stared at her. "I don't know."

239
 "No," said Isobel. She let out a nervous laugh. "No, I probably imagined it."
"I don't trust her not to tell her parents," he said tensely. His grey eyes
fixed onto hers. "I know it's not fair."
"None of this is fair," she said quietly.
The whole, horrible mess. The way she couldn't see even a day into her
own future. None of it was fair in the slightest.
"She can't know you're alive," said Draco. "She can't. Too many people
already know."
Isobel breathed out; let the tension run from her shoulders. "I'm so
sick," she said, "of being a secret. I just want to be normal."
He raised his hand. Brushed the back of one knuckle ever so lightly
against the scar on her cheekbone. "I know. I'm sorry."
Isobel's chest felt tight, her breath all caught in her lungs. It felt as
though everything was turning against them; that every person that existed
outside of this apartment was pitted against them; strived to tear them
apart.
"It's late," she said, though she didn't feel tired at all. "Let's go to sleep."

She showered, and changed back into Draco's sweatpants; looped them
twice around her waist, stuck her wand into their waistband.
She could have picked up pyjamas from her own house. But she liked the
way Draco's clothes smelt like him; liked the way the sleeves of his hoodie
hung over her palms, the way the sweatpants pooled at her feet.
She opened the door to let the steam escape. Then she squeezed
toothpaste onto her toothbrush and began to brush her teeth.
She thought of Astoria's confusion, her determination; her loyalty to
Draco and to her parents. She wished that Astoria could be on their side -
that she didn't want to go along with the plan her parents had for her. She

240
wished they could just - tell her everything, that maybe she could help
them; tell them what to do.
She knew that Draco didn't want to marry Astoria. But only now, Isobel
was starting to realise that she didn't want him to marry Astoria, either.
She really, really didn't.
She wiped the condensation from the mirror, and looked at her
reflection. Saw her damp hair; saw the heat, pink on her cheeks -
Then Draco appeared behind her.
Without saying anything, he leant over her. Picked up the toothpaste
and squeezed it onto his own toothbrush, then began to brush his teeth.
She stared at him in the mirror. A smirk tugged at the side of his mouth,
and she realized that she had stopped brushing her teeth; hand frozen in
place as she looked at him.
She turned on the spot, to face him: leant back against the sink, and
began to brush her teeth again. She tried her very best to keep her
composure - raised her eyebrows and blinked up at him - but her cheeks
were hot and her heart was thudding and Draco was so very close to her -
His faint smirk stayed in its place. Then, he placed one hand on her hip.
Seconds passed, and he tilted an eyebrow at her, and she realised what
he was waiting for. Isobel took a breath, and then she nodded.
Draco caught his toothbrush between his teeth, and Isobel's eyes fell to
his mouth; his lips that were ever so slightly parted -
He placed a hand on her other hip, and she nodded, again. His grey
eyes flicked between hers and she raised her hand; ran it, lightly, along the
line of his jaw -
Draco moved his hands up; his touch feather-light, his movements
achingly, teasingly slow. Moved them up, up; under his own jumper that
she was wearing, until his hands found bare skin. They found the curve of
her waist, and he rested them there.

241
 And Isobel's heart was thundering now, was beating so fast she was
sure he could hear it, and she cursed the toothbrushes in their mouths,
mere obstacles in their way -
Draco leaned past her, and she heard him spit out his toothpaste. He
dropped one hand to rinse his mouth.
He stepped back, and gave her the smallest, most innocent of smiles;
amusement dancing in his eyes. And then his hand dropped from the curve
of her waist, and he turned, and left the bathroom.
Isobel stared after him. She turned, slowly, and rinsed out her own
mouth, all of her nerve endings tingling from the loss of his touch on her
waist.
She pushed open the bathroom door slowly. The lights were off in
Draco's apartment. He was sitting at the end of his bed, resting back on his
arms. His head tilted up at the room of green stars.
She sat beside him, and curled a leg up underneath her.
His grey eyes slid to her. "What are you going to do," he asked, voice
slow, "when I leave for Christmas? Where are you going to go?"
She raised a shoulder. "Maybe I can visit my mother for a while," she
said. "It doesn't matter. I don't mind spending it alone."
The faint crease between his eyebrows appeared. "I don't want you to
spend it alone."
"With everything that's going on right now," said Isobel, "Christmas
doesn't feel all that important to me. Maybe next year I can celebrate it."
Her chest tightened as she thought about that. She had absolutely,
entirely, no idea what the next year might bring. She had no idea if she
would still know Draco, next Christmas.
"I have to go to the Manor," said Draco. "If I'm not there by Christmas
Eve, they'll come looking for me."
"That's okay," said Isobel. "You can go."

242
 He turned his face to her. "But what if I go," he said quietly, "and I never
see you again? What if I go, and you forget about me? What if I forget about
you?"
Isobel didn't know. She didn't know what could happen in three days'
time: didn't even know what could happen in the next few hours. All she
knew was that they were both here, right now. That of all the moments that
waited for them, in the courses that their lives would take - this was the one
moment that they could control.
So she leaned forward, centimetres. And she pressed a kiss to his
cheekbone.
Then another, lower on his cheek. And another, just a little lower. Then
she left one more kiss, on the corner of his mouth.
She leant back, heart speeding; took a breath. And within seconds,
Draco's hands were reaching for her. Finding the gap between her hoodie
and sweatpants again; pulling her back to him.
And then his hands were running across her bare back; her skin
warming at his touch. And she was climbing across his lap -
She looked down at him, and she was so certain - so very positive - that
he could hear her heart now, thudding in her chest. His face was tilted up
to her; hard, strong lines; blazing grey eyes. And her fingers were resting
on the back of his neck, her legs were placed firmly on either side of his;
and she knew that they were doing nothing more than counting the seconds
until -
She dipped her head, and closed the space between them. And finally,
finally - she kissed him.
At first, they moved slowly. His lips were so warm, so much softer than
she might have imagined but somehow, so familiar - and his hands were
gentle on her back, pulling her nearer -
She curled her fingers into his hair, needing to be closer. She moved
into him, moved nearer, and his hands ran across her back, his fingers dug

243
into the soft skin on the sides of her abdomen, and soon their movements
grew impatient, grew desperate - and she was knotting her fingers into his
hair and pulling him up, wanting him closer -
Somewhere in the distance, faintly, there was a knock. But Isobel could
barely hear it, could not focus on anything but him, and his hands on her skin,
running his palms underneath a t-shirt that wasn't even hers, but his -
The knock came again, and Draco stilled. Isobel pulled back, her hands
still in his hair.
They stared at each other; breaths coming fast. And she could not tear
her eyes from his, but the knocking persisted -
She dropped a hand and touched her fingers to his swollen lips. And
then he was pulling her back down, pressing kisses to her jawline, and she
found the hem of his t-shirt, ran her hand under it and up, over his chest.
Both gentler now; both less impatient.
The sound came of Draco's apartment door banging open, and then
Astoria's voice: "I know you told me to knock but I'm not going to
bother bloody knocking if you won't answer the door -"
Her footsteps sounded across the living room.
And Isobel was getting up, detangling herself from Draco, and he too
was standing, his eyes on her, frantic -
And she had barely taken a step towards the bathroom when his
bedroom door burst open, and Astoria's eyes settled on her.

244
 thirty-one

isobel

Isobel was not sure how long she had kissed Draco. One minute, maybe
ten. Maybe longer.
All she knew was that for a short, blissful time, she had forgotten the
world that lived on outside his apartment walls. Had forgotten her mother,
and Lucius Malfoy, and everything that they had done. Had forgotten the
silver necklace that still rested in the pocket of Draco's trousers.
She had kissed him under green, glowing plastic stars, and ignored that
he might possibly marry someone else within a matter of months.
And now that person was standing in the doorway of Draco's bedroom.
For a long moment, everything seemed frozen. The seconds dragged:
Draco and Isobel stood, speechless. Staring at Astoria, whose eyes were
fixed on Isobel.
Then, Astoria flung a hand to her mouth, and the world was set in
motion again.
Draco started forward; reached out a hand to her, but she stepped
away.
"I'm sorry," gasped Isobel. "Astoria, I'm really sorry."
Astoria tilted her head. Her long, shiny hair rippled with the
movement. "You're alive."
"Astoria," said Draco. "Let me explain."

245
 From what Isobel had heard of Astoria, she had a temper to match her
own; responded to situations of injustice with anger and outrage. So the
long, calm, expressionless look that she gave Isobel now was incredibly
unsettling.
"I came back here," she said, "because I thought I saw someone in
Draco's room when I left. I didn't think that person would still be here when
I returned." Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. "And I never, in a million
years, thought that it might be you."
"I'm sorry," repeated Isobel. Astoria took a step backwards, threatening
to run; so Isobel said, quickly, "there is so much to explain."
Astoria's face remained impassive. "You're alive," she said again,
quietly. She turned to Draco. "All this time, she's been alive," she said. "So,
what? This is some kind of sick joke? Against me, or against my family?"
"It's not like that," said Draco, his jaw pulled tight. "Just listen."
"Did you ever plan to marry me?" she asked. "Or was that a lie, too?"
"The engagement plans," said Draco, "were my parents' doing. Never
mine. You know that, and if you give me a minute I can tell you everything
you want to know -"
"What I want to know," said Astoria, a quiver of rage sounding in her
voice, "is how the fuck your parents thought it was okay to marry you off
when you're still in love with your ex-fucking-girlfriend. Who
is supposed to be dead -"
"They didn't know I'm alive," Isobel said quickly. "Or, they did know,
but then they didn't -"
Astoria's gaze shifted back to Isobel. "You're insane," she said. "You're
all insane."
"Please," said Isobel. "Please, we just need you to listen -"
Astoria shook her head, her lip curled in disgust. "I'm leaving," she said.

246
 She spun, and swept out of his room. Isobel met Draco's eyes, and a
split-second later, they were both running after Astoria, down the stairs of
the apartment building and into the lobby.
Together, they followed Astoria into the bitter cold. The roads were
empty and silent, but for a sporadic passing taxi in the distance; headlights
flooding the street and fading within seconds. Astoria's silhouette was
crossing the street, her figure rapidly retreating.
"Astoria," Isobel called over the wind. "Please wait."
Astoria turned in the middle of the road. Wind whipped through her
hair, blowing it around her face as she looked back; her face shadowed
beneath the streetlights. Her eyes passed between Draco and Isobel,
standing side by side. "How are you alive?"
"It's a long story," said Isobel. Her voice was faint in the wind, so she
raised it; said, "It's complicated. Please come inside, and we'll tell you."
Astoria looked at Draco. "I don't want to speak to you," she told him. "I
never want to speak to you again."
"For fuck's sake, Astoria," Draco said, and Isobel was startled by the
roughness in his voice. "Let me explain. This happens every time we have an
argument: you run, instead of just fucking talking about it."
"Only because you never want to talk about it," said Astoria coldly. "I've
tried to talk through things with you so many times but every time, you shut
me out. Well, now I'm shutting you out. Leave me alone."
"No." He shook his head. "I'm not leaving you alone, because I can't. I
can't let you go off and tell your parents about this."
Astoria said nothing. Only glared at Draco, anger raging in her eyes.
"Fine," he said, and Isobel saw a muscle jump in his jaw. The restraint
of his anger. "Isobel will tell you. And I'll go inside, and you don't ever have
to speak to me again, if you don't want to. All I ask is that you try to
understand."

247
 They remained rooted in place, and for a moment, Isobel felt she
shouldn't be there. Felt that despite Draco and Astoria's rifts and tensions,
they knew each other - had known each other for a while, now - and she
was just an outsider. An outsider, who had walked in and fanned the flames
that already licked at their ankles. Had unintentionally created an inferno.
Astoria nodded, and Isobel heard Draco exhale the softest sigh of relief.
He turned on his heel and walked back to the building, leaving them alone
in the cold.
Isobel nodded to the stairs of his apartment building. "Shall we sit?"
Astoria crossed the pavement towards her, but did not sit down. She
folded her arms over her chest. "How are you alive?"
"My mother enchanted a necklace that I was wearing," said Isobel. "It
saved my life."
Astoria gave her a long, calculating look. "Impossible," she said, slowly.
"I thought, maybe, it might have just been the Malfoy family who claimed
you were dead. But Blaise said it to me; so did Daphne. Everyone thought
you were gone."
Isobel nodded. "That was what Lucius and Narcissa wanted people to
believe. My mother, too. She allowed everyone to believe I was killed in the
battle. She and Draco's parents took my memories of him."
Something shifted in Astoria's expression. "You don't remember him?"
"I don't remember dating him."
"How did you find out that you did?"
"I found a letter," said Isobel. None of this was relevant, really, to what
they needed from Astoria. But she would answer any question Astoria had,
if it meant she would stay here. "I found a letter that he had written to me,"
she said, "and figured it out from there."
But Astoria didn't ask any more questions. She stared at Isobel, her
eyes swimming with tears.

248
 Isobel felt burning guilt, deep within her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I
understand how you must feel."
"No," said Astoria. "No, you don't understand. I am so - humiliated -"
Her voice broke. "I spent so much time begging Draco to make our
engagement work, because I genuinely thought it was the best thing for
both of us. Even if the marriage was our parents' idea. Even if they were the
ones that had organised it all, I thought we would be happier together than
we would be alone."
Astoria's eyes lifted to the windows of Draco's apartment, then fell back
to Isobel. "I've been in that apartment so many times," she said. "And
almost all of those times, I thought that Draco would one day be my
husband. Even if we weren't ever officially engaged, I really believed it
would come around to it, eventually. I had no idea that -" she broke off, dark
eyebrows knitting together, "that behind my back -"
Isobel's heart skipped at the misunderstanding. "He didn't know," she
said. "He didn't know I was alive until just last week."
"When?"
"Last Friday. Ginny - my friend - took me to this nightclub, that he was
at too -"
Astoria closed her eyes. "I was there," she said, her voice dangerously
quiet.
"He only really understood the next day, though."
She watched Astoria piece together the timeline. "So, when I saw him
at the bar. He knew, then?"
Isobel hesitated. "Yes." She added, quickly, "We're in danger. His
parents don't want us together, they want him to marry you. They can't find
out he knows I'm alive."
"Why didn't he tell me, though?"
"Because he didn't trust you not to tell your parents. That's all. We
wanted to tell you."

249
 Astoria scoffed. She glanced up at Draco's apartment, then turned
away. Shook her head, bitterly.
"I'm sorry," said Isobel, again. And from the bottom of her heart, she
meant it. "I wish it wasn't like this."
"So kind of you."
"I do," said Isobel. "We didn't tell you in order to protect our own
relationship. And that meant stringing you along in the process. I really am
sorry for that."
Isobel was sure that Astoria was angry about much more than Draco
hiding Isobel from her. She knew that her anger stemmed from the
frustration of her life being laid out for her and those plans crumbling.
Maybe it even stemmed from jealousy. But apologizing for this seemed like
a good place to begin.
Astoria glared at the pavement. "I need to go," she said. "I need to be
alone."
"Please don't tell anyone," said Isobel. Her voice came out thin,
shamefully weak. "Please. Just for now, keep our secret."
Astoria stared at the pavement without saying anything. Isobel almost
thought that she would leave, would simply Apparate away into the dark;
but Astoria nodded. "Okay. For now."
Isobel breathed out a sigh of relief, and it fogged in the cold air. "Thank
you."
Without another word, Astoria walked away.
Isobel turned, slowly, back to the apartment building. She looked up
and saw Draco, at his window. His face angled to face her, one long leg
resting on the windowsill. Watching.
When she reached the apartment again, he was already crossing the
room to meet her. "Are you okay?"
Isobel nodded. "She won't tell anyone, for now."
"What did she say?"

250
 "Well," said Isobel. "She wasn't happy with either of us. Whether she'll
speak to you again is up for debate."
Draco frowned. "I don't care if she speaks to me again."
A small, selfish part of Isobel wished that were true. But even if Draco had
no romantic interest in Astoria, Isobel knew that he would mind if they never
spoke again. Would, at the very least, feel guilty about having hurt her.
"She said she wouldn't tell her parents," she said. "That's all that
matters for now."
"I don't think we can trust that."
"No?"
Draco shook his head. "Astoria acts on emotion. Overreacts when she's
angry. Maybe she'll keep her word, but I don't think we should trust her."
"Okay," said Isobel quietly. "So what do we do?"
"You should go back to your house," he said. "At least for a while."
Isobel didn't say anything. She had known that was what he might
suggest. She just hadn't wanted to hear it.
Draco brushed his thumb against her scar. "I know you hate it there,"
he said. "But I'm afraid someone will storm in here again."
She looked into the black fabric of his shirt. Wanted to reach out and
curl her hand into it, but could not push the image of Astoria's livid,
betrayed expression from her mind.
She settled for saying, weakly, "Will you come with me?"
He moved his hand from her cheekbone, down the side of her face, and
grazed his thumb over her jawline. "I'll Apparate with you. But I need to
stay here in case someone comes looking."
Isobel blinked away tears. "Alright."
"I'll visit you tomorrow," he said. "In the morning."
She nodded. "Alright."
Five minutes later, she had gathered her things, and they were back in
his living room; ready to Apparate.

