Marked

Epilogue

. . . . . . . .

Wendell and Monica Wilkins had been going on long jogs on Saturday mornings for as long as memory served; though, in all fairness, memory did not serve them particularly well. It was a common joke among their friends, that neither of them seemed to be able to recall things from their distant past; though everything was clear enough from the last three-odd years.

Better diet, Monica supposed. After all, everyone was saying such things about gluten.

"Hurry up," she called over her shoulder to Wendell, who appeared a little dazed. "Is everything quite alright?"

"Um," he said, reaching back to feel the back of his head. "I - "

"What is it?" she asked, circling back to jog alongside him. "Something wrong?"

"I just thought I felt something," he said, frowning, bringing his hand forward as though examining it for damage. "I think I'm fine, though - "

"Excuse me," a young man called, waving to them from a short ways behind. He was accompanied by a rather petite girl with wild brown hair, and Monica, normally quite serious with her exercise, came to a sudden stop at the sight of a nervous glimmer in the girl's warm brown eyes, a sparkle that was somehow both slightly familiar and hauntingly distant.

"Hi," the young man said, a little breathless as he caught up to them. He had an exceedingly posh British accent and startlingly pale hair; quite handsome overall, though perhaps in his mid-twenties. "So sorry to bother you, but my, er - " he looked down at the girl, whose eyes were wide with indecision - "my wife and I are here on holiday, and we're a bit lost - "

"Draco," Monica said suddenly, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, startled by the violent hurtling of a memory she couldn't explain.

She knew him, this boy - he had been younger, she was quite sure, and in her kitchen - but not her kitchen at all, was it? A conversation about pasta - which she didn't even eat -

"What?" he asked, rattled, his face paling in shock. Beside him, his partner's mouth had fallen open, and Monica turned to find Wendell was looking at her much the same way.

"I - I'm so sorry," Monica said, her voice shaking as she tried to clear her head. "I don't know what's come over me, but - " she squinted at the young man. "We have met before, haven't we?"

"I - " he hesitated, looking down at his lovely young wife, who seemed familiar to Monica as well, though there was some kind of obstruction in the way; a blockage of sorts, and the more she strained for recognition, the less she could identify the feeling. "I am Draco, yes, but - "

"I'm quite sure we've never met," the girl cut in slowly, her fingers tightening around his arm. "After all," she asserted, straightening. "This is our first time in Australia."

The blow of the girl's particular shade of brown eyes nearly sent Monica reeling. "Not Australia," she said faintly, though she couldn't imagine why. She had never remembered living anywhere else, despite the mockery she received for her distinct London accent -

"Nevermind," Monica declared, shaking her head as Wendell moved to pat her shoulder comfortingly.

"Everything alright?" he murmured to her, though she could see there was something odd in his expression as well.

"So sorry," the young man - Draco - said kindly, extending his hand with the kind of formality normally afforded to Victorian society, or so Monica imagined. "I'm Draco, and this" - he looked at her, offering a reassuring smile - "this is Hermione."