Morning had arrived and gone, as did afternoon and now with the sun setting behind the houses that littered Grimmauld Place, Isabella’s bedroom door creaked open. She stirred but did not awaken. Lost in the world of her dreams she was trapped. Visions played in her mind’s eye, as they had done throughout her deep yet restless sleep. The reoccurring dream she had been having that night always ended the same: her father was alive, but suffering; locked in a Death Eater’s clutches. He always cried out for help, yet no matter how much she fought she could never reach him. Someone’s foot steps now echoed in her room, the pink glow from the setting sun was the only light; she hadn’t bothered to close her curtains the night before. She heard the sounds as her body was releasing her from her dreams, but still she didn’t wake.
A strong, soft, gentle hand brushed her dark chocolate brown locks off her sleeping face. From inside her sleep she knew who was touching her. She’d know the touch of those hands till the day she die. Her eyes fluttered open, straining against the last daylight that was slowing fading from her room and focused on the person standing above her. The boy who lived, the man who won in all his glory: Harry Potter. He smiled a little as he saw that she was finally awake, though she didn’t return the smile. He frowned, the smile melting downwards. Isabella sat up, unsure of how she ended up in her bed clothes or even under the covers for that matter. A look of confusion swept across her delicate features.
“Malfoy. He came to say good night to you, and uh, well you were already asleep,” Harry said, he had always had the ability to know what she was thinking. It was a curse, yet a blessing. No one got her the way he did and it drove her mental.
“How much did he see?” she asked bluntly.
Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “It was dark and he swears he saw nothing. Trust me, Ron and I already gave him the third degree about it.”
With a silent nod, Isabella started to get out of bed when Harry put a hand on her bare shoulder, only the strap from her tank top preventing the complete contact of their skin. Her blood rushed to the spot where his hand lay, warming her skin and making her heart skip a beat. It had been so long since she felt human contact. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
“I wanted to talk to you about a few things before we went down for dinner,” Harry said, his thumb brushing her soft skin absently. She wished he wouldn’t, it was starting to make her head spin.
Finally the pretty young girl found her voice and she locked her eyes on his. “About?” she asked, her stomach feeling like a fist was clenching it and her lungs feeling as though someone had sat upon her chest. She had an idea what about, well more like a million ideas, none of them she was ready to face.
Harry cleared his throat. “For starters we’re all really worried about you...” he started to say.
“You have no reason to be. I’m fine,” Izzy cut him off, her voice giving away that she was already on the defensive, and ready to fight back if his words stung too much.
“Let me finish,” he said. And with her nod of approval he did. “You’re not fine. You’re skin and bone, and don’t try and deny it,” he raised a hand when he saw that her mouth was opening in protest.” Mrs. Weasley cooked your favorites last night and you hardly touched any of it. Hmm what else is there? Oh yes, there’s the fact that you’ve slept for eighteen hours straight, and look at the bottles scattered around you room,” he gestured with his hand.
Her blue eyes flickered to the desk. She saw the bottles and it felt like she had been hit in the face by a cold, hard hand. Why couldn’t she remember drinking? She certainly didn’t feel like she had been drinking the night before. Truth be told is that in the past few months she found herself turning to fire whiskey for comfort, but she knew she didn’t last night. At least she was sure she didn’t.
“Those aren’t mine,” her eyes settled back on Harry. “I would remember if I got shit faced last night, and I didn’t.”
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, the look on his face said it all. It was obvious that he didn’t believe her. “Alright,” he said quietly with a shake of his head.
She shook her head and let a bitter laugh escape her lips. It now felt as though the walls were spinning, much like the room had spun at the Ministry of Magic the night her father was murdered. She was trapped and the only way to escape it was to run as she always did. “We’re done now,” she said, flying out bed, feet landing firming on the hard wood floor.
“No, we’re not. There is something major we need to talk about...” Harry grabbed her arm as she slipped on a pair of jeans and then turned to rummage through the suitcase that was on her floor.
She cut him off again. “How you now have another woman living under my roof?” she snapped, not being able to help herself. He had it coming, he had pushed one too many button, and the anger bubbled out of her like a brew in a cauldron.
Harry shook his head, his shocked expression now replaced with one of sheer anger. “What?” he asked. “No, but now that you mention it I own part of this house too,” he said. “And I’ll say this once, she is my guest whether you like it or not.”
She felt her whole body tense as he spoke, and her head started to spin. Why did he have to come into her room in the first place? It‘s not like she asked him to be concerned or to throw his new girlfriend in her face “I’m not about to get into a war of wits with you. I don’t have the energy, the strength, or...”
“The heart,” it was his turn to cut her off. “The fire’s gone out. We can all see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice.”
She finally wrenched her arm away from him and hastily grabbed the first shirt she found and slipped it over her torso. “You have no idea,” she whispered and stormed out of the room, not wanting to feel suffocated any longer.
