d r a c o
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.
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.
-
i s o b e l
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 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.