251
 "I'll visit you tomorrow," he said, again.
He didn't promise. They were in no position to make promises.
She held his gaze a moment longer. "Are you going to keep up the
stars?"
"I'll keep them up forever," he said. "If forever is enough for you."
She mustered a smile. "Forever will do."
Draco took her hand in his. "Ready?"
"Ready."
Together, they Apparated. She clung to his arm, moved closer to him.
Within seconds, their feet were finding solid ground, and they were
standing in the driveway of her countryside house. She stared at the house;
at its lightless windows and the trees that curled around it. She felt very
numb.
Draco dipped his head to speak into her ear. "Be brave, Gryffindor," he
mumbled.
Then, with a crack, he was gone.

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 thirty-two

draco

He wanted to yell. Wanted to scream at the stars for paving this path.
Wanted to take Belly's hand and run away with her -
But if there was one thing he knew by now, it was that the world would
keep taking. And taking, and taking. And he would have to wait, if he
wanted it to give a little.
He wanted to kiss her again; of course he did. But it was because of his
own reckless idiocy - how foolish he had been to ignore the knocks at the
apartment door - that Astoria had seen her. Had barged in and laid eyes on
Belly, and now everything might be ruined.
He wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and never let her leave
again. But he couldn't have that, for now.
So, he settled for lying in his room of green stars, one arm stretched out
across the space where she had slept. For glaring into the green-tinged dark
and silently cursing everyone who stood in their way.

isobel

Isobel kicked off her shoes and unravelled Draco's scarf from her neck.
She trailed through the cold, quiet house, and combed numbly through the

253
actions of brushing her teeth, washing her face, and changing into her own
pyjamas.
She lay in bed and wrapped her arms around her knees. She couldn't
remember the last time she had slept in this bed. She tried to think back,
tried to sift through the days and nights in her mind.
But all she could think of was Draco, and his moon-pale skin, and his
palms running across her waist, her back, her thighs. His long fingers,
intertwining with hers.
Hours later, she woke to someone shaking her vigorously. The usual
jolt of panic coursed through her as she fluttered open her eyes. She tried
to focus on her surroundings, wondering what could possibly be wrong,
now.
But a sheet of flaming red hair hung over her. Isobel lay back and closed
her eyes again. "Hi, Ginny."
"Morning, sunshine." She felt Ginny sit down beside her, on the edge
of the bed. "Malfoy sent me to see you."
Isobel opened her eyes. "He did?"
"He said to tell you that his mother has dragged him out for the day -
Christmas shopping or something -" Ginny raised a shoulder. "I don't really
remember. Anyway, he gave me strict instructions to be your bodyguard,
and I fear if I don't, he will skin me alive. So here I am."
"He wrote to you?"
Ginny nodded. "He and I have been corresponding so much, recently.
It's very strange."
Isobel sat up. She scanned the sill of the window that Draco had once
stood by, had helped her climb through. Sure enough, a small, white piece
of parchment rested there. She smiled, and reached out to open the
window. "I got one, too."

254
 Belly,
My mother arrived early this morning. She is taking me out for
Christmas shopping and afternoon tea, and of course I have no valid
reason to refuse.
I am positively thrilled to go shopping. I'll be at your house whenever
I'm free.
Stay safe.

Ginny frowned over Isobel's shoulder. "Where's the part where he

professes his undying love?"
Isobel snorted. "We haven't said that yet. That word."
"Love?"
Heat rose to her cheeks. "Well, he said it indirectly. He told my mother
that I'm the person that he loves most."
"How very disgusting."
"He hasn't said it to me, though. Directly."
Ginny's expression softened. "Maybe he's waiting until he's sure you're
ready to hear it."
"Maybe."
Isobel walked over to her loose floorboard, in the corner of her room.
She tucked the parchment under her half of Draco's letter, which rested
alongside her secret jar of Floo Powder. She made a mental note to get back
Draco's half of the letter, and fix them back together.
She looked back to Ginny, who was stretching her arms. "It's so early,"
yawned Ginny. "Malfoy's owl woke me up. As reimbursement for being
your bodyguard, will you make me breakfast?"
"Sure."
As Isobel made them coffee and toast, she filled Ginny in on all that had
happened since they last spoke. She relayed meeting Astoria, the St.
Mungo's visit, and everything that Maggie had finally explained. When she

255
finished, Ginny was seething. "I never trusted your mother," she said
resolutely. "Never trusted her."
Isobel poured their coffee into mugs. "She acted on an impulse," she
said. "In the height of her emotion after the war."
"Aren't you angry?"
Isobel smiled. "Oh, I'm furious," she replied. "I'm just learning to
understand why she did it."
"And Malfoy? What was his response?"
Isobel paused. She sat across from Ginny; wrapped her fingers around
her mug. "Draco was strangely empathetic," she said, finally. "Like - he
hates her, for locking me up for so long. But he didn't seem to think it was
an unfair response."
Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Never thought I'd hear Malfoy and
empathetic in the same sentence." Her eyes dropped to Isobel's bare neck.
"And you finally got rid of the cursed necklace?"
"It's not cursed," said Isobel, rolling her eyes. "But no, I'm not wearing
it. Draco has it."
"So he hasn't yet forced you to put it on?"
"No." Isobel looked away. "I won't let my mother save me again. Not at
the cost of her life."
She had never been so furious at her mother - wasn't sure she had ever
felt so much anger in her life. But still, there was no question in her mind
regarding the necklace. It would stay in Draco's pocket, and her mother
would eventually, hopefully, be discharged from St. Mungo's.
"My mum said there was no way of undoing the necklace's
enchantment," she said. "So I won't put it on. Not even to protect my
memories."
"And you're positive that your mum never extracted your memories?"
asked Ginny. "They could be in this house, somewhere, in a vial. Waiting to
be restored to your mind."

256
 Isobel sighed. "I've searched through this entire house, looking for
evidence of memories that I've lost. I've looked everywhere, for any object
that belonged to my past life. Anything that might have belonged to Draco.
But nothing."
Ginny reached across the table. She placed her hand gently on top of
Isobel's. "I'm sorry, Iz."
Isobel shrugged. Since speaking to her mother, her sadness at losing
her memories had dissolved into anger. She finally had someone to blame
for everything that had happened, finally had a direction in which to aim
her emotions. And between all of that, and confronting Astoria, and
worrying about Draco's parents. . . There wasn't much time, anymore, to
mourn her memories.
"The only trouble now," she said, "is hanging on to the memories I
have."
Ginny finished her coffee and sat back. "So have you been extracting
them?" she asked. "Just in case Lucius comes along and Obliviates you?"
"Should I be?"
"Obviously -"
Isobel felt her eyebrows knit together. "But," she said, "What's the point
of extracting them, if I'm just going to forget they're there?" She frowned.
"If I did extract them, and someone Obliviated me, how would I know what
I'm supposed to do with a vial that I don't recognise?"
Ginny stared at her, disbelieving. "If only you knew someone who could
hold onto the vial for you."
"But -"
"If only you had a friend who could keep your memories safe, and in
the case that someone uses Obliviate on you again, restore them to your
mind."
"Ginny -"

257
 "At least the memories you have now," said Ginny. "If you extract
everything you know about Malfoy now - that is, finding the letter, meeting
him, all that - I'll keep it with me, for the next time his father decides to
attack you."
"Ginny," said Isobel. "I appreciate your kindness, I really do. But I can't
let you get involved in this."
Ginny gave her an affronted look. "Of course you can."
"No," said Isobel firmly. "This - all of this - is more serious than just hiding
from Lucius. My mother is in the hospital -" She broke off, and searched Ginny's
sullen expression. "Lucius Malfoy is just as dangerous as he was before the war.
If not more dangerous. He's more bitter than ever; more desperate to get his
way. I think you're already in danger, just by knowing I'm alive. If he finds out
you've got my memories. . ." She shook her head. "I don't want to put you at
risk, too."
"What if I don't mind being put at risk?"
"I wouldn't expect you to mind. But I won't let you do it."
"Fine," said Ginny, irritably. She withdrew her hand from Isobel's. "But
I still think you're being incredibly stupid by not extracting your memories,
while you still have them."
While you still have them. Isobel's throat felt dry.
Extracting them was, actually, not a bad idea. There were no side effects
from a memory extraction spell, other than a briefly passing headache. The
spell wouldn't impact her current memories at all; it would just create a
physical, magical, copy. Even if she forgot that she had extracted them. . .
It was a back-up plan. It was better than not extracting them at all.
"Fine," she said to Ginny. "I'll extract them."
Ginny allowed herself a small smile. "Fine. Do it now, then."
"I'll do it now," said Isobel, standing. "But I'm keeping them. Not you."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Go on, then."

258
 Isobel rummaged in the cupboard under the sink, where her mother
stored all of the medical equipment she had accumulated over her years of
work as a Healer. The cupboard was dusty and cluttered: untouched for
months, at the least.
She found a small, teardrop-shaped glass vial, and held it up to the
sunlight. "This will do."
Ginny watched as Isobel screwed open the lid of the vial and held it
ready in her left hand. Then, she touched the tip of her wand to her temple,
closed her eyes and concentrated on the memories she wanted to pull out.
She combed through each memory she had of Draco - from the day she first
found his letter, tear-stained in her mother's wardrobe, to the nightclub, to
meeting him in the Leaky Cauldron. His apartment, her house, the cottage
on the beach. The wine in the park, the green plastic stars.
When she opened her eyes, a wispy, glinting trail of silver light had
formed a fragmented line between her temple and her wand. She guided it
up, gently, with her wand, then dropped it into the vial.
She screwed back on the lid, ignoring the dull throb at her temple. She
looked down at her silver, glittering memories. How very strange it was that
they were tangible, now. How strange it was that they might be easier to
protect in a tiny glass vial than in her own brain.
She placed the vial on the table. "I'll keep it in my room," she told
Ginny. "Under the loose floorboard."
Ginny nodded slowly, eyeing the memories. "Tell Malfoy to do the same
with his own memories," she said. "Just in case."
"Just in case," echoed Isobel. "Hopefully we'll never actually need
them."
Ginny nodded again, but her expression was doubtful, and Isobel knew
what she was thinking. With parents like Maggie Young and Lucius Malfoy,
and with their secret in Astoria's hands -
It seemed quite inevitable that whatever came next would be bad news.

259
 thirty-three

isobel

It was already night-time when the crack of Apparition finally sounded

from the driveway.
Isobel turned in her place on the couch to look at Draco, as he walked
in the cold towards the house. Streetlights bounced off his light hair, the
curling trees created serpentine shadows across his face.
She pulled open the front door, unable to contain her smile. "Hi."
"Hi," echoed Draco. He smiled back, but she saw the exhaustion in his
eyes. "Sorry I'm so late, I couldn't get away."
"Evening, Malfoy," said Ginny, from behind her. "Am I excused, now?"
Draco gave her a short nod. "Thank you," he said curtly. "Weasley."
Ginny's eyes widened. "Did Draco Malfoy just thank me?" she asked.
"Well, I never -"
Isobel bit back her smile. "Now, now."
She looked at Draco. His eyes were tired, the tip of his nose was pink
from the cold. As the hours of the day had passed, she had begun to worry
that something had happened. That Astoria hadn't kept her word, or worse,
that Lucius had somehow found out. But Draco seemed to be alright.
"As much as I'd love to stay," said Ginny, edging past them, "I'll leave
you to it." She wrapped an arm around Isobel's waist and gave her a
squeeze. "Merry Christmas, you two."

260
 "Merry Christmas, Gin," said Isobel. "Thanks for everything."
The door shut behind Ginny, and Isobel reached for Draco's hand. His
fingers were ice-cold; she clasped them in hers, trying to warm him up.
"You're here," she said. "Astoria didn't. . ."
"No," he said. His eyes dropped momentarily to her hands - his fingers
between hers - and then they were back on her. Tired, but focused. Intent.
"She hasn't done anything yet."
Isobel breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good."
"She was so angry," said Draco. "I've seen her angry before, but not like
that. I was positive that she would go straight to her parents."
"Maybe she's not as untrustworthy as you think."
"Maybe." He looked away. "I don't know," he said, "how the
Greengrasses will visit us for a whole day, without Astoria saying
something. Our parents will discuss the wedding, and everything else, and
Astoria will just have to sit there and take it. I can't see that happening."
"I trust her," said Isobel. "And I think you should try to, as well. For
now, I suppose all we can do is hope."
Draco looked back at her. His brief moment of nervousness was gone,
vanished from his expression and replaced by a wry, half-smile. He closed
his hand around hers, and lowered their hands between them. "I suppose
you're right."
Isobel's heart fluttered. She wondered if this was normal for him - if he
was used to holding her hand as if it were an extension of himself, or did he
feel as flustered by her touch as she did by his. Because all she could
concentrate on was his skin, cool beneath her palm.
She led him through the house into the living room, their hands
entwined between them. As they sat on the couch, he nodded at the piano.
"When will you play for me?"
Isobel groaned. "Not now."
"Then when?"

261
 "After Christmas," she said. "Maybe."
"I hope so," he replied.
His voice was light but Isobel understood the undertone of his words.
God willing, Astoria would keep her word, and Draco would return safely
after Christmas, and everything would be fine.
"Oh," said Draco. He sat up, and reached into his back pocket. "I got
you something."
"A Christmas present? I didn't get you anything -"
The side of Draco's mouth curved. "It's nothing big, relax."
He opened his palm to reveal two loose silver keys, side by side. "The
key to my apartment building," he said, "and the key to my apartment. As
discussed."
Isobel paused, looking at the keys. She didn't need them to enter his
apartment, she could just use her wand. They had spoken about this, had
thrown the idea around, but the act of him actually giving them felt
significant. It felt like a promise.
"Thank you," she said. "I hope they don't have any funny enchantments
on them."
"Keep them away from Maggie," said Draco, "and they'll remain magic-
free."
He turned his hand to tip the keys into her palm. Rested it there a
second, then pulled away. "You should stay here though, over Christmas.
My father doesn't know you live here."
"I will." Isobel sighed. "I hate this house," she said. "It's even worse
when my mother isn't here. It's so quiet."
"Did you visit her today?"
"No." She shook her head. It had been the first day since her mother
had been taken into hospital that she hadn't visited. She hadn't been able
to bring herself to face her, after everything.
"I'll go tomorrow," she said. "Or maybe on Christmas day."

262
 "I'm sure she'd like that."
She grimaced. "I haven't forgiven her yet."
Draco's hand crept back into hers. "I know."
She leaned forward to place the keys on the coffee table. Then she
turned so that she faced him fully, and threaded her fingers through his.
"I suppose I still can't convince you to put on the necklace," he said.
"No," she said, firmly. "I'm sorry, but I can't."
He rolled his eyes. "Worth a try."
"In your letter" she said slowly, "you said the night before you gave the
necklace to me was the night you fell in love with me. The Christmas party."
He gave her a single nod. "Yes."
"That was four years ago, now."
He nodded again, his eyes on hers.
For a moment they watched each other in silence, both studying one
another's features, their expressions. Finally, she asked, "What was our
first kiss like?"
Draco's grey-eyed gaze remained steady, unwavering. "It was in a
corridor at school. You kissed me."
Isobel felt her lips part in shock. "I did?"
"Yeah," said Draco, his half-smile reappearing. "Why is that
surprising?"
"I don't know." She blew out a breath. "It just seems. . . brave."
"It was."
With the tip of his thumb, Draco traced a line over the side of her hand,
down the fleshy part of her own thumb. Isobel said, quietly, "I kissed you
first this time, too."
He grinned. "Yeah. You took your time doing it this time, as well."
"Why didn't you just kiss me?" she asked. "Why did you wait for me to
do it first?"

263
 "You weren't ready," said Draco. He drew circles across the flesh of her
thumb. They traced down, down, to the veins on her wrist. His touch
feather light, her pulse speeding. "You didn't know me at all. I had to wait."
Isobel took a single, shaky breath. "I think I know you now," she
whispered.
This time, it was Draco who leaned in first. He kissed her lightly, gently,
his fingers still curled around her wrist.
He touched her as if she was a thing he was afraid would break. As if
she was made of glass, so fragile and delicate that she might shatter with a
single gust of wind.
Isobel threaded her fingers into the hair at the base of his neck, and
leaned into the kiss. She pulled herself closer, up against his chest. And she
understood.
All this time, she had been afraid of getting hurt. Of rushing into things
quicker than she was capable of doing. She had been waiting until she felt
ready - Draco had been waiting until she was ready -
But it was not Isobel who would be hurt the most, if everything went
wrong now. It was him.
The kiss subsided, and she pulled back. With one hand still resting on
the back of his neck, she looked into his eyes, and saw the tense, nervous
expression that he was no longer bothering to hide. She saw a boy, ready to
jump from the edge of a cliff, not knowing whether he would fall or fly.
She didn't know what to say. So she leaned back in, and gave him one
more kiss, and hoped that that was sufficient.
"I should go," he said. His voice was low, almost hoarse.
Isobel closed her eyes. She wanted, desperately, to tell him not to leave.
But he had to.
It was the cottage, or this. Together or apart. And she had chosen apart.

