i s o b e l
It was almost two in the morning when they arrived at the nearest park.
The park was quiet, a step away from the city streets but more sheltered and solitary. It had been locked - they had snuck through with an Alohamora - and so, they had the expanse of grass and trees all to themselves.
They had both taken a paper cup from the corner shop's coffee machine. Draco poured wine for each of them, wryly bumped his cup against hers. They sat, talking. The bare trees did little to shelter them from the cold, but the more wine Isobel had in her system, the better she was able to forget that.
The stars were faint; difficult to see from the city and its lights, but the moon shone brightly over the park. Draco sat with his elbows splayed on his knees. He was wearing a black hoodie underneath his jacket; had its hood pulled over his head. Isobel shot glances at him when he wasn't looking her way; studied the bounce of the moonlight against the pale skin of his hands, the soft pieces of hair that stuck out from under his hood.
"I'm sorry I got angry, earlier," he said, angling his face to her. "When I got back from the bar."
"I'm sorry, too. I know I should have stayed home." I just missed you, she thought.
A smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm sick of being locked up," she told him. "I hate it. I hate that house."
"I hate your mother for locking you up."
She gripped her wine; stared into its depths. "I know you do," she said, begrudgingly.
He brushed the backs of his fingers against her hand. "You snuck into the Manor twice," he said. "Snuck past the gates and the doorman and everything. You didn't even know where in the house to find me." He rolled his eyes. "You could've gotten into serious trouble for it. So I guess showing up on my doorstep at midnight isn't exactly surprising behaviour."
She looked back at him, bewildered. She couldn't imagine herself sneaking into Malfoy Manor now; it sounded terrifying.
Draco drained the rest of his wine. "Used to forget your wand everywhere you went as well," he said.
That much she remembered. "My mother has it drilled into me, now, to always check I have it with me."
"Send her my gratitude."
She tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. Her mother and Draco would probably never like each other; might never even meet again. "Can you tell me more?" she asked him. "More things like that, that I can't remember. More about us."
"If you'd like that," he said, and she nodded.
He told her about the Ministry Christmas party, four years before. Told her that he had followed her up onto a roof and they had looked out at the city and she had, for the first time, spoken to him as if he were just a friend. Not Draco Malfoy, just Draco. That she'd swung her legs on the wall and made stupid jokes and he had found himself falling for her. That he'd despised himself for it, but it had happened, irrepressibly.
"And then I bought you that necklace," he said, eyes dropping to her coat pocket, "and you wore it even though you claimed you hated me." He tilted an eyebrow. "Suspicious, I thought."
He went on; told her more. Told her of afternoons they had spent by the lake; of evenings in the library. Of the fights they'd had over Dumbledore's Army, of how she had infuriated him by relentlessly winding up the Carrows. Of how she'd gone to Malfoy Manor and they had sat on top of a fountain and those moments had felt like the only good things in the world.