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Harry watched as Isabella stormed out of her room. He sighed to himself and looked around. Her room looked exactly the same as when she had walked out of his life two years ago. The posters still hung on her walls, the pictures still moved in their little square and rectangle glass frames, and it still smelled faintly of her perfume. It was still the room of a nineteen year old happy and grounded young woman, not the one of the miserable twenty one year old woman that had returned the night before.
He thought back to the day he returned home and all that was waiting for him was a note. Part of his heart was taken with Isabella that day, and part of it died as he read her words, understanding them yet so angry at her for walking out on him when he needed her the most. It seemed that he had lost everyone in his life whom he loved. His parents, Sirius, and Dumbledore. Yes, he still had his best friends, and he loved them, but not in the same way he loved Isabella. He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. Carefully he unfolded the note from her that he kept with him at all times. His eyes scanned the page, retaking in every word.
Dear Harry,
By the time you read this letter I’ll be gone.
I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to your face, but I wasn’t sure how I could look the man I love in the eyes and tell him I couldn‘t stand to have him look at me any longer. I don’t even know where to start or even how to explain how I feel. I’m not the same girl I was nine years ago when we met aboard the Hogwarts Express. Nor am I the same girl you fell in love with. So much has changed and gone are the days when we had others looking out for us, but are now replaced by days where we can only rely on ourselves.
Ghost’s and broken dreams haunt me here. #12 Grimmauld is like a hollow, painful vision of the past and even if I close my eyes it will never go away. But for every ounce of me that hates it here I equally love it. No other place in the world will ever be home for me, but my life depends on my leaving it. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s the only sane rationalization I can come up with. You had talked about getting away from London, moving to the Hollow, building a life for us, but even then I wouldn’t be able to escape myself . Too many people’s lives have been altered by the people who I unfortunately have to call my family. Their eyes watch me, as if waiting for me to walk down the same dark path. And it hurts.
The night you killed Voldemort and I killed my own mother a part of me died. I could feel my heart stop beating in the brief moment when she took her last breath. Despite never being raised by her, she was my flesh and blood and we shared a connection that I will never understand. The mark of protection she had Voldemort give me the day I was born still burns the flesh of my arm; a constant reminder of who I am and who I come from. Though I am nothing like them, I see her everytime I look in a mirror, and reminded that their blood lives on inside me.
How can you love someone like me? I finally understand why our love was called forbidden for so many years. I don’t understand how you can look past it all and see me for who I am. You’re a special man who has never done what others have told you to do, and you never judging, but rather you see people for their true colours. You deserve so much more, someone whole and someone who can give you all the love you need.
I’m haunted and I don’t know which way is up and which way it down. I need to get my bearings, to find away to build a casket for my demons. To escape the hallways, to escape me and you. Here in November in my house of leaves I see a perfect forest through so many splintered and burnt trees. If you and I are meant to be then it will be. I will always miss you.
I love you,
Izzy.
Even as he reread the note the words still didn’t make complete sense. The words were a most intimate look inside her state of mind. Ramblings from somewhere so deep inside her they had never seen the light of day. For so many nights he had imagined her sitting at the kitchen table as she wrote the words furiously. No tears would have fallen from her eyes, but rather sting them, threatening to spill over at any moment. He knew how badly she hurt inside, he felt it too. He would have given anything to take her pain away, to make her whole once more. But deep down he knew he couldn’t give her what she needed. No amount of love could, not until she could accept who she was and not feel bad about it. Never once did Harry ever doubt her intentions, and never once did he see the face of his enemy in hers.
Slowly he folded the note and put it back into his wallet. It had taken a year and a half to get over her, to let himself move on and face the fact that she was never coming back. What Will had said to her to get her come home he had no idea. He also had no idea of what he felt when he saw her walk through that door. For the past two years he had seen her picture in Witch Weekly as well as in other publications, but it couldn’t prepare him for what he saw when she came home. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered, but it was a much darker beauty. A beauty of someone who was damaged, but not defeated.
He looked around her room once more before he stood up to head back downstairs. He was lying to himself when he said he didn’t love her and it was an even bigger lie to say he was over her. He had convinced himself he couldn’t love someone who had hurt him so deeply. Besides, he had Trisha now who was the polar opposite of Izzy, which was one of the reasons he had been drawn to the perky blonde in the first place. She wasn’t a challenge, she didn’t push his buttons, and if he was perfectly honest with himself their relationship was down right boring. But it was safe, and he knew it was something he needed at that moment in his life.
As he walked down the stairs he attempted to push all his thoughts of Isabella out of his mind; successfully for the time being. He then took another flight of stairs and walked into the basement kitchen, standing in the door way and watching silently as Trisha helped Mrs. Weasley prepare dinner, as Ron and Hermione had another heated argument over what jinx’s worked best for an assortment of creatures, and as Draco and Isabella stood quietly in the opposite corner, their heads close together as the spoke quietly. Though it was only for a brief moment, there was no denying what he just felt was the ugly fist of jealousy punching him in the stomach.