264
 When she opened her eyes again, he was still looking at her, his
expression anguished. "I'll see you soon," she told him. "I'll be right here,
whenever you come back."
Draco nodded. He didn't say anything more.
He gave her one, final kiss, soft and warm on her lips. And then he was
gone.

Christmas Eve passed slowly. Isobel trailed from her bedroom to her
mother's, to the living room and back. To the kitchen, where she had sat
with Draco, with Ginny, with her mother. . . So many hours had been spent
here, going over everything. Trying to make a plan.
Trying to figure out how to evade Lucius Malfoy.
She didn't think that Lucius would remove her from Draco's mind
without provocation. She didn't think that Narcissa would allow that.
Besides, as far as Draco was aware, Lucius was still bargaining to stay
out of Azkaban. Isobel supposed that Lucius needed a good enough reason
to attack her - or rather, to risk being caught attacking her. He needed to
be certain that Isobel was in contact with Draco, before using magic on
either of them.
That, she assumed, was the one thing Lucius Malfoy feared more than
his son falling in love with a Gryffindor blood traitor. Being sent to
Azkaban.
Their entire fate seemed to depend on whether or not Astoria would
tell anyone what she knew. And of that, Isobel wasn't sure. She didn't know
Astoria at all; wasn't sure that she was the kind of person to keep secrets
for people she didn't like.
All she knew was the anger in Astoria's eyes. Her foot one step behind
her, ready to run. Ready to flee to her parents, who would in turn tell the
Malfoys.

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 Still. Astoria had given her word. Even if Draco didn't trust her. . . For
her own peace of mind, Isobel had to.
She looked at the kitchen clock. It was nine o'clock: the end of the St.
Mungo's visiting hours.
Yesterday had been the first time she had not visited Maggie in the
hospital. And today - Christmas Eve - she had again ignored the visit.
Disregarded the opportunity to make amends with her mother.
She pushed away the sickly feeling in her gut. Her mother was the one
that should be feeling guilt right now, not her. Even after everything - even
after she had spoken to Draco, Maggie had maintained her position that
they shouldn't be in one another's lives.
Isobel would visit Maggie tomorrow, on Christmas Day. Of course she
would - she had to - but she couldn't bring herself to visit today. After all,
she had visited every day since bringing her mother to the hospital the night
that she had fallen ill.
She wasn't sure how many nights ago that had been. At least a week,
surely. Lucius had attacked her in the alleyway and left her in a park
somewhere, and she had Apparated home and found Maggie, feverish and
weak in their hallway. . .
Her stomach twisted at the memory. How terrifying it had been to see
her mother so sick and feeble. Her only thoughts, at the time, had been
getting her to safety. Restoring her health, as soon as possible.
She had heaved her mother's arm over her shoulders, brought her to
the fireplace and ran to her room for Floo Powder. . .
She frowned. That hadn't been all.
She had also written a note that night, addressed to Draco. Explaining
where she was, in case he came looking.
She stood from the kitchen table. In her hurry to get her mother to the
hospital, she had forgotten about that note. And she hadn't seen it since.

266
 In her room, Isobel pulled her duvet from her bed. Then, in a panic, she
stripped the sheets, too.
It wasn't there.
Fingers trembling, she pulled her wand from her waistband. She held
it up, gave it a feeble flick, and cast a summoning charm.
But the note didn't appear. It wasn't in the room.
She sat on the bed. There was no reason to panic, there were plenty of
explanations for this. Her mother had been at the hospital since Isobel
wrote the note, but both Draco and Ginny had been here since. Maybe,
somehow, one of them had picked it up. By mistake.
Maybe.
Isobel did not need to think. She headed to the hallway and pulled on
her coat. Then she closed her eyes and Apparated.
When she opened her eyes again, she was standing in the dark
alleyway, in the very spot that Lucius had cornered her.
She walked out onto the empty road. All of the lights were off in Draco's
apartment. Isobel hadn't seen it like that before, ever.
She pulled her hood over her head and with the key Draco had given
her, unlocked the door of the building.
She curled the key into her clammy fist. Legs trembling, she walked up
the flights of stairs, further and further until she was standing at the door
of his apartment.
She slid the key in the lock.
Best case scenario, she thought, Draco would be home. She could ask
him about the note, they would figure it out together, and say goodbye
again for the Christmas holiday.
Worst case scenario. . . She squeezed her eyes shut. Then, she unlocked
the door.
She pushed the door open. And she felt, quite suddenly, that the whole
earth was crumbling. Disintegrating beneath her feet.

267
 Because every one of Draco's possessions - every trace that Draco
Malfoy had once lived in this apartment - was gone. Every piece of
furniture: the weathered black couch, the coffee table, his grey blanket, had
all vanished. What had once been the living room was now an empty
expanse of space.
With heavy, numb steps, Isobel walked towards his bedroom. She
flicked on the overhead light.
The room was entirely empty. Draco's bed, bedside tables and lamps
were all gone, seemingly vanished from existence.
All that was left in the apartment were the small plastic stars, glowing
green and dim from the bedroom walls and ceiling.

268
 thirty-four

isobel

Isobel sank to the ground. She pressed her palms to her face and
squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
He was gone. After every close encounter, every worry and qualm that
something might happen, that one of them would be made to leave. . . He
had gone. It had actually happened.
Her chest felt tight and her breathing was shallow. She looked up and
around her, at the plastic stars. The charm she had cast to enhance their
glow had been removed, and now they seemed dull, their colour muted. The
empty space seemed a far cry from the magical, luminous green room that
it had been days before.
She forced herself to stand, and left the room on shaky legs. She left the
stars, too. She could not bear to take them down.
The living room was entirely empty. Not a single possession remained,
not even a piece of rubbish stray in a corner. She opened the cupboards of
the kitchen nook one by one, but all were empty.
His windows were still wide open. That, at least, was the one sign that
he had once lived here. That it hadn't all been a dream.
As she walked closer to the window, she noticed a tiny, white, dried
flower on the sill. She picked it up and held it in her trembling palm, and

269
wondered where it had come from. Draco didn't seem the type to keep
flowers for their aesthetics.
"Hello?"
Isobel turned. In her shock at seeing Draco's empty apartment, she had
forgotten to close his door. In the doorway, now, stood Emily, peering
nervously into the apartment.
"Hi," said Isobel. She could manage no more.
Emily regarded the empty room with a bewildered expression. "Has
Draco moved out?"
Isobel nodded. She tucked the flower into the pocket of her coat. "Just
today, I think."
"That's strange," said Emily. "I've been home all day and didn't hear a
thing."
"Did you hear any visitors, by any chance?" asked Isobel. "Did anyone
come to see him?"
Emily shook her head. "I didn't hear anything today. Though now that
you mention it, I did overhear an argument last night. . ." She frowned.
"There were raised voices. There was a man. . ."
"Did you hear anything they said?"
"Not really, it was the middle of the night -" Emily tilted her head,
looking concerned. "Were you unaware that he planned to move out,
Daphne?"
"Oh," said Isobel. "My name is Isobel, actually. Sorry, I -" She shook
her head. "It doesn't matter."
"I thought your name was Daphne."
Isobel turned to face the window, barely registering Emily's confusion.
If a part of her had expected something bad to happen over Christmas, she
hadn't expected it to happen so soon. And not like this. She hadn't expected
Draco to be stolen away, for his entire presence to disappear without a
trace.

270
 She heard Emily take hesitant steps into the apartment. "Do you know
who the man might have been? The one who was shouting at him last
night?"
Isobel's eyes flicked from the street corner to the shadowed alleyway.
"That was his father."
"Oh," said Emily. "Do you know what the argument might have been
about?"
Isobel didn't respond. After a moment, Emily said, "is everything
alright?"
Isobel stuck her hands into the pockets of her coat and clenched them
into fists, trying to stop them from shaking. "No," she mumbled. "I never
told him to extract his memories."
There was a pause. "Pardon?"
"Sorry," said Isobel. She turned to face Emily. "I meant. . . I think I'm
going to go and find him."
"I think that's a good idea."
Isobel's pulse quickened. She didn't know if it was a good idea, actually.
She wasn't sure if Draco would be better off without her help; if going to
find him would only make things worse. But going back home and waiting
it out there, alone, seemed positively unbearable.
"Do you know where he might be?" asked Emily.
"I have an idea."
Emily touched her arm. "Will you let me know if you find him? And if
everything turns out okay?"
Through the pocket of her coat, Isobel touched her wand at her waist.
Draco would never return to this apartment, so Isobel probably wouldn't,
either.
Isobel looked at Emily. She felt her bottom lip quiver, her eyebrows
knit. "I'm really sorry," said, her voice trembling.
"For what?"

271
 "It's for your own safety," said Isobel. "It's better if you don't know
anything."
Emily's brow furrowed. "What's for my own safety?"
Isobel nudged her coat out of the way and closed her hand around the
base of her wand. She gripped it tightly, but still her hand shook. Guilt
swept over her in crashing waves as she took in Emily's utter confusion.
"I know how horrible it is," said Isobel, "to have a big blur in your mind,
where memories should be. But you'll be okay. You'll be safer if you don't
know him."
She closed her eyes before her tears could spill over. Then she waved
an Obliviate spell at Emily, and with that removed every memory Emily
had of ever seeing or speaking to Isobel or Draco.
Before Emily could regain her focus, Isobel spun, and Apparated.
Emily would find herself in the empty apartment of a neighbour she
had never known.

When she opened her eyes again, the vast, dark walls of Malfoy Manor
had materialized. A broad wooden door rose over her.
Isobel assumed that the Malfoys no longer had a doorman, but still was
too afraid to go in through the front entrance. She stole around the sides of
the house until she found a ground-level window. She peered through the
window to see a large, lavish drawing room, dressed predominantly in
shades of grey. Without pausing for thought, she waved an Alohamora at
the window's lock, pushed it open and climbed through.
She moved on the balls of her feet, as quickly and noiselessly as she
could manage. Through the drawing room and into a hallway, through the
main entrance and up the long staircase. She didn't quite understand it, but
she felt confident in the turns she took. Her feet carried her through the

272
cement-walled hallways, past paintings and statues, and though she had no
recollection of the space at all, her body knew where to go.
At the top of the stairs, without hesitation, she turned left.
The Manor was constructed from enormous, dark slabs of cement. The
hallways were wide, high-ceilinged and seemingly unending. But she kept
going, heart thudding with apprehension, and persevered down the long,
twisting hallway until she reached the very last door.
She placed her fingers on the handle, told herself to trust the
suffocating sense of déjà vu, and pushed it open.
Draco was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, with his back
against the bed. As she opened the door, his eyes sprang to her. She started
towards him. "Draco -"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Belly." He groaned, and threw his hands over his
face. "Why the fuck are you here -"
"Excuse me?"
He leapt to his feet, hurried towards her and took her arm. "You need to
go," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You need to get out, immediately -"
"I came to find you."
Isobel stretched out a hand to close the door, but he pulled her back.
"The door only opens from the hallway, it's enchanted. And you can't
Apparate from this room, so you need to get back outside."
"But," Isobel frowned. "Your apartment was empty. I thought. . ."
"My father found out that I know you're alive and forced me to come
home -"
"But there wasn't even any furniture left," interrupted Isobel. "I
thought something - something terrible had happened -"
"He must have moved out my things," said Draco. "But I'm fine." He
took her shoulders in his hands, and turned her to face him. "Listen, Belly,
I'm okay. You need to go somewhere safe, and stay there for a few weeks."
"But what if your dad takes your memories?"

273
 "I've extracted my memories," said Draco. "Blaise is keeping them safe,
and if my father uses Obliviate, I can just restore them."
"Why can't you come with me?"
"Because he'll come and find us." Draco's hands slid from her shoulders
down her arms, to take her hands in his. "I'll be fine, really. I'll come and
find you after Christmas, alright?"
She nodded. "Alright."
He grasped her hands in his, and leant to give her a short, gentle kiss.
"Go on, then," he said quietly, against her lips.
Draco followed her into the hallway but remained at its end as she
walked away. She nodded at him over her shoulder and walked back
through the long, twisting hallway, past the portraits, her heart still
thudding.
And as she finally turned the corner to the stairway, Lucius Malfoy
appeared. He leant against a statue at the bottom of the stairs, his wand
balanced idly between his fingers.
"Well, well," said Lucius. His voice was soft, but it echoed around the
hallways; bounced off the cement. "I was wondering when you would join
us, Miss Young."
Isobel took a step back. "Draco," she called, not taking her eyes off
Lucius.
Lucius started up the stairs. "Noticed a missing note from your
bedroom, Miss Young? You shouldn't leave things that you don't want
found lying around like that."
"Draco," called Isobel again, more loudly this time. Her heart felt as
though it was beating in her throat. She took another step back. "How did
you find my house?"
Lucius climbed the stairs with calm, tantalizingly slow steps. "Your
darling mother told me everything I needed to know," he said. "She was

274
rather lonely in the hospital yesterday, you know. Not a single visitor but
me."
Isobel held her wand in her fist, trembling at her side. "Did you hurt
her?"
"Hurt is a strong word," said Lucius. "She did take some. . .
Encouragement, let's say. But it appears she's content to reveal anything
when her daughter's life is at threat."
"You're horrible," spat Isobel. "She's ill -"
"Very much so, it appears," said Lucius. "And as it turns out, it's much
easier to glean information from a person who is so pathetically weak that
they can't get out of bed."
Just as Lucius reached the end of the stairway, Draco appeared at the
end of the hallway. His face was slack with fear as he rounded the corner.
"Father -"
Lucius' smile widened. "Kind of you to join the discussion, Draco."
Draco attempted to nudge Isobel behind him. But she was furious, now.
She pushed Draco's hand away, and moved past him. "All filled in now, are
you?"
"Oh, yes." Lucius leant back against the banister at the top of the stairs.
"Of course, when Narcissa and I found ourselves in your Surrey house after
the war, we suspected something of the sort. Your mother only confirmed
yesterday what I already knew. It appears the only part of the bargain that
your dear mother didn't hold up -" his face curved into a grimace - "was
leaving the country, and not allowing you to set foot near my son again."
Draco grabbed Isobel's elbow, and shoved her behind him. "Perhaps
you shouldn't bargain with people's lives, Father."
"It wasn't her fault," said Isobel, struggling to free herself from Draco's
grip. "I went behind her back to find Draco. She told me not to."
Lucius clicked his tongue. "Telling you not to," he said, "wasn't the deal.
The deal was keeping the two of you away from one another."

275
 "Maybe she's a bit more sane than you are."
Lucius smiled. "Maybe." He stepped forwards from the banister, and
Draco's grip tightened on her arm. "Now, what your darling mother also
told me," he said, "was that you had a very intriguing necklace. One that, I
believe -" his gaze dropped to her neck - "you aren't currently wearing."
"Don't touch her," said Draco. His voice was dangerously low.
Lucius rolled his eyes instinctively. "Step out of the way, Draco," he
said. "I'll deal with you next." Draco didn't move, and his father blew out a
sigh of impatience. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be,
Draco."
Tears pricked at Isobel's eyes as she glared at Lucius. "Don't you care
about his happiness?" she asked. "Don't you care what he wants?"
"Children," said Lucius, his top lip curling with irritation, "don't know
what they want. They don't understand success, or stability. They act on
impulse and emotion. Draco will be happier in a family that understands
him -"
"No," said Isobel, "he'd be happier in a family that loves him. And love
isn't - isn't built from status and reputation -"
"That's not how the world works, you stupid girl."
A snarl emitted Draco's throat as he lunged forward, releasing his grip
on Isobel. In a split-second, he had Lucius pinned against the banister with
one hand, his other pressing his wand to his father's throat.
Lucius gripped the banister, lips curled in a thin smile. "Going to hurt
me, son? After everything I've done for you?"
"Let her leave," said Draco quietly, "and I won't do anything."
"You don't know what's best for you."
Isobel stepped forward. "Draco -"
Draco dug his wand beneath his father's chin, tilting back Lucius' head
until his sheet of white hair hung over the dark, empty space beyond.

