Isolation

26. Ghost

.

There were voices somewhere; muffled by doors and distance, but definitely voices. Voices she knew.

Her lashes were locked together with dried tears, and she blinked a few times to dilute the salty sting and the blurriness of sleep. She focussed on the empty space next to her and stroked her hand across the cold, crisp, and undisturbed sheets. Perhaps the lingering scent of Draco's t-shirt had deluded her subconscious, because a hopeful corner of her heart had almost expected him to be at her side, but the reality of yester-time was impossible to ignore.

Draco wasn't here.

She didn't know where he was.

And she had no idea if she would see him again.

The hollow ache that those facts left in her chest felt worse today, and she doubted the painful pangs would fade anytime soon. This nauseating sense of loneliness felt destructively permanent, like a festering tumour wedged between the tip of her spine and the base of her skull.

But.

She balled her fists and buried it; locked it in the attic of her mind with her thoughts of her parents and Harry and Ron. Because she had to. Because she'd promised herself she would.

The country was swarming with the promise of War, so what right did she have to nurse a broken heart when people were dying and mourning lost loved-ones? At least Draco was alive. At least there was a possibility that fate would allow their breaths to mingle again.

Hope is motivation, if nothing else.

The voices were still vibrating downstairs, and with renewed tenacity, she left the bed and rummaged in her charmed bag for some fresh clothes. She slipped into her jeans and pulled a baggy woollen jumper over Draco's top, reluctant to part with the masculine warmth trapped in the fabric that tingled against her skin. Taming her wild hair with a few combs of her fingers, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror and frowned at the swollen, red smudges under her eyes, still glossed with tears. She dabbed her face with her bunched sleeve, sniffing and swallowing a few times so her voice wouldn't betray her, and then she lifted her chin with illusory poise.

The façade was almost perfect; perhaps a little cracked and fragile in the eyes, but her set jaw and the proud purse of her lips would be enough to deceive her friends in the Order.

She looked resilient and prepared. Battle-ready and thriving with purpose. Glowing with that unmistakable shine of Gryffindor optimism and courage. Just as she should be.

Giving her reflection a stiff nod, she grabbed her wand and headed out of the bedroom, following the low hum of the voices. She descended the stairs and meandered her way around the house, pausing outside the kitchen, and pressing her ear against the door to catch the muffled conversation.

"...Should have seen that coming. We could have sent people to King's Cross to help the students-

"We're not going to able to predict everything they do, Alastor-

"We should have been able to predict that!"

"There's nothing we could have done anyway. McGonagall and the other professors will look after them."

"Remus is right. At least if they're contained in Hogwarts, they are still safe to a certain extent-

"And you think being kept there with Snape and those psychotic Carrow twins is safe, Tonks?"

"It's better than getting caught in the crossfire at Diagon Alley or running into some Snatchers."

"What about the Muggle-borns, Kingsley?"