d r a c o
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 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."
"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?"