276
Lucius' smile faltered. "Belly," said Draco, without turning, "Leave. I'll find
you."
Isobel hesitated. "I can't just leave you -"
Draco angled his head to face her. "Yes, you can," he said. "I'll find you.
Now go."
But Isobel stood still. "Come with me," she said.
Lucius' eyes flickered to her.
"Draco," she said. "Come with me. You know where we can go."
Draco hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then he slashed his
wand, blasting Lucius across the hallway and against a wall. There was a
sickening crack as Lucius' head collided with the cement, and he crumpled
into a heap in a corner.
Draco grabbed Isobel's hand. Before she could look back, before she
could pause for a moment longer, he was pulling her after him, down the
long stairway.
Paintings flew in the brinks of her vision as they ran. Isobel's plan was
unsound, only half-formed. They could discharge her mother from the
hospital and take her with them, but there were other people involved in all
of this, that Lucius might go after. Ginny, Blaise and Emily might all be
threatened by Lucius, now, but Draco was pulling on her hand, telling her
to run faster, and she was stumbling down the final few steps -
"Draco?"
From a room to the right, Narcissa emerged. Her eyes shifted from her
son to Isobel, and she stopped; stood still in the doorway.
Isobel moved closer to Draco. She wasn't sure how much Narcissa
knew, wasn't quite sure if she took the same stance as Lucius, but didn't
want to take her chances.
But if Narcissa had anything to say, she didn't vocalise it. She smoothed
down her pristine black skirt and asked, with alarming calm, "where's
Lucius?"

277
 As if on command, Lucius reappeared at the top of the staircase. Blood
had spilled from the side of his head, streaking his white hair red. Isobel
gasped, tugging on Draco's hand, but he didn't move.
"Mother," said Draco. His voice trembled as he spoke. "Help us, please.
Tell him not to hurt us."
Narcissa's eyes moved from her son, up to Lucius. There was pain,
etched deep in her expression, there were tears in her eyes -
She looked back to Draco and Isobel. Then, with the faintest, slightest
shake of her head, she turned on her heel and walked back into the room;
the clicking sound of her heels following her there. She shut the door
behind her, as if to block out the noise of whatever might happen.
Lucius was descending the stairs, blood still streaming from his temple,
but Draco stared only at the door his mother had just closed.
Isobel squeezed his hand. "We have to go."
After a moment, Draco turned, his jaw pulled tight. "That's the only
room in the house from which we can Apparate," he said, with a jerky nod
to where Narcissa had disappeared. "So we'll have to go outside."
Lucius was gaining on them, and Draco hadn't seemed to notice. So Isobel
pulled him towards the huge front door, tried to push it open -
It was locked. Draco cursed and, appearing to regain his adrenaline,
flung a spell at the side window. It shattered, and fell with a deafening
crash. Before Isobel could even think, Draco was lifting her up by her legs,
pushing her through the window -
Shards of glass caught in her hair and cut through her trousers,
drawing blood from her shins. She fell on her hands and knees onto the
gravel outside, sharp stones digging into her palms.
Draco followed closely behind, landed on the gravel and tugged her up.
But the front door was already opening -
They stumbled forward, away from the house. Draco circled an arm
around Isobel's shoulders and she prepared herself for the sensation of

278
Apparition. But Lucius had already emerged in the doorway, white hair
tinged red - and his wand was pointed straight at Isobel's heart -
It all happened in the same breath.
Isobel tried to spin, and tried to take Draco with her.
Light shot from Lucius' wand, directly towards her.
And Draco's arm slipped from her shoulders, and for a split-second he
was gone, somewhere behind her, not touching her -
Isobel felt a graze of light, thin metal at her throat, and Draco's fingers
at the back of her neck.
She screamed in objection, pulling at the necklace, and he Apparated,
pulling at her.
And everything went black.

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 thirty-five

draco

He knew what would happen before it did.

The moment Belly had sensed the necklace, she had attempted to
wrench it from her neck. She had resisted the Apparition entirely, diverted
her attention to pulling at the necklace and trying to break its chain – and
he had caught her wrist in his hand and Apparated –
Just before they left the Manor, Draco caught a glimpse of his father’s
furious expression. It travelled with him, circling around him, and he tried
to concentrate entirely on keeping Belly close –
Everything felt wrong. The whirling spaces of Apparition seemed
claustrophobic and confined; he felt that she was slipping from his grasp,
not fully contained within his arms.
Beneath his hold on her wrist, he felt hot, thick liquid begin to emerge.
They landed outside her house. She tumbled from his arms, and he fell
forward onto his hands and knees; the force of the Apparition hurling them
both across the tarmac. He had barely opened his eyes, had barely taken a
breath when she screamed again.
The scream was different, this time. Anguished.
He scrambled to find her.

280
 Belly was already struggling to her feet, one bloody hand cradled in the
other. And Draco knew what she was going to do. Knew, after what had just
happened, where she was trying to go –
He lunged after her. “Don’t Apparate –“
She stumbled backwards, away from him. “You –“ she choked out her
words, gasping from the pain – “the necklace – I told you not to –“
Draco stepped forward, and she took another step back. “Belly,” he
said, “you’re bleeding –“
“I need to see my mum.”
Trying to ignore his pounding heart, Draco focused on her hand. In the
dim light, he could not make out any distinct wounds; could only see that
dark blood drenched her sleeve and dripped from the tips of her fingers.
“We’ll go to her,” he said, “but let me fix your hand first, please.”
The colour was slowly draining from Belly’s face. But she shook her
head.
“Belly, you’ve been splinched –“
“I don’t care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter – the necklace, you –“
She broke off, and pulled hard at the necklace with the hand of her good
arm. The silver chain snapped.
She cast it aside, and it landed noiselessly somewhere on the tarmac,
in the dark. Draco’s gaze followed it there; he searched momentarily for the
glinting silver, but could not see it.
The trees that surrounded Belly’s house trembled in the icy wind,
casting shaky shadows across her face. Draco watched, stricken, as
comprehension set into her expression, and tears began to brim in her eyes.
“She was so ill, the last time I saw her,” she said, her voice strained. “I don’t
know if she could handle the necklace protecting me again.”
Belly swayed dizzily on her feet. She blinked a few times consecutively,
and when Draco stepped forward, placing one hand on her shoulder to

281
steady her, she didn’t shrug him off. “I need to get to the hospital,” she said.
“They’ll fix my hand there, after I’ve seen her.”
Draco clenched his jaw. He motioned towards her wounded hand,
dripping with blood. Belly pulled at the sleeve, revealing another gash along
the top of her forearm, and his stomach twisted. He steered her towards the
door. “You will,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’ll see her soon.”
He guided her through the house, and directed her towards the
bathroom. By the time he had lifted her onto the bathroom counter, her
tears were falling freely. “The necklace was hot,” she said, clutching her
bloodied hand in her lap. “That means its enchantment worked, that your
dad’s spell hit me and now my mum – my mum –“
Draco rifled through endless piles of potions in the bathroom
cupboards. “Dittany,” he muttered. “Surely your Healer mother
has fucking dittany here somewhere.”
“I need to go to her.”
“I’m aware,” replied Draco, through gritted teeth. He pushed aside
more vials, and finally located the dark, murky brown dittany. He turned,
opening its lid, and gestured for Belly to give him her arm.
She didn’t move. “I told you I didn’t want anything to do with the
necklace,” she said, through tears, “but you put it around my neck anyway
– without my permission –“
“My apologies,” snapped Draco, seething with impatience, “did you
want me to ask your bloody permission before I did it?”
“I wanted you to respect what I asked for –“
“Belly,” said Draco, eyes dropping to her hand in her lap – the blood still
flowing – “I don’t know what hexes my father was shooting at you. It mightn’t
even have been Obliviate, it might have been worse –“
“But I told you,” said Belly. She shut her eyes, taking shaky breaths.
Tears spilled from her closed lids and out over her cheeks. “You knew why

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I didn’t wear the necklace. You knew that I wanted to take care of myself,
and now you’ve done the exact same thing that my mother did –“
“I didn’t have a choice –“
“Yes, you did.” Draco took her arm in his hand, and she opened her
eyes, glaring at him through her tears. “You both insist on protecting me,
even though I ask you not to. But maybe I’m not supposed to be protected.
Maybe if I fought for myself, without having you two interfere all the time,
things wouldn’t keep going wrong like this.”
“Belly, if neither of us ever interfered, you’d be dead right now –“
“But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be!” Her voice shook, and her
face crumpled with emotion. “Everytime one of you tries to protect me
something awful happens, and it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like the
way life is supposed to go –“
She broke off with a whimper as Draco dropped beads of dittany onto
her splinch wounds. Her good hand latched onto his shoulder; fingernails
digging through his jumper as steam rose in curls where the dittany met
her blood. Slowly and seamlessly, the edges of her wounds began to knit
together. Belly gripped his shoulder tighter, and let out a low hiss between
her teeth. Gradually, the gashes sealed.
Draco soaked a towel under the tap, and held Belly’s hand in place as
he wiped away the remaining blood. He kept his eyes on hers, watching her
expression for indications of pain, for fear of hurting her further. When the
blood was mostly cleared away, her wounds were more discernible. They
followed the bones of her fingers, coursed over her wrist to her forearm.
But she was no longer bleeding. Most importantly.
He didn’t reply to what she had said. He didn’t know how to respond,
only knew that he had been well-aware of the cost of the enchanted
necklace, and had chosen to protect her with it anyway.
He would do it again if he needed to, a hundred times over. Even if that
meant she might never forgive him for the consequences.

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 Tears clung to Belly’s lashes and glistened on her cheeks as she looked
down at her hand, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Can we
go now, please?”

isobel

They Apparated into the lobby of St. Mungo's together, with Draco's
hand covering her freshly healed scars. Isobel felt her chest rise and fall
with nervous, shallow breaths. She had half-expected herself to take off the
moment she set foot here; to run to her mother's ward with barely a glance
to see if Draco accompanied her or not.
Now, her feet felt firmly planted on the ground. She stared at the door
of the stairway, paralysed by her own nerves.
Draco's fingers threaded through hers.
He didn't tell her not to be afraid, or that everything would be okay, or
anything as such. Because things would not be okay; they already were not
okay, now. And Isobel knew that the world was about to crumble from
beneath her feet. She just needed to find the strength to let it do so.
As she climbed the stairs and walked through the corridors to her
mother's ward, the only thing that anchored her to reality was his hand in
hers.
Just as they turned the final corner, a stream of Healers exited the door
that led to her mother's ward. Isobel quickened her pace. She spotted the
Healer she knew, the woman with the kind face who had tended to her
mother, days before. And the woman crossed the corridor towards her, and
time began to pass in a blur -
"We've been trying to contact you," said the Healer. Her face was close
to Isobel's, but her voice seemed far away. "She doesn't have long. I'm so
sorry."

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 Isobel walked into her mother's ward. Somewhere between there and
the corridor, Draco's hand fell from hers, and his white-blond hair
disappeared from the periphery of her vision.
Maggie lay asleep in her hospital bed. A cluster of Healers stood in the
room, waiting and watching, and Isobel edged numbly past them, staring
at her pale-faced mother. She seemed so fragile and weak that she was
almost unrecognisable as the woman that Isobel had known for her entire
life.
Isobel blinked, looking around her, and realized that the Healers had
left. She drew a chair and sat beside her mother. She placed a hand on
Maggie's hollow cheek and wished, desperately, that she had overcome her
anger and visited her mother when she had had the chance. So that they
might have had a little more time.
Hours later, when Maggie's eyes fluttered open in the dead of night,
Isobel's heart gave a feeble leap.
"Mum," she whispered. "Lucius attacked me. Draco put the necklace on
me."
Maggie's eyes shifted across Isobel's face. "You'll be okay," said Maggie.
Her voice was croaky, as if it hurt to speak. "You'll be okay without me."
Isobel pressed her lips together in an attempt to keep herself from
crying, but tears escaped, still. She took her mother's hand in her own and
held it tightly. "Don't leave."
Maggie's fingers closed slowly around her daughter's. "Do you love
him?"
Isobel hesitated. Then she nodded, tearfully. "I think so."
Maggie's eyes fluttered shut. "Good," she whispered.
Throughout the entire night, Isobel did not sleep. She remained seated,
with her hands clasped around her mother's thin fingers, and her tear-
soaked eyes fixed on Maggie's sleeping face.

285
 Sometime between night and dawn, as the sun crept over the horizon
in London, Isobel realized that there was no longer a pulse in the hand that
she held. She watched with silent, streaming tears as the Healers took her
mother away, and left her alone in the room.
Draco finally vacated his position on the linoleum floor of the corridor
outside. He took Isobel in his arms, and held her as she wept.

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 thirty-six

isobel

She felt utterly empty. When Draco enfolded her in his arms and
Apparated, and the curling trees and countryside house materialized in
front of them like dust collecting, she felt as though she were merely an
empty body. Numb and hollow and all out of tears, she stood, looking at the
house built on love and lies.
It was bitterly cold. The air was dry and still, and the sun glowed
brightly on the horizon. But the cold crept over her skin like frost, biting at
her cheeks, her nose, the tips of her fingers -
It all felt like a dream. A film playing out in front of her, unendingly.
There was no way of going back – of reversing choices she had made and
taking another path so that things might be different, now. There was no
way of undoing what was done. And Isobel could not believe her mother
was gone, and this was it now, and that there was no option of experiencing
life any differently than this.
She whispered a summoning spell under her breath, and watched as
her silver necklace lifted from the ground and glided towards her. She
handed it to Draco wordlessly, then sat on the cold porch step.
Draco sank down beside her, pushing the necklace into the pocket of
his jeans. "Belly," he said quietly, "it's freezing. Let's go inside."

287
 Isobel could hardly hear him. She looked back to the sunrise, vibrant
and golden against the clear sky. It was too beautiful. It was not right.
She felt the weight of Draco's gaze on her face. She allowed her eyes to
flutter shut, and silently tried to construct sentences from her feelings.
Tried to unravel the knot of words that tangled in her heart.
She felt his fingers thread into hers, felt him raise her hand and press a
kiss against it. "I'm sorry," he said, his breath soft and warm against her
cold skin.
She looked at their entwined fingers. She had once felt that their hands
melded together perfectly; that they fit together like two halves of a whole.
Now she wondered what his hand would look like wrapped into Astoria's,
instead of her own.
"You're not going to like what I have to say," she said, finally.
Draco blew out a low, even sigh. "Go on."
"I think that my mother and your parents were right," said Isobel. She
felt unexpectedly composed. "I think they've been right this entire time. I
don't think they went about what they did in a good way, and I don't think
they should ever have interfered with our relationship to the extent that
they did. But when they said that our relationship does more harm than it
does good - they were right."
Draco's hand had tightened over hers. "You're in shock," he said,
gruffly. "You're not thinking straight, Bel."
She shook her head. "I am. I know that they were right. And I think you
know it, too."
"I understand that you're angry at me for putting the necklace on you,"
said Draco. "I don't expect you to forgive me for that."
She paused. Her eyes traced his slender fingers, the way they curved
over hers. "That's not what this is about."
"I'm sorry that your mother is gone, I really am," he said. His voice was
unsteady. "And I'll be here for you – I'll do whatever you need from me -"

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 She raised her gaze to meet his, and her bottom lip trembled with the
first glimmer of emotion she had shown since arriving home. "Look at us,"
she whispered. "We're miserable. So much has gone wrong in our lives, and
it's all been a consequence of our relationship."
"But it's been other people that have messed it up; it's been our parents -"
"I know," she replied. "But I think what we haven't been understanding
- what we've been getting wrong this whole time - is that it's not just us, in
this situation. Other people are inherently involved in this and will continue
to get involved, whether or not we want them to."
Draco frowned. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"You think we're better off apart?"
She hesitated. Then said, in a small voice, "Yes."
"But," he said, his frown deepening, "that time I spent after the war,
thinking you were gone - that was the worst time of my life. This - nothing
compares to that."
"I know." Tears pricked at her eyes, blurred her vision. "But things will
keep going wrong, as long as we're together. We'll both keep getting hurt.
And I just -" she took a shaky breath, swiped at escaped tears – "I just want
it all to stop hurting so much."
Draco shook his head adamantly, his mouth set in a hard line. "No," he
said. "No, I – I cannot deal with the pain of losing you again, Belly, I -" He
broke off, looking at her. His fair eyebrows knit together, and her heart
ached.
Isobel took a breath, summoned all of the strength she had left in her,
and pulled herself into Draco's lap, there on the cold porch. He leant his
forehead in the curve of her neck, and she threaded her fingers into the
back of his hair, and held him. "You won't have to," she whispered. "You
won't have to deal with it." She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but tears
escaped still; slid hot over her cheeks and down her face.

