At any rate, Hermione had reported that Krum had sent her an advanced book on mirrors. Something from Durmstrