dear draco,

seventeen

Most days, I wake up thinking of Draco. Probably too many days, and I worry now that I didn't spend enough time with my family over summer, while I was so busy worrying about him. But then, he's been acting even stranger than I expected him to. He seems to constantly be on edge, and constantly wary of those around him. One moment he's lovely, and the next he's grumpy, to the point that I wonder if the only thing wrong really is the awareness of his father locked up in Azkaban. Is there something more? Something he's not telling me? Azkaban is an awful, terrible place and I'm sure it's constantly unnerving to have a loved one there. But then, what's worse; having a father in Azkaban or having a father die?

"Belly?"

I start when I hear Draco's voice and blink out of my daze. I'm sitting alone at the Gryffindor table, staring blankly across the hall. It's November now, and getting chillier, but it might as well be September as this has been the case from the start. Me, alone and lonely whenever Draco's not with me. I don't know what time it is now, but I've been sitting here since breakfast, clutching the same letter in my hands. I've looked through it a million times, trying to read between the lines for some kind of loophole, some way out, but I can't find anything. It's a tiny paper ball now, weak in my fist from having been furiously crumpled and un-crumpled so many times.

"Isobel," Hermione had said tentatively that morning, staring at the newspaper she was reading. I'd looked up, startled. We don't speak much these days, Hermione and I, not even simple questions across the breakfast table. But something in her tone told me this was important. "What's your father's name again?"

"Richard, why?"

Hermione paled and pushed the newspaper over to me. As she pointed to a small, almost hidden column, I swore I saw her hand tremble. "Maybe you should read this."

Confused, I had picked up the newspaper and started reading. And in moments, I felt like a part of me had died inside.

My father had been in an attack, and was in what they deemed as 'critical condition'. Everyone else had gotten away with mild injuries, but he had fallen hard and sustained injuries detrimental even in the wizarding world. They didn't know if he'd be okay. From what I could tell, either they didn't know a lot of things, or it was too dangerous to specify. It had been somewhere in the muggle community. They didn't specify. The article was so hidden away, so brief and vague, that the entire thing was so shady that it only pointed to one thing: the article seemed to indicate that the men had been injured in one of the many attempts to attack muggles.

Only minutes later, I received a letter from my mother.

Isobel,

Your father has been involved in an attack. We're not sure of the circumstances.

He's lost a lot of blood and there's not much time. I'm so sorry to tell you this way.

I love you very much and so does he.

Love,

Mum

But it didn't make sense. My father would never, ever want to attack muggles or associate with Death Eaters in any way. He was a good man – possibly the best I knew. But maybe... Maybe I just didn't know him like I thought I did.

"Draco Malfoy at the Gryffindor table," I say now, staring at the letter in my fist. My voice comes out croaky. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Draco sits down beside me, one leg on either side of the bench so that he's facing me. "What's wrong?"

I push the letter to him and stay silent, watching his eyebrows furrow in the long moments that he reads it.

He looks up at me slowly, his eyes pained. "I'm sure he'll be better soon, Belly," he says softly.

"I don't know," I reply, staring at the table. "It was in the Daily Prophet too. The tiniest article, but... I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about it."

"Don't think like that, Belly. You can't think like that." I don't reply. "Are you going to go see him?"

I shake my head slowly. "You can't visit patients in the emergency ward." Draco looks at me pitifully, the letter still in his hand. I know his situation; what do you say to someone in pain when you can't see any hope for them? "The article described it as 'critical condition'," I say, my voice trembling. "In the wizarding world, they don't say those words unless they really have no solution. Do you think he's going to die, Draco?"

"Are you Isobel Young?"

I look up to see a girl who can't be much older than twelve standing in front of us. She may not know who I am, but she definitely recognizes Draco and seems terrified. My eyes drop to the note in her hand. "Yeah."

"Um, Professor McGonagall would like to see you," she says, and she sounds almost apologetic. "She says it's urgent."

I turn to Draco, my eyes wide. His face is pale. "No," I whisper.

He grasps my hand. "You don't know what it's about," he says. "It could be homework, or – or anything." I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes. "Belly, look at me," Draco says pleadingly. "You're going to be alright, okay? It's going to be fine."

"It's not going to be fine."

Draco squeezes my hand again. "I'll go with you. Whenever you're ready."

After minutes, or maybe hours, I stand up. He stands with me and we walk slowly. His eyes are on mine, afraid, not even watching where he's going. When we reach McGonagall's office, he kisses my cheek. "Be brave, Gryffindor."

But before I have even entered the room, I know.

McGonagall wears a grim expression as she beckons me in. "I think you should sit down, Miss Young."

I stay standing. "Is this about my dad?" My voice is unrecognisable.

McGonagall comes around her desk, closer to me. "Yes." She pauses. "I presume you've heard about the attack?" I nod, slowly, willing her to go on but simultaneously not wanting her to say anything at all. Lips pursed, McGonagall picks up a small piece of parchment. "I've just received this. I'm really sorry, Young. Your father passed away a little over an hour ago. He-"

My head spins. Barely aware of what's going on, and unaware if I'm even still breathing, I pull the door open and sprint out of it, McGonagall's voice still sounding behind me. My dad is dead. He's dead and he's never coming back. I'll never see him again, or hear his laugh-

I collapse into Draco's chest, tears flooding from my eyes. "He's gone," I sob, my voice muffled by his shirt. "He's gone, he's really gone." Draco holds me tight, wordless, stroking my hair and letting me mourn. I feel numb, broken. I cling onto Draco like he's the only material thing in the world. His shirt must be soaking by now. I've never cried in front of him, but he holds me tighter than ever before, my home.

And then I pull away from him.

"The last time I saw him, we had a fight."

"Belly, that doesn't matter, okay? Don't think about that."

"We were fighting over you." Draco hesitates, and I push myself away from him. "Is this what your life is like? People – just – dying all the time? Attacks? Futile attacks, people's lives considered worthless?"

Draco's face is even paler than usual. Even more tired. "Belly, don't-"

"Your people did this," I snarl, pushing at his chest. "Your people, he was with them. This kind of thing happens all the time, and yet you just keep living with it as if everything's perfect."

"That's not true!"

"Prove me wrong then!" I'm nearly shouting now. "When have you ever gone against what they say? Tried to defy them? You might as well be one of them, a, a-" I don't say the words, but I don't have to. He looks hurt like I've never seen him before, but I don't care. "I'm going home," I sniff, stalking away from him. "I don't know when I'll be back."

"I love you."

I freeze. He's never said that to me; has avoided the 'L' word like an allergen; has refrained from mentioning anything to do with it. I force myself onward, ignoring the scream of every bone in my body; I love you too; wishing I couldn't hear - or imagine - his voice still sounding behind me.

"I love you. I love you, Belly. I love you."