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 The last time that Isobel had seen Lucius Malfoy, he had threatened to
remove any recollection Draco had of her. And should Draco go back now,
after everything he and Isobel had done; that threat was set in stone, she
knew. Lucius would not only remove every good memory that Draco had of
Isobel, he would remove every memory. Draco would not remember her at
all.
Draco would feel that there was an aching, maddening void in his mind
– a blur that Isobel of all people could empathize with. But he would have
a life carved out for him. A clear-cut path to follow. And maybe he could be
happy, there.
She kissed his temple, and stood. After long seconds, he followed suit.
He grazed the tip of his thumb along the scar on her cheekbone, one
final time. "Is this really what you want?"
Draco's grey eyes were so full of anguish and misery that it pained her
to look into them. Isobel turned away, feeling deeply ashamed that she
could not face him, and nodded.
Draco's fingers traced down, over the edge of her jawline. His thumb
brushed a stray tear from her cheek.
Then his hand dropped, and the crack of Apparition sounded. And he
was gone.
She was left staring at the space he had vacated, shivering in the cold.
A small part of Isobel had been expecting to walk inside and see her
mother there, waiting in the living room to greet her, or sitting at the
kitchen table. But of course the house was empty; oppressive in its silence.
Her every footstep echoed as she walked down the hallway to her mother's
room.
Isobel climbed into Maggie's bed and lay there. She did not close her
eyes; did not delude herself that there was a possibility she could sleep.
Instead she curled her fingers into the cool sheets, pressed her face into her
mother's pillow, and let time pass by as she lay there.

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 draco

The blood that had spattered the gravel outside the Manor had
vanished, had evaporated without leaving a single drop in its wake. The
window that Draco had broken was fixed, too; looked shiny and untouched.
Everything was pristine, as it always was.
"Draco," called his mother, the moment he stepped inside the house.
She swept past him from the living room, still refusing to meet his eyes.
"You have a visitor."
"I don't want to see anyone," he replied, but his mother was already out
of sight.
He suppressed the urge to ignore what she had said, to stalk upstairs to
his bedroom and wait for his father to track him down. When he entered
the living room, he found Astoria, sitting on the couch with her hands
clasped anxiously in her lap.
She rose to meet him. "I didn't tell your mum why I was here," she said.
Her eyes darted to the doorway behind him, and Draco let the door swing
shut. "She didn't know where you were. I assumed you were with Isobel, so
I said I'd just wait until you were home."
Draco didn't respond, and Astoria's expression grew more nervous. "I
wanted you to know," she said, "that I haven't told anyone about Isobel. I
know my family will be over for dinner later, but I wanted to talk to you
now, to tell you that. Merry Christmas, by the way."
Draco ran a hand over the back of his neck, where Belly's fingers had
rested minutes before. He could not believe Belly did not want to see him
again. He could not believe that she truthfully thought a life together was,
by the sum of its parts, worse than one where they were separate.

291
 "I also came to say I'm sorry," said Astoria. "For getting angry the way
I did - for blowing up and not giving you both a chance to explain
yourselves. I still wish you would have told me sooner, but I understand
why you didn't." She took a breath. "And I'm willing to keep your secret if
that will help you. Whatever that means for me."
At that, Draco gave a hollow laugh. He felt exhausted. And angry, and
half-delirious, and it was, somehow, comical that Astoria was now offering
to protect a relationship that Belly had just ended.
Confusion crossed Astoria's face, but she pressed on. "I was angry,
because I took it all personally. I thought the way that you acted was
something to do with me, but it all makes sense now. Of course, it messes
up my plans completely, but I'm happy for you, I really am. I can tell how
much you like Isobel -"
"Don't," said Draco, looking away. His smile faded quickly. "Things
aren't going to work, between Isobel and I."
"I don't understand."
"She doesn't think we should be together," he said. "She thinks we'll be
miserable."
Astoria's expression grew sympathetic. "And what do you think?"
"That doesn't matter. I couldn't convince her."
"Even so," said Astoria, slowly. "Truthfully, what do you believe?"
Draco's entire body felt heavy with sorrow. "I think a life spent with her
would be a thousand times less miserable than a life without her," he said.
He hesitated, remembering her tear-stricken face. I just want it all to stop
hurting so much. Never before had he seen her so devoid of hope.
What perhaps hurt most of all was the terrifying feeling that Belly
might have been right. Maybe they were better off apart, in their own
separate worlds. But if that idea rang true for them now, then it also applied
to the day they had spoken in the Leaky Cauldron, and the night at the club,
to every interaction they had had at school and to the Christmas party. They

292
were safer apart than they were together, and perhaps if they had never
been together, their lives wouldn't look quite so disastrous as they did now.
Her mother would still be alive, if he had never dated her. He knew that
for sure.
"I'm sorry," said Astoria. "Maybe she just needs some time."
He shook his head. "We don't have time."
"Of course you do, Draco," said Astoria. Her smile was small and sad.
"Just – perhaps things won't unfold exactly the way you want them to.
Maybe now is just not the right moment."
Draco could not understand what she was saying. There had been two
options: a life where he and Belly were together, and a life where they were
not. And Belly had just made that decision for them.
"That's how I felt about me and you, you know," said Astoria. "On a
much lesser scale, of course. I thought we'd be happier together than apart."
"It's not the same," he replied. His eyes cut to Astoria's, grey to blue.
"You wanted to be with me for a sense of security. I want to be with her
because I love her."
"Yes," Astoria acknowledged. "But either way, the feeling needs to be
mutual. Neither relationship would work if it were one-sided."
"No," said Draco flatly. "No, you're right."
Astoria lay a consoling hand on his arm. "If you love her," she said, "and
if she loves you, you'll find your way back to one another, eventually."
Though he did not fully believe her, Draco nodded. His focus drifted to
thoughts of Belly, to the broken necklace in his pocket.
"I'll see you later," said Astoria, and he nodded again.
When she left, he made his way up to his bedroom.
He stayed there for no more than an hour. Then he left his room and
walked straight to his father's office.

293
 "You win," said Draco, walking into the office. He held out his arms,
feeling sick and tired and nauseous. "It's over. You can take my memories,
and do what you want with them."
Lucius stood behind his desk. He balanced his wand between his
fingers, and considered his son for a long, drawn-out moment. "What
changed your mind?"
"I don't want to discuss it, Father."
"Hmm." Lucius tilted his head, ever-calm. "Your mother wouldn't let
me go after you yesterday, you know. She said you had to come to your
senses on your own, that I was no longer allowed to intervene."
"Well you can tell Mother," said Draco stiffly, "that I give my full
permission for you to do this. I've come to my senses. Now take them away."
Lucius' thin smile had spread across his face as he walked closer. "Did
the girl tell you to do this?" he asked. "Did she end your little romance?"
Draco gritted his teeth. He felt his jaw set into a hard line as he glared
at his father. "Yes," he said, truthfully. There was no use in lying anymore.
"And I cannot handle loving her without having her. I'm ready to do things
your way, now."
"Very good, Draco."
Draco closed his eyes. His mouth felt entirely dry, his throat was closing
up with emotion.
All he wanted was for this pain to leave him. The increasingly
excruciating pain of living without her. He couldn't do it. Not again.
When he spoke again, his voice broke. "Do it, Father," he said. "Take
them."
Lucius flicked his wand, and did exactly that.
Every memory that Draco had of Isobel Young disappeared in the blink
of an eye. Every conversation and interaction, from the first time he had
met her to the moments outside her house that very day - it all was stolen
from his mind with that movement of Lucius' wand.

294
 They vanished like evaporating moisture, there one moment and
undetectable the next.

Hours later, the Malfoy and the Greengrass families ate Christmas
dinner together, under the guise of utter normalcy. They discussed Draco
and Astoria's engagement plans, the meal, and the weather outside, as if
there was nothing else to turn their minds to.
That night, when the plates were stacked and bottles of wine lay empty
on the counter, the two families made their way to the living room, where
a fire burned bright in the hearth. Astoria's father questioned why the
engagement had not yet been finalised, and Draco's father seconded his
uncertainty, and soon the conversation veered from indirect plans to
excitement and candid encouragement.
Draco stood with his cheeks warm from the fire and his senses numb
from the wine. He himself was entirely unsure why the engagement
hadn't been finalised, as it seemed they had planned it for such a long time.
It was a mutually beneficial proposition, and for him, there really seemed
no path more secure for his life to take.
An hour later, Draco knelt on one knee, took Astoria's hand in his and
asked her to marry him.

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 thirty-seven

isobel

Isobel did not sleep. She did not cry, did not move - just lay in her
mother's bed, facing the window; watched the sun travel across the sky as
time slowly passed.
The sun dipped, and night fell. It rose, and she lay still.
The sun rose, as it had every morning for her entire life and as it would
continue to, every day. It seemed strange to her that the earth was still
turning. It seemed strange that lives carried on as normal outside of her
house, when her own had just been ripped apart.
When her father had died, her heart had shattered. She had felt, for a
long time, that she would never be happy again, that she would never smile
or laugh or be able to enjoy anything. Her focus on caring for her mother
had pulled her through that time. She had gotten out of bed everyday, made
meals and cleaned, all for her mother's sake. Together they had learned to
live with the pain of missing her father and eventually, began to find
moments of happiness again.
Now, she didn't have anyone left to get out of bed for.
So she didn't. She lay still. And when the light became too much, she
pulled her blanket over her head to block it out.
Because Draco had been with her in the immediate moments before
and after finding out about her father's death in sixth year, she could not

296
remember those moments. She could not remember what she had felt or
thought, could only remember arriving home into her sobbing mother's
arms. She didn't know if it made it better or worse that she could barely
recall the moment that she was, in a sense, reliving.
She had lost all three of them, now. And this time, she really didn't
know if she could be happy again.
Her concept of time fell apart. Minutes felt like hours, and hours faded
inseparably into one another. She had no desire to get up, no desire to leave
the house or even the room. All she wanted was for her mother to walk in,
to take her in her arms and tell her everything would be alright.
Isobel watched the sun sink again. At some point between dusk and
dawn, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She was awoken by the sound of the front door clicking open.
Isobel listened to the person move through the house, their steps slow
and uncertain. When the footsteps reached her mother's room, a knock
sounded and she sat up in bed. "Yes?"
The door opened, and Blaise stepped into the room. Isobel rubbed at
her eyes. "Hi."
"Hi." Blaise moved from the door to the desk in the corner. He sat down
there, warm brown eyes scrutinizing Isobel intently. "I'm so sorry for your
loss," he said. "And I hope it's okay I'm here."
"Did Draco send you?"
Blaise nodded. "He wrote to me on Christmas day, explaining
everything. Instructed me to wait a few days before visiting you, to give you
some time alone."
Isobel curled her fingers into the duvet cover. "Has Lucius erased his
memories?"
"Yes. He wrote to me just before it happened."

297
 She released a breath, tried to swallow the lump rising in her throat.
"Okay."
Blaise hesitated. "Is that really what you wanted? For him to forget
you?"
She nodded. Refused to meet his eyes, focused instead on the duvet
clutched in her fists. "It's better this way," she said. "For both of us."
"But you were happy together," said Blaise, tentatively. "I'm sorry - I
know now is a horrible time to argue this point, but he's crazy about you.
And there are some obstacles, yes, but I do think you could work things
out."
Isobel voiced aloud the words that she had repeated over and over to
herself in her head. "It's not that simple," she said. "It doesn't matter how
much we like each other. As long as we've been together, things have kept
going wrong. We wouldn't have worked -"
"And you think Draco and Astoria will?"
She met his gaze, confused. "Of course. Don't you?"
"I don't know," said Blaise. The lines of his face were taut with tension.
"His parents will keep interfering, for one thing. They'll do that regardless
of his circumstances."
"Yes," said Isobel. "But it'll be easier for him. He has a straightforward,
complete path paved out for him. I can't hold him back from that."
"Well," said Blaise. "He asked Astoria to marry him. So I guess if you
don't do anything about it, that's the path he'll take."
Isobel looked away. She felt her shoulders slump, felt tears rise to her
eyes once more, but she had expected this - she had chosen this. When she
spoke, her voice was small. "What did she say?"
"He asked her on Christmas day," said Blaise. "They'd been talking
about the engagement the entire night, and both of their families were
gathered around them when he proposed." He paused. "She said yes. If he'd
asked in private, she might have had a different response, I don't know."

298
 "Did she tell you all of this?"
"She came to me in tears," he said, "the next morning. She's terrified
because days ago Draco would barely look at her and now he's intent on
marrying her. Obviously, after all of the plans the two families have made
for the marriage, and with the amount they've talked about it, it would have
looked strange if she'd turned him down. But she'll call it all off if you want
her to."
"No," said Isobel, though the tears stinging her eyes said differently.
"Of course I don't want her to."
Blaise raised a shoulder in a feeble shrug. Isobel realised for the first
time how very tired he appeared. "Astoria wants to marry him, doesn't
she?" she asked. "As far as I understand, she was quite set on that."
Something unreadable flickered across Blaise's expression. "She did
want to marry him, yes. But that was before she found out about you."
"Then they should marry."
Blaise sighed heavily. "Well," he said, "it's your decision. But for the
record, I hope you change your mind."
He stood from the desk chair and removed a small parcel from the
pocket of his coat. He handed it to her, before reaching back into his pocket.
The parcel was lopsided, knotted hastily with a piece of string. "I don't
know what's in there," said Blaise. "He sent it to me on Christmas, and
asked that I pass it on to you. He also instructed me to give you these, which
I've been holding onto for a while now." He held out a small vial, filled with
glistening silver strands.
Isobel took the vial from Blaise and held it out in her palm. "His
memories," she murmured. "Thank you."
"He also told me to contact Ginny Weasley," said Blaise. "He said to fill
her in on everything, so that she'll be able to take care of you and that. So if
it's alright with you. . ."

299
 Isobel was shaking her head. She wrapped her fingers tightly around
the vial of Draco's memories, her stomach knotting at the thought of Ginny
trying to talk her out of her decision. "Please wait a while," she pleaded. "I
can't speak to Ginny, not yet."
Blaise nodded and accepted her plea, just as reluctantly as he had
accepted every other argument she had made in the last ten minutes. When
he left, she watched him go, holding Draco's memories in one hand and the
parcel in her other.
She held the vial of Draco's memories up to the light. After the war, she
had spent so much time longing for the things erased from her mind to
come back to her. She had wasted hours sitting on the couch, trying to elicit
any recollection from the void where her memories had once existed. When
she had finally approached Draco and slowly had gotten to know him, that
desire had faded. It was replaced by the new memories they were making;
the Draco she knew now.
She would once have given anything to watch these memories. Now,
for fear of the sadness that would inevitably accompany them, she wasn't
sure she wanted to watch them at all.
She turned her gaze to the parcel, and stared at it for a long time. She
had an idea of what might be in there, but it was the looming sense of
finality that frightened her. These would be the final words Draco would
speak to her. And everything would be said and done, and their story would
be over.
She stood, and walked on weak legs to the kitchen. She forced herself
to eat, and to drink some water, before returning back to her mother's
room.
She sat on the bed and with shaking hands, unravelled the string and
opened the parcel.
A scrap of parchment, her star necklace and a second vial of memories
toppled out. She looked at them one by one. The scrap of parchment was

300
Draco's half of the letter she had found in her mother's cupboard. On one
side were the opening lines of his letter - the letter that had started
everything, all of this. On the other side was her own writing, asking him to
meet her at the Leaky Cauldron.
She had pressed that scrap of parchment into his hand in the middle of
the night. Had Apparated home with a speeding heart and not a clue of
what might be coming their way.
Her eyes flitted over the broken necklace and the vial of memories. She
placed them on the bed beside her. Then she flattened the letter that had
been folded around the objects, and began to read.

My dearest darling love,

Should we never meet again, there are a few things I would like you
to know.
Firstly, you are the love of my life. In this life, what came before, and
whatever comes next. It has always been you; it will always be you.
The day that we visited your mother in St. Mungo's, she gave me this
vial of her memories. She told you everything she knew, there will be no
surprises. She said she would very much like you to have them when the
time came.
I've asked Blaise to give you my memories, too. I'm sorry that I didn't
show them to you immediately. I knew that you would inevitably see parts
of me that you didn't like, and I was afraid those parts would scare you
off. I was afraid of losing you again, but it seems that has happened
anyway. So here are my memories, the good and the bad. It is a comfort
to me that while I won't remember you, you will finally know our entire
story.
I'm also including the necklace. I know you don't want it, but it is safer
in your possession. I am afraid that if I come across it, unable to recall its

301
significance, I'll throw it away. I hope you don't mind holding onto it for
me.
If I forget you now, I will most likely marry Astoria. If I don't know
you, my mind will see no better option. Should you have second thoughts
and decide you would like me to know you after all, feel free to crash our
wedding.
The first time I lost you, I thought I would never recover. The world
felt dark and dreary, and I didn't want to exist in it without you. When
you came back to me, I swore I would never let you go again. It is
inexplicably painful to walk away from you now, by choice.
I love you. That is something no one can take. Even if I don't remember
you, my heart will belong to you, forever.
It has been an honour to know you.
Love, Draco.
p.s. Your turn to write to me is long overdue. Though I imagine I might
be a little confused if I receive a letter from you now.

Isobel swiped at the tears that had fallen. She read the letter through a
second time, and then once more. Then she padded to her own bedroom
and removed her half of Draco's first letter from underneath the floorboard.
Sitting on her mother's bed, she placed the pieces of the letter side by side,
and waved a silent mending charm. The parchment sealed perfectly, as if it
had never been torn.
She placed the two letters, the two vials and her necklace carefully on
the bedside table. She pulled the duvet back over herself and lay facing
them. They were remnants of her time with Draco, evidence of him. She
would hold onto them forever.
She fell asleep in the daylight, longing for the feeling of his hand over hers.

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 A few more days passed, swept by in a blur, before Ginny visited. She
arrived just as Blaise had: by letting herself into the house and searching
through its rooms until she found Isobel.
Unlike Blaise, Ginny didn't sit at the desk. She climbed right into the
bed beside Isobel and wrapped her arms around her. "You're a mess, Iz."
Isobel hadn't cried since reading Draco's letter. But at the sound of
Ginny's voice, at the feeling of her embrace, her warm arms - she dissolved
into tears.
Ginny tightened her embrace and ran her palms lightly, consolingly,
across Isobel's back. When Isobel calmed down, Ginny pushed her curls out
of her tear-streaked face. "You're going to be okay," she whispered. "Even
if it doesn't feel like it right now."
"I don't think I will be okay."
"You will," said Ginny. "Eventually, you will."
Isobel sniffed. "Did Blaise write to you?"
"Yes, he did," said Ginny. "I thought Malfoy writing to me was strange
enough. But now I've received letters from both Malfoy and Zabini, and I
swear the world has turned on its head."
Isobel let out a weak giggle. "It's over now," she said quietly. "You won't
receive any more."
"You and Malfoy will find your way back to each other, Iz," said Ginny,
and Isobel was momentarily startled by the fierceness in her voice. "You
have to."
"No, we won't -"
"I love you," said Ginny, "and for that reason, I refuse to let you do this
to yourself."
"We won't," repeated Isobel, more firmly. "We never would have
worked in the first place, the world was against us. And now my mum is
gone, and the reason she's gone is because of a necklace he put around my

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neck -" She felt her face crumple again. "We're from different worlds, and I can't
go back to him. I can't - I've made my decision -"
"Okay," said Ginny gently. "Then at least get yourself out of this miserable
house. I swear, every time I walk in here I feel a hundred times sadder."
"Nowhere to go," mumbled Isobel.
"Rubbish," said Ginny. "You can stay with Harry and I, as long as you
want to."
Isobel shook her head. "I can't," she said. "Not yet - please, just give me
time."
To her surprise, Ginny took her back into her arms and did not press
her any further. "Okay," she whispered. "Take as much time as you want."
For hours Ginny sat with Isobel, rocking her lightly in her arms, in
near-silence.
When she left, Isobel turned her face into the pillow. She wept bitterly.

Several weeks later, Isobel was able to get out of bed, was walking to the
kitchen of her own free will and making herself meals. A few weeks after that,
she ventured into the back garden; dug her shoes into the icy grass and breathed
in the cold air.
She missed her mother immensely. She thought of her with anything and
everything she did.
But she missed Draco, too. She missed him so much it hurt; that her body
ached with the pain of wanting him by her side.
It was not that she hadn't expected this. Was not that she hadn't expected
every second to hurt.
She had contented herself with the knowledge that he was leading a life
where all of the jigsaw pieces fit neatly together; that he was with a woman who
did not bring pain with her love, but still. The thought of him walking through
a world where he did not know her was excruciating.
The sun continued to rise and fall, and she continued to think of him.

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 thirty-eight

ONEMONTHLATER

isobel

Isobel stood in a small, dark room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's
hospital. In front of her was a large metal basin, swimming with the silvery
light of Draco's memories.
For a month, she had battled with her own fear. She knew that watching
his memories would intensify everything she was already feeling; would
only cause her to feel larger waves of sadness and regret. She had feared
that watching their whole story - finally witnessing all of the moments she
had once known - would cause her to miss him unbearably.
As it turned out, she already missed him unbearably. She didn't need
to watch the things that had happened in a previous life in order to miss
him so much that it hurt.
She had worked up the courage to Apparate to St. Mungo's. She had
tracked down the Healer who had cared for her mother and asked to use a
Pensieve. And she was here now, and there was no going back.
She had watched her mother's memories first, immediately. She told
you everything she knew, Draco's letter had said. There will be no
surprises. Still, Isobel's chest had felt tight with nerves and her fingers had
shaken as she emptied the vial into the Pensieve.

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 Her mother's vial had included short segments of the life they had
shared. Snippets of Isobel's childhood, where both of her parents were
happy and healthy, where they had laughed and danced together and
everything was good. Isobel watched her tiny eleven-year-old receive her
Hogwarts letter as her parents looked on, watched herself hug her mother
and father and step onto the Hogwarts Express; watched her mother wipe
away tears as the doors slid closed and the train rolled away.
These were moments that Isobel remembered herself, of course, but it
was strange to consider them from her mother's perspective. It was strange
to think about her relationship with her mother from her mother's side
rather than her own, and it was when she watched her mother get the news
of Isobel's father's death - was when she saw her mother hold her breath as
she waited for Isobel to return from Hogwarts - that Isobel began to cry,
too.
The scene dissolved, and Isobel stood in the living room of their old
house. She saw own body lying on the couch, a star-shaped burn on her
throat. Her mother knelt beside her, sobbing over the daughter she had
almost just lost.
She watched as Lucius Malfoy burst in, watched her mother scream
and stand her ground as he threatened her. She watched as Maggie made a
rash decision that would impact the course of their entire lives. Maggie
packed their belongings, erased her daughter's memories under Lucius'
eagle-eyed gaze, and as instructed, erased Lucius and Narcissa's memories,
too. She moved Isobel into their new home and several days later, Isobel
regained consciousness.
The scene dissolved and Isobel found herself in her mother's bedroom.
Maggie was standing by her window, opening an envelope. She slid out two
separate pieces of parchment.
The first letter was signed by Narcissa Malfoy. It said only:

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 I am sorry for the loss of your daughter.
I found this letter in Draco's room, and thought you might like to have
it. Even if they were never right for one another, they truly were in love.

The second letter had been Draco's. Isobel watched as her mother
studied the letter, watched tears form in Maggie's eyes as she began to
understand the depth of Draco's heartbreak. Maggie folded the parchment
and placed it on the top shelf of her wardrobe, held down by a jar of Floo
powder. The scene faded once more.
Isobel watched Maggie sit in their kitchen late at night with her head in
her hands. She tried desperately to read her mother's thoughts, to
scrutinize her expressions. If Maggie had really wanted to keep Isobel away
from Draco, she would have destroyed the letter and moved them out of the
country. But Maggie didn't appear to be able to bring herself that far.
Instead she continued with the unsound, backwards plan of waiting it out
and deflecting Isobel's questions in the hopes of keeping Isobel at home for
as long as she could.
Isobel had surfaced from the Pensieve with her entire body shaking.
Yes, there had been no surprises, but now she finally understood that her
mother had never whole-heartedly tried to keep her away from Draco. She
had kept Isobel inside as long as she could; had scorned the Malfoy name
and attempted to instil fear of Death Eaters deep in Isobel's heart. But
Maggie had been dying since the first day that Isobel's necklace had saved
her. Maggie had never expected to control Isobel forever.
And now Isobel stood, staring into the silver strands of Draco's memories,
feeling very afraid indeed. Because she had expected her mother's memories to
be easy - and if the more difficult bit was yet to come. . .
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to work up the courage.
Ginny had offered to accompany her today but Isobel had declined her
offer, had said she wanted to do it alone. Which was true, of course - while

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she appreciated Ginny's support, this moment was surely too personal to
share with a friend. The thing was, every part of Isobel wished that she
could share it with Draco.
The light of the memories reflected on the ceiling of the room, a
reiteration of the stars in his bedroom. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut
and tried to imagine what he would say to her now, if he were here.
His voice echoed softly in her mind. The phrase that she had repeated
over and over to herself - but she had only recently understood where it had
come from, from whom she had learnt it -
Be brave, Gryffindor.
Isobel opened her eyes, dipped her hand into the Pensieve, and was
sucked into the first memory.
A thick blanket of snow materialized. Metres away from her, a younger
Draco - fourteen or fifteen, maybe - leant against a wall. He looked down at
a clearing of snow, his pale face pulled into the slightest frown. Isobel
followed his gaze and recognised herself and Ron in the clearing, laughing
and yelling in the snow. Isobel - the younger Isobel, bundled in layers of
wool - broke away from Ron, ran through the woods, over the bridge and
straight into Draco. Isobel watched, breaking into a fond smile as she and
Draco tossed reckless, half-hearted insults at one another.
While Isobel did not recall the moment, she saw straight through her
younger self's actions. She knew she was supposed to hate Draco, knew that
he came from a world of people that sided against her own. She was acting
on what she had learnt, trying to hide what she actually felt.
The scene dissolved and her surroundings transformed into a city
rooftop at night-time. She saw herself and Draco on a brick wall, talking,
sitting awfully close for two people who were meant to be enemies. She
watched as each of them tried to focus on the view of the city, but their gazes
kept flitting back to one another.

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 She watched as they glared at each other across library tables. She
watched as he teased her, tantalized her, insisted on calling her a nickname
that she swore she hated. She watched as they kissed in a deserted school
corridor.
On and on it went. Each memory formed and dissolved around her, and
she stood, captivated, watching them pass by like scenes in a film. She
watched herself fall in love with Draco Malfoy, and watched him try to ward
her off as the world grew darker. She watched as Draco - barely seventeen
- stood on top of the Astronomy tower, pointing an unsteady wand at Albus
Dumbledore's heart.
She watched her own heart break as she discovered that he had become
a Death Eater. She watched their seventh year pass; saw how, despite their
differences, they found their way back to one another. As they always
somehow did.
She watched as they lay by the lake and he drew circles on her arm and
she tucked a snowdrop behind his ear. She watched as they snuck through
the Manor hand in hand, avoiding rooms of Death Eaters; running to sit on
top of a fountain in his garden and ignore the crumbling world.
Isobel stood, surrounded by Draco's memories, her chest and gut and
heart all feeling twisted with pain - and when the Battle of Hogwarts passed
she thought that that was it, she thought it would end there -
But it didn't. And she watched, paralysed by emotion, as Draco stood
alone in his London apartment, as he stared at a picture of her and held
their snowdrop in his palm. She watched him lie on his bed, awake for
hours, with all of his windows open and all of the lights turned on.
She watched him block out his family and friends, and let his grief
swallow him whole. Just as she was doing, now.
When she surfaced from the Pensieve, her face wet with tears, she
collected his memories and Apparated straight home from that room.

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 That night as she lay in her mother's bed, everything she had seen
replayed in her mind on a loop. The way they hadn't been able to stay away
from one another despite the world being pitted against them - the
mesmerized way she had seen herself look at him - his softening expression
when he looked at her -
What haunted her most of all - the image her mind sprung back to, over
and over - was that of Draco standing alone in his apartment. Nothing
affirmed his love for her more than the year he had spent, alone and
miserable, allowing his grief to absorb him. He could speak every lovely
word to her, could give her every extravagant gift - but nothing compared
to his utter devastation at losing her.
She held each of his letters, one in each hand. She read them over and
over again, until she fell asleep in the light of dawn.
In another life he lay beside her, holding her tight.

Grief felt like drowning. It was all around her, clawing at her heart and
pulling her down - darkness enveloping her every time she made a ragged
gasp for air.
It came in waves. Huge, powerful, suffocating waves that emerged from
nowhere and knocked her over; took her breath. But after a while, the waves
became smaller. And after a while, she moved from her mother's room and
began to sleep in her own bed again.
Days passed slowly but months passed fast, and all at once the air had
warmed and ice had melted. Buds appeared on bare branches, and flowers
began to bloom again, and before she knew it, winter had faded.
Ginny visited regularly. She made conversation out of everything and
nothing, trying to divert Isobel's attention from her misery. She insisted

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that she needed help with every element of planning her June wedding, and
asked Isobel to be her maid of honour.
And some time later, when the curling trees and tarmac road and tiny
garden became overbearing, when the pillowcases and duvet covers that lay
on her mother's bed had started to collect dust; when she still missed Draco
so much that thinking of him physically hurt -
When Isobel could no longer stand to spend another minute in the
countryside house, she came to a decision. She locked the doors, and
Apparated.
She could feel the salty air on her cheeks before she opened her eyes.

She rebuilt the walls. The cottage had been abandoned long before
Draco had come across it. It was not in good condition, but she didn't mind
one bit. She restored the rooms with gentle waves of her wand, fixed what
furniture she could salvage and transfigured the rest into sand to sweep out
to the beach.
Then she turned to the shattered, grimy window that overlooked the
sea. With several waves of her wand - with mending, transfiguring and
cleaning spells, she fixed that, too. And all at once the window was shiny
and new, and the view of the dark blue sea was crystal clear, as if the
window was not even present.
She cleaned and repaired every other window in the cottage, mended
the broken bench and fixed up the fallen door frame. She did it all alone.
When night had long fallen, she Apparated back to her house. She lay
in her bed with an involuntary smile pulling at her lips, feeling happier than
she had in months.
The next day she packed up everything that she and her mother had
owned, and left. She would never return to the countryside house again.

311
 She visited the nearest town to the cottage to buy the furniture and
other things that she still needed - most importantly, blankets and cushions
for the window seat -
And when it was finished - tidied and furnished - she walked down the
stone steps to the beach. She turned on the sand, looked up at the cottage
and smiled.
It was just as they had imagined it.

Isobel adjusted easily to life at the cottage. It was everything she had
ever wanted from a home - beside the sea, cozy; modest in size but large
enough that she could have friends over. Ginny, Neville, Luna and
Hermione all visited, every now and then, and the rest of the time she spent
alone.
And it was good.
She began to go out more regularly - began to explore nearby towns and
to visit her friends. As Harry and Ginny's wedding drew nearer, she went
frequently to help them with the organisation.
She did not think of her mother or of Draco any less than she had
before. She did not feel any less sad, the pain of losing them did not subside.
But very slowly, she began to learn to live with the sadness.
If anything, she thought of Draco more than she had before moving
here. She felt closer to him here, knowing that this was the place he had
chosen for them.
And she knew that in another life, he sat beside her here, by the
window. He would read and she would write, and they would be the only
people for miles.

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 On the morning of Harry and Ginny's wedding, she woke early to get
dressed. She was to get ready before she arrived at the Burrow, where she,
Hermione and Ginny's sister-in-law, Fleur, would help Ginny into her
wedding dress. The ceremony would be held in the Weasleys' garden.
Isobel's bridesmaid dress was a soft, pale pink. It had embroidered
flowers across the bodice and a floaty skirt that fell to her ankles. From her
time spent outside on the beach, Isobel had built up a tan. Her hair was
longer than it had ever been, and today her curls hung soft and loose
around her shoulders.
She opened the drawer of her dressing table. She picked out Draco's
star necklace, fine and silver; desperately delicate. Untouched for months.
She clasped it around her neck.
Then she Apparated to the Burrow.

The bridesmaids fussed over Ginny for hours, fixing her hair and lacing
her dress into place. Outside, Isobel could hear guests arriving, gathering
in the garden and filing into the large tent that had been set up for the
ceremony. But her focus was only on Ginny, and her dress and veil and
flowers, and making sure not one hair was out of place.
When the congregation were all seated inside the tent, and Harry was
standing in place and Ginny was ready, the girls walked to the edge of the
tent, and prepared for their entrance.
Ginny, radiant in her silky white gown, took Isobel's hand in her own.
"Thank you for coming," she whispered. "It means a lot to me that you did."
"Of course," said Isobel, smiling. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Ginny's eyes flicked between her own. She nodded and turned away, to
her father. Fleur, looking on, took this her queue to begin the ceremony.
She peeled back the entrance of the tent and walked in. Music drifted out
from the tent, and Hermione stepped forward to enter next.

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 "Iz," said Ginny sharply, breaking away from her father. "Will you
check my veil again?"
Isobel was quite certain that Ginny's veil was perfect. But she complied,
and walked behind Ginny to straighten the veil once more. "It's lovely, Gin."
Hermione had disappeared, and it was Isobel's turn to go in. She
squeezed Ginny's hand and moved to walk away, but Ginny pulled her back.
Isobel rubbed at her hand, where Ginny's nails had dug into her skin.
"Everything okay?"
"I have something to tell you."
Isobel frowned. "Ginny, I have to walk in now."
"I just think that you should know," said Ginny, her voice hurried but
calm, "that I invited Malfoy to both the ceremony and the reception. And
Zabini, and Astoria. And they're all sitting in there, right now."
Isobel gasped. Sweat sprung to her palms, and her heart began to race.
Ginny smoothed down the skirts of her bridal gown, looking entirely
nonchalant. "Go on then," she said. "I'll see you inside."
"No," said Isobel shakily. "No, they can't be in there -"
"We're friends now, kind of," said Ginny. "It was only polite to invite
them."
"That's - that's not why you invited them -"
Ginny raised a shoulder. "No," she said. "You're right, it's not. But I
wanted to invite Malfoy, because I think you have some unfinished
business with him. And given that he doesn't have the faintest idea who you
are at the moment, it would have been strange to invite him alone."
"Unfinished business," Isobel echoed. She could barely choke out the
words, could barely comprehend what was happening - "Ginny, it's over
between us. He doesn't remember me, there's nothing left to say -"
"It's my wedding," said Ginny, "I can do what I want." She nodded at
the opening of the tent. "Go on."
"But I can't -"

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 Ginny combed Isobel's hair behind her shoulders. "Darling," she said,
"if you don't walk in right now, you'll make me late to my own wedding."
She gave her a warm smile. "And you can. You'll be perfectly fine."
Isobel was not sure that she was breathing. But she turned away,
towards the tent. She clasped her flowers in one trembling hand and with
the other, peeled back the entrance.
She shot one final, terrified glance back at Ginny. Then she stepped
inside.

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 thirty-nine

draco

It was sickly sweet, all of it. Fairy lights and ribbons hung from the
ceiling of the tent; bouquets of flowers lined the aisle. In the far corner, a
string quartet played a gentle waltz. It was the sort of thing that Draco
would once have despised. Though now it didn't bother him all that much.
At the front of the tent, the ushers were waiting for the bridesmaids to
walk in. Harry Potter stood by them, his expression the odd combination of
happiness and nerves that Draco had only ever witnessed at weddings.
Draco had hated Harry Potter for his entire life. He had never expected
to attend his wedding, never mind be invited - and had he known that he
would attend, he would have expected to hate every second. But he felt
nothing. He felt no emotions at being here, didn't feel anything for the bride
or bridegroom. He wouldn't be here at all if Astoria and Blaise hadn't
persuaded him to come, wouldn't have bothered to dress nicely and travel
out to the middle of bloody nowhere to sit in a room of people he didn't like.
But in the months since they had received the invite, Astoria and Blaise had
insisted repeatedly that they attend, and eventually, reluctantly, he had
agreed.
He hadn't told his mother and father that he was here, of course. They
still despised Harry Potter, and tensions were running high enough in the
Manor as it was.

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 Draco's father had been called back for a series of trials at the Ministry.
Two years had passed since the battle now, which meant that almost two
years had passed since the Ministry had decided that not one of the Malfoys
was enough of a threat to the Wizarding World to be sent to Azkaban. But
more escaped Death Eaters had been captured since the battle, and their
memories and testimonies had been combed through, and more and more
information had been uncovered about Lucius that put him at risk of
imprisonment. And Narcissa and Lucius appeared to live in a state of
perpetual anxiety, but Draco didn't really know what to think. Because he
knew a thousand things that the Ministry didn't, that could potentially ship
his father straight to Azkaban.
Blaise sat to Draco's right, beside the aisle. Astoria was to his left. The
other wedding guests spoke quietly amongst themselves as they waited for
the ceremony to begin, but they sat in silence.
As the first bridesmaid walked in, the congregation stood. A hush fell
across the tent as the guests turned to face her, and Draco's mind wandered
to Astoria, to his own wedding.
She was putting off the planning.
Draco wasn't sure why, and her manner of doing so was so very
inconspicuous that he mightn't have noticed, had his parents not been so
intent on its planning themselves. The wedding was scheduled for August,
but Astoria was dawdling. Whenever the subject came up, she would subtly
change it. Anytime he asked her about it, she was dismissive, her answers
noncommittal. When Astoria had insisted they attend Potter's wedding, it
had been the strongest sentiment she had shown in months.
When the second bridesmaid had walked in and taken her place, the
guests turned back to the entrance of the tent, expectant. But there was a
pause, and for long, drawn-out moments, nothing happened.

317
 Murmurs rose from the congregation. Draco glanced at Astoria, and
then at Blaise. Neither met his eyes. They were acting even stranger than
usual, today.
The musicians continued on; the rise and fall of the strings soft and
sweet. And just as Draco was beginning to wonder if something was wrong,
a small hand appeared at the entrance to the tent. It was pulled back once
more, and a girl with dark blonde curls and a tiny star necklace began to
walk down the aisle.
And Draco had been raised in a house riddled with Dark Magic - had
lived for years in a magical school - had seen all sorts of strange and
enigmatic and inexplicably mesmerizing things - but he had never seen
anything quite like her.
She was ethereal.
Her dark eyes, wide with nervousness, swept across the congregation.
The other bridesmaids had looked at the guests as well, but more so out of
courtesy; they had smiled and nodded as they passed everyone -
But her gaze skipped across faces, unsmiling. She was searching for
someone.
Just as she neared Draco's aisle, her eyes found his. His breath caught.
He turned as she passed, watching her go; leant to Blaise and muttered,
"Who is that?"
When the girl had reached the front of the tent and Blaise had not yet
responded, Draco turned to his friend and saw that his jaw was pulled into
a hard line. "What's wrong with you?"
Blaise did not meet Draco's eyes. "Nothing."
"Do you know who that girl is?"
Blaise paused. Whispered, "No."
Ginny Weasley had begun to walk into the tent, and the congregation
turned to face her. While everyone's attention was on the bride, Draco
angled his head back to the girl. He studied the curves of her face, the curls

318
that hung loose down her back, the freckles scattered like constellations
across her cheeks. Her hands were tangled together in front of her,
knuckles white as she clutched her flowers.
Draco was quite certain that he had never seen this girl in his life, so he
did not know why she seemed so familiar to him.
Without warning, her gaze slid to his. Their eyes locked for three, four,
five long seconds. Nerves shot through Draco like electricity, and there was
a whole crowd of bodies between him and her, but he felt as though they
were the only two people in the room.
She broke the eye contact as the bride reached the altar, and she
stepped forward to collect the bouquet.
Draco looked away, his pulse quickening. He could not recall ever
looking at a girl and feeling so overwhelmed - he was engaged, for heaven's
sake - and he could not quite say what had happened, just there.
The officiant ordered the guests to sit, and he did.
He hitched up his trousers to slouch back in his chair. He had not worn
these trousers since his very first date with Astoria. Draco owned so many
pairs of practically identical trousers that he rarely wore the same thing
twice, and these were too nice for casual use anyway.
As he sat back, his hand brushed against something flat and square in
his pocket. He leant back, and unnoticed by Blaise or Astoria, slid it out.
The picture had ragged edges, as if it had been torn from a larger
photograph. Its subject smiled up at Draco, looking cheerful and
mischievous, without the slightest indication of the nerves she had shown
when he had caught her eye, moments before.
It was a picture of the girl. The bridesmaid that had just walked past
him.

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 isobel

Isobel could feel her heart thudding through the entire ceremony. Her
clammy hands clasped the flowers in her lap, and though she kept her eyes
on Ginny and Harry, she found it difficult to think of anything but Draco,
rows behind her.
Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the day after they had met in the
nightclub, he had looked at her and had known almost at once that she
didn't remember him. She hadn't quite understood back then how he could
see that so quickly.
She understood, now. As she had walked past Draco he had looked
right at her, but there had been no softness in his eyes. No flicker of
recognition. And she had seen the faintest crease between his eyebrows, the
faintest frown as his gaze met hers -
But it hadn't been him. It hadn't been her Draco.
When the ceremony ended, Isobel walked back down the aisle behind
Ginny and Harry, with her arm in Ron's. She could feel Draco's gaze like
heat on her skin as she passed, but could not bring herself to meet it. She
looked at Blaise instead, and raised the corner of her mouth into as much
of a smile as she could muster. The smile that he offered in return was
equally miserable.
She could not get away immediately after the service. People gathered
around the bridesmaids, taking pictures and chattering excitedly, and all
she wanted was a moment alone -
When she had finally pulled through the crowd, having endured many
polite conversations, she hurried into the Weasleys' house to lock herself in
the downstairs bathroom.
She pressed her back against the sink, her chest rising with shallow
breaths. Her mind spun, shifting rapidly between anger at Ginny to shock
at seeing him, to apprehension at what might happen next. Over time, she

320
had become comfortable in her sadness, had found routine and stability in
her sorrow. No, she hadn't been happy, but it had been fine - she had learnt
to cope, had learnt to live alone, and as much as she had missed Draco she
hadn't expected to see him again. At least not so soon.
She straightened her dress, and combed her fingers through her hair.
Just as she placed her fingers on the door handle, there was a light knock
at the door.
Astoria was standing outside the bathroom, looking distressed. "If
you're having second thoughts," she said, the moment that Isobel opened
the door, "I don't want to marry him. Not if you're going to change your
mind. I can't do it, I won't."
Isobel stared at her. "I'm not."
Astoria shook her head, flustered. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean
to be rude, I just - I haven't seen you since everything happened, and I
didn't know how else to find you but to come to this wedding. I wanted to
talk to you. And I wanted Draco to come here too, so you could see him and
be certain."
Isobel stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door. She sank her
back against it, and looked through the window, out at the crowd of guests.
"It doesn't help," she replied. "Seeing him - it doesn't make me more certain
at all. I'll miss him forever, but I'll keep my word. It's better this way."
She looked back at Astoria, but did not see the contentment that she
had hoped for in her expression. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure you're right," said Astoria. "I'm not sure it is better this
way."
"What do you mean?"
There was a long, drawn-out pause, and Isobel felt her gut twist as
Astoria weighed her words. "He's not himself," said Astoria, finally. "Ever
since his father erased his memories, he's been different. He never gets
angry anymore. He never laughs, he doesn't really care about anything. And

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I keep thinking over everything that happened, and maybe if I hadn't gotten
angry and stormed off - maybe if I'd stayed to talk things over, I could have
covered for you both, and you'd still be together, now. We wouldn't be in
this mess."
"It's not your fault," said Isobel. Worry clawed at her heart as she tried
to process all of the new information. "I didn't realise it was a mess," she
said. "I thought it was all sorted out now."
"He found perfume," said Astoria, her eyes filling with tears. "Between
his things, he found your old perfume. He gave it to me because he thought
it was mine. And I just had to say 'thank you'."
"I'm sorry."
"I think you should talk to him."
Isobel shook her head. "About what, Astoria? He doesn't remember
me."
"I don't know," said Astoria. "Just - we need to figure something out.
We need to fix things, because nothing is right, at the moment."
Isobel's heart sank. Here she had been, for the past few weeks, thinking
that things had finally begun to seem right. "How does Draco feel about it?"
she asked. "Does he think it's a mess, too?"
"That's the worst part," answered Astoria. "I think Draco believes that
everything's fine, when it's really not. I don't even think he knows that I -
that Blaise -"
Astoria dropped her gaze to the floor, and with that, Isobel caught on.
"You're in love with Blaise?"
There was no answer for a few moments. Then Astoria said, "It doesn't
matter."
Isobel's temper flared. "Of course it matters," she said. "If you're going
behind Draco's back -"
Astoria fixed Isobel with a steely glare. "It's not like that," she said.
"Blaise and I have never even spoken about it. I don't know if he. . ." She

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rolled her eyes, indignant at her own emotions. "I don't know if he feels the
same way."
Isobel's cheeks burned with shame. "Sorry for jumping to conclusions,"
she mumbled. She didn't know Astoria very well, but she knew for certain
that Blaise would never betray Draco like that.
When Astoria didn't respond, Isobel said quietly, "You would know."
She scanned the crowd of guests outside, searching for a head of white-
blond hair. "I think you'd know without him saying anything."
If Astoria had an answer for this, she didn't voice it. When she spoke
again, there was urgency in her tone. Desperation. "Please talk to Draco,"
she said. "Please."
Isobel could not bring herself to meet Astoria's eyes. "They're starting
the reception," she said. "We should go."
Throughout the reception - the meal, speeches and all, Isobel could not
find a moment to steal Ginny away, to talk to her. There was no opportunity
for Isobel to get angry, to call Ginny out or to lose her temper because Ginny
was occupied at every moment, with every guest wanting to say a word to
her, and even if she had had a moment to spare, Isobel couldn't get angry
at her on her wedding day anyway. She felt even more frustrated with Ginny
for that.
And she might have more attention to give to her frustration, if her
every sense wasn't centred on Draco. The sky was darkening outside; the
wedding guests were lit only by flickering candles, but still he studied her,
across the tables. And she could not concentrate.
She would not allow herself to return his stare because she feared that
he would see, from her expression, that something was amiss. She knew
that she wanted to talk to him, knew that she needed to give Astoria an
answer - but she had not been expecting this, had not planned for this, and
felt increasingly overcome with emotion and confusion.

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 When the meal was finished and the tables were being cleared to make
space for the dance floor, she slipped out of the tent. She walked to the edge
of the garden, and leant against the wooden fence that circled it. She held
the fence so tightly as she looked out at the fields, at the starless sky beyond,
that the splintered wood began to dig into her palms.
"No stars."
She turned at the sound of his voice. Saw him silhouetted against the
candlelit tent, his body all hard lines and dark shadows.
"No," she said. "No stars."
Draco took another step closer. Isobel could just make out his features
in the dim light, could see the furrow that deepened over his white-blond
brow. "What's your name?"
"Isobel," she answered. Her voice was weak.
"Isobel," he echoed. She turned away at once, took the fence back into
her hands and gripped it. He followed, and leant against the fence to face
her. "Do I know you?"
"We were in the same year at Hogwarts."
He paused. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What house were you in?"
She glanced at him; saw the scrutiny in his eyes. Knew the intensity of
the déjà vu he must be feeling. "Gryffindor."
He shook his head. "It's strange that I don't remember you."
She took a shaky breath. "That's okay."
"Do you remember me?"
She almost laughed. "Kind of."
"And my friend, Blaise?" he said. "I saw you smile at him. Do you know
him?"
"Not really."
"Are you interested in him?"

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 She looked up, then. She saw Draco's perplexed expression, and her
heart ached. "No," she replied. "I just - I recognised him from school, that's
all."
"Right," he muttered. "Well, that's probably for the best, as I think he's
in love with my fiancée."
She hesitated. "What makes you think that?"
"I've seen the way they look at each other," said Draco. He turned away,
and rested his hands on the fence so his position mirrored hers. "It's
different from how she looks at me, or I suppose, how I look at her. I don't
know. I'm not engaged to Astoria for love - our supposed marriage was
never about anything like that, so -" he paused. "I'm wondering if it would
be terrible of me to keep something like that from her."
Isobel stared at him. Draco's eyes skated over her face, her stunned
expression, and one eyebrow tilted in mild amusement. "What?"
She felt as though her heart had dropped to the pit of her stomach. "I
just - I think that some people might believe stability is a better proposition
than love," she said. "In marriage."
"Is that what you believe?"
"I've considered that." Isobel released a breath. Her heart was beating
fast, her thoughts were muddled, and she could not fathom that he was
considering breaking things off with Astoria for the exact opposite reason
that Isobel had broken things off with him.
She had been certain that Draco and Astoria would be okay, now. Their
life together had seemed so simple, so straightforward - she hadn't
considered for a minute that it might become rocky before they'd even
married.
"Sorry," said Draco abruptly. He stepped back. "I'm sorry - I have no
idea why I told you any of that -"
"Don't apologize," said Isobel, and by instinct, she reached out to him.

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 Her fingers brushed against his, and Draco froze. His eyes locked onto
hers. Slowly and hesitantly, his hand curled into hers. And she knew
- knew, with utter certainty - that he could feel the familiarity of her skin,
her fingers, her touch - just as she felt the familiarity of his.
Draco dropped her hand. "I don't know why," he said, voice gruff, "but
I feel like I know you. But I don't know you, obviously - and I'm sorry that
I told you all of that -"
Tears sprang to Isobel's eyes. And before she could even think about it
- before she even really knew what she was doing - she reached out again.
"Don't go, Draco."
He took another step back, uncertainty and fear written all over his pale
face. "I found a picture of you in my pocket," he said. "I don't know how it
got there. I'm sorry if that - if it scares you. But I really don't know who you
are, or what's going on, and honestly, I'm scared myself."
Draco turned, so that his back was to her. He raked a hand through his
hair; stared out at the fields for long moments - then looked up, out at the
starless sky -
Then he turned back to her. And tears were brimming in Isobel's eyes,
now, and she was shaking her head because she knew what he was about to
do, and she didn't want him to leave - she needed just a little more time -
"I have to go."
Isobel rushed towards him. Her hand curled into his shirt just as he
Apparated.

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 forty

isobel

She knew at once where he was going, and knew that she couldn’t be
seen there. Knew that if Lucius and Narcissa caught her on the grounds of
the Manor that would lead to inevitable disaster, and that was not a risk she
was willing to take. Being seen was not an option.
When Draco and Isobel’s feet found solid ground, they stumbled. They
fell together onto the gravel with their legs still tangled.
Isobel looked up, glanced at the doors and windows of the Manor. All
of the lights at the front of the house were off, all of the windows were dark.
She took that as a good sign. When she looked back to Draco, she found his
eyes fixed on hers, panicked. He inched backwards on his elbows, away
from her. “You followed me.”
Her heart thudded. “You’re not hurt?”
He didn’t say anything, and she scanned his limbs through the dark.
Blood had spilled where he had hit the ground – as it spilled over her own
palms, her knees – but that appeared to be the extent of his injuries. She
blew out a breath of relief. She had been sure that one of them would be
splinched again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Can we go back? Or at least away from here,
somewhere safer –“
Draco’s eyebrows knitted. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

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 She sat up and looked at the blood seeping through his shirt by his
elbows. She refrained from reaching out to him. For all of the time she had
known him, she had been the erratic, quick-tempered one; never hiding her
panic, always speaking too much when she was nervous. He had been calm
– whether it was in his nature or not, he had met her turbulence with
composure, had offered solace in his self-assurance. Now, she realized, she
had to be the calm one. He needed her to be. With her hands in her lap, she
said, “Please Apparate with me back to the wedding. Please, Draco.”
He looked at her for a few more seconds, then shook his head, and her
heart sank. “We can find somewhere quiet,” she told him. “In the Weasley’s
house, even. No one will bother us.”
Draco’s gaze clung to the star hanging at her throat. “I don’t think I’m
well,” he said gruffly. “My mind – something isn’t right. And I don’t want
to go back to all of those people when I’m feeling this way.”
“Feeling what way?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then said, “My
mind doesn’t feel. . . Whole. It feels wrong. I told my parents and they said
it was nothing, but it’s not nothing.” He shook his head, still looking at her
necklace. “It feels like something is missing.”
“Like a blur,” she offered quietly. “Like some parts of your mind – your
memory – are crystal clear, but others aren’t there at all.”
His gaze finally landed on hers. “Yes. Like a blur. And I also –“ he
scuffed the toe of his shoe against the gravel – “I’m aware that Blaise and
Astoria never have much time alone. I think it’ll be good for them to talk,
without me there.” He ran his hands across his knees, and Isobel saw that
he had cuts across his palms from the gravel. “Astoria is the girl I’m
supposed to marry,” he said. “I’m not sure if I told you her name.”
“You did.”
“Right,” he said. “I swear I don’t usually open up to strangers like that.”

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 Isobel’s throat felt dry. “I also think it’d be good for them to talk things
through,” she said. “I think that’d be good for all of you.”
“So we can’t go back to the wedding.” His eyes were heavy on hers
through the dim light. “But we can go somewhere else, if you want.”
“Okay.” She cast another glance at the Manor windows. Then she stood,
and held out a hand to him. “Will you Apparate with me?”
His eyes dipped to her hand, then back to her. “Where to?”
“To my house,” she answered. “I know you have no reason to trust me,”
she added. “But I’m asking you to.”
Draco didn’t move. He stared at her, eyes skating across her features –
and she had felt him study her a thousand times before, but never so
intensely. She dropped her hand, feeling her cheeks burn. It had been silly
of her to come here, she knew that. The only good reason she had for
following him was her own fear of never seeing him again. But she was here
now, and of course her presence was baffling to him. Of course he wouldn’t
trust her, why should he?
But then, to her surprise, Draco stood. The gravel crunched as he
walked towards her and, hesitantly, slipped his hand into hers. She looked
up at him, a sigh of relief at the top of her lungs.
“Alright,” he said, grey eyes swirling with apprehension. “I’ll go with
you.”
“Alright,” Isobel echoed. The feeling of his hand in hers was almost
unbearable; the familiarity of his touch had been the safety she had learned
to live without. But she wrapped her arm around him, and pulled herself
close. Neither of them could afford to be splinched right now.
She spun, and he was pulled into the spirals of Apparition with her.

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 draco

Draco did not know why he went with her. He did not know why every
nerve in his body told him it was okay to follow this girl who was essentially
a stranger. He knew he shouldn't trust her, but he did, and he didn't want
her to leave without him. And now her arm circled protectively around his
middle, and they were Apparating. And seconds later, sand was
materializing underneath his shoes.
Isobel dropped her arm but stayed close. Draco looked around him.
The sky was almost entirely dark, but he could just make out tall sand dunes
and towering cliffs. The ocean was black, and its waves fell in a soft
murmur. He swore that he had never been to this beach, that it was new to
him. But somehow, he knew that at the end of the beach, on top of the
highest dune, sat a small cottage that overlooked the sea.
He did not expect the cottage to stand strong. For whatever reason, he
had expected it to be in ruins, untouched for decades, its walls crumbling.
He hadn't expected there to be a path of stone steps that led up to the
cottage, but there was. The cottage wasn't what he'd expected, but it was
overwhelmingly familiar.
He was very aware of the girl's gaze on him, all the way up the steps.
The girl. Isobel. She was overwhelmingly familiar, too.
She turned away from him to unlock the wooden front door. He noticed
that as she slid the key into the lock, her fingers trembled.
"Muggle lock?" Draco asked. His voice was raspy, and he realised that
he too was very nervous.
Isobel nodded. "I cast a few charms to protect the house from
magic. Alohamora doesn't work on the windows or doors, and people can't
Apparate inside the house." She pushed the door open. "I feel a bit safer
that way."
"Do you live alone?"

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 She nodded again but elaborated no further, and he followed her
inside. She waved her wand so that all of the lights came on in the front
room, which spanned the entire length of the cottage. Its windows
stretched over the wall, facing the sea.
The door led straight into the kitchen area. Navy-blue cabinets lined
the walls, around a small, circular table with two Windsor chairs. At the
other end of the room, a padded bench lined the window and curved around
the corner. Various cushions and blankets of deep blues and greens had
been strewn across the bench, alongside a thick stack of parchment and a
quill. Across from the window sat an old, wooden piano.
Draco looked back to Isobel, and cleared his throat. "You have a lovely
home."
Her expression brightened. "You think so?"
"It's wonderful," he said sincerely. His eyes fell to her dress, and he saw
for the first time that when they had both fallen, she had torn holes by her
knees. Blood seeped through there, now. "You're hurt," he said.
"It's nothing," said Isobel, but her eyes were on the sleeve of his shirt,
where blood still slowly trickled. She took a breath. "Let's go clean up."
The cottage had only one tiny bathroom. Draco sat back on the closed
toilet seat, but still took up half of the cramped space. Isobel gestured to his
right arm, and without saying a word, he gave it to her. She rolled up his
sleeve, careful not to accidentally graze his wound, and he watched as she
waved her wand in slow, small circles around his elbow to clear the blood.
He didn't watch Isobel's wand, he watched her expression. Watched
her dark eyes narrow in concentration, watched her bite hard on her
bottom lip as she healed his wound. The curls around her hairline had
sprung loose over the course of the day, and now framed her face like a
halo.
When she rolled up his left sleeve, her expression did not change at the
sight of his Dark Mark. She didn't even flinch, and her eyes moved across

331
his wounds instead, her face scrunching in concern at the blood. And Draco
decided that either he was dreaming, or something very, very strange was
happening, because he did not understand.
He did not understand at all, but he felt safer and happier than he had
felt in months.
So he dismissed his hundreds of questions and said nothing. He settled
for watching Isobel move around the tiny bathroom, tending to his wounds
and her own.

isobel

When she could find no more cuts on Draco's arms, she leant back
against the bathroom counter. The cuts on her own palms weren't deep,
and they didn't take long to heal.
When she pulled back the hem of her dress to see her bloodied knees,
Draco moved hesitantly forward. "Can I?"
She straightened, pulse quickening. "Sure," she said, breathlessly. She
put her hands behind her, on the bathroom counter; lifted herself onto it
and leant back on her hands. And if Draco felt any familiarity - if he had
any sense of already having experienced healing her wounds in a bathroom,
he didn't mention it.
Instead, he held a wet cloth to her grazed knee and asked, "Do you think
the wedding is over yet?"
"I think so," she replied. "It's been dark for a while. If it hasn't ended
yet, I think it will soon."
"Then I should go soon," he said. "Blaise and Astoria will start to
wonder where I am."
Isobel sat forward, and Draco's eyes dropped to her hands in her lap.
He reached out, towards the scars that crossed the backs of her hands - faint

332
remnants of the splinch wounds he had dropped Dittany onto. He
recognised them, too; she was sure of it. His fingers brushed over the scars,
and her heart beat fast. She heard his breath catch, but again, he said
nothing.
He placed a hand on either side of her, on the counter. Isobel's dark
eyes traced his grey ones, traced across his fair lashes, the pale skin of his
face, the white-blond hair that she had thought about every single day for
months -
His gaze lingered on the scar on her cheekbone. Then he looked at her,
and she looked back, and neither of them were physically touching the
other but they were so agonizingly close. With him here like this, she could
fool herself into thinking he knew her, still. Just for a moment.
"Can I see you again?" he asked. His brow twisted. "I know - I know
that I'm engaged, so I don't mean to, um." He looked away, at the bathroom
door. "I just think it's important that I see you again."
"I'll contact you," said Isobel, her voice soft. "I'll send you a letter."
Draco stepped back. She lifted herself off the bathroom counter, and
led him to the front door. As she opened it, the sound of the waves floated
into the cottage from the beach below.
Draco raked a hand through his hair, still looking at her. "What's your
name?" he asked. "Your full name."
"Isobel Young," she answered.
A smile curved at his lips. "I'm glad I met you, Isobel Young."
Isobel's heart ached. She didn't want him to say goodbye, didn't want
him to go at all. She was not sure she would ever see him again, face to face;
just like this.
She forced a smile. "I'm glad I met you too, Draco Malfoy," she said.
From the bottom of her heart, she meant it.

333
 Isobel didn't sleep at all that night. She sat wrapped in a green blanket,
looking out of the window.
Because the sky was cloudy, she couldn't see much. But as the night
passed and the hours faded by, the clouds began to clear and the moon
became visible. And in the hours before dawn, several pinprick stars
appeared.
Had she known she would see Draco today, she wasn't sure what she
might have expected to happen. She might have expected the encounter to
affirm that she had made the right choice. She might have expected to be
bowled over with emotion at how much she missed him.
She would not have expected to be thinking about her mother. But
Isobel sat for hours, and gradually she realised that seeing Draco had
allowed her to understand her mother better than ever.
After the war, Maggie had made a decision in the height of her emotion.
The decision had seemed like the only option at the time. It had seemed
rational, but it had determined the trajectories of their lives, and those
trajectories had not been good.
When her mother had died, Isobel had done the exact same thing.
She did not regret telling Draco to go, all of those months ago. Their
relationship wouldn't have worked at the time. She had been grieving her
mother; his marriage to Astoria had been planned; Lucius had interfered
relentlessly. And back then, he had loved her more than she loved him in
return. They had needed time to pass in order for things to maybe, possibly
work.
She hadn't expected to see a tiny, glimmering light at the end of the
tunnel. A star-shaped light in the darkness. Isobel wasn't sure that she
would reach it, but she thought there might be a chance.
As dawn arrived and the sky became lighter, she went to the bedroom
and found the two vials of memories. Then she took her quill and a piece of
parchment from the stack that lay by the window.

334
 And she wrote,

Dear Draco,
This is a vial of memories that have been erased from your mind. If
you think you can be happy with Astoria - if you think that your marriage
will make both of you happy, then please disregard this vial. But if you
don't think you can be happy with Astoria. . . Well, as long as the vial is in
your possession, the choice is yours.
The smaller vial contains the memories of my mother, Maggie Young.
There is one memory in particular from the day after the Battle of
Hogwarts, that I think you should watch. If you ever decide to bring
evidence of your father's wrongdoings to the Ministry, I think this will
help you.
I love you. Even if you don't remember me, my heart belongs to you.
Love, Belly.

335
 epilogue

At the top of the highest dune of a secluded beach in England, there

stood a solitary cottage.
A girl lived in the cottage. A girl with long curls, big brown eyes and the
defeated appearance of someone who had recently lost everything they
loved.
The girl loved the beach. She loved to stand with the waves tipping
around her ankles, watching the ebb and flow of the water. She loved to sit
at the big windows of the cottage and write, with a blanket curled around
her shoulders.
But recently, she was riddled with nerves. Because time was passing,
agonizingly slowly, and she had heard absolutely nothing from the boy she
feared she would never see again.
The days flicked by, and still, she heard nothing. And with each minute
that passed, she grew more certain that they would never again meet; that
she would never again look into his icy grey eyes. That she would never get
to say that she loved him.
Until one day, exactly two weeks since he had been there last, the boy
appeared halfway down the beach.
He appeared from nothing. One moment there was no trace of him; the
next moment, he was there, walking across the sand towards the cottage.
When he arrived at the foot of the dune, he looked up at it. He raked a
hand through his white-blond hair, and he marvelled at her work.

336
 And before he could take another step, the front door was flung open
and the girl appeared. They paused for half a second, and that was all it took
for it to register to them both that this was real. That this all was truly
happening - that both of them were there, that they weren't dreaming.
He started up the steps towards her, but she was already hurtling down
them. And then her arms were around his neck and his were around her
waist, and they were holding each other so tightly that neither could
properly breathe. They buried their faces in one another's necks and
twisted their fingers into one another's shirts -
He was the first to step back, to take a breath and push the hair from
her tear-streaked face.
"You remember," Isobel said, her voice shaking. "I can see it in your
eyes."
"All of my memories are back," Draco told her. "I gave them all to Blaise
before my father erased them."
"I know you did," she said. "I watched them. And your father - is your
father -"
"My father is in Azkaban, for now," said Draco. He brushed his thumb
along the scar on her cheekbone. "But the Ministry know what he did. If he
ever gets out of prison, he won't bother us again."
Isobel's pulse raced. "And Blaise?" she asked. "Blaise and Astoria?"
"They're together," said Draco. "They're happy." His mouth lifted into
a half-smile. "And I think you need to give me a tour of this place."
Isobel laughed, and nodded, and took her hand in his. "Of course," she
said. She tugged him up the stone steps, brushing hot, happy tears from her
cheeks.
She showed him around the cottage; showed him what she had done
with it. Their tour ended in the kitchen, and as they looked out at the sea,
their hearts were full.

337
 "There's one last finishing touch that we need," she said, and he raised
his eyebrows in questioning. "We're going to need some glow-in-the-dark
stars."
"Isobel Young," said Draco. He circled one arm around her waist, and
pulled her close. In the distance, waves broke softly against the shore. "I
will buy you every star in the sky, if you want me to."
Isobel placed her hand against his cheek. "Do you remember what you said
in your last letter?" she asked him. "About - about loving me forever -"
His eyes flicked between hers, and a smile curved at his lips. "Even if I
don't remember you," he said, "my heart will belong to you, forever."
Isobel nodded. "I mean that, too," she said. "No matter what happens,
I'll love you forever."
Draco kissed her cheek. The touch was enough to make her tears spill,
once more.
He smiled into her salty tears, and mumbled against her skin, "Forever
will do, Belly."
In a different life, one much like this one, the girl and the boy were kept
apart by the forces of the world - by the restraints of society, the people that
told them no. They did not fight to break down the walls that were built to
keep them apart. But in this life, they did.
In another life, the girl and the boy were separate.
In this one, they were together.

338
 fin.

When I finally set down the quill, my hand is stiff and cramping.
I have filled a thick stack of parchment with the words of our story -
with everything I can remember. Draco has helped, has contributed where
he can, and together we have documented every moment and emotion.
One day, we will need them. Even if no one ever tries to take our
memories again. One day when we are old, our minds will fail us.
Keeping our memories in vials is not enough for me. It's not enough to
extract them and put them in a safe place; not after everything we've been
through. But it's all in writing now, and that's the most I can do.
The cottage is small, but it's all that we need. Large windows overlook
the sea. Knitted blankets and soft cushions swarm the window seat, where
we both sit. Draco is engrossed in a book, his long legs sprawled across the
bench as he reads.
I move closer to him, and wrap my arms around his middle. He puts
the book down and pulls me into his side.
"This is where our story ends," I tell him. "Here at the cottage, just as
we planned it."
"Belly," says Draco. His arm circles my waist, and he turns us - pulls us
back so that we are looking out of the window, at the vast expanse of sea.
"Belly, our story is only just beginning."

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 from ana:

my heart is bursting. i can't believe that after so long, the story of dear
draco has finally come to an end. it has been such a beautiful, incredible
journey, filled with both sad and happy moments, both tears and laughter.
from the bottom of my heart, thank you so so much for reading. i appreciate
your support so, so much. i would not have finished this story without the
overwhelming support of its lovely, dramatic, hilarious and incredibly kind
readers.
on wattpad, both dear draco and this sequel have been translated into a
range of different languages. i still can’t believe that, it’s one of the coolest
things to ever happen to me. i owe so much to those translators and am so
grateful for their support and friendship.
so!!!! isobel and draco finally got a happy ending, thank goodness :)
as sad as it is for me to say goodbye to this story, i'm also excited to close
the dear draco chapter and move on to new things. please stick around if you'd
like to see what i write next!
i will post updates on instagram, my username there is @malfoyuh. i have
another instagram dedicated to the books i'm reading - @anacanread. my tiktok
is also @malfoyuh. you can also find links in my bio to my spotify, youtube,
ao3, and the dear draco discord server, if you'd like.
thank you again, for everything!!! i love you all so much.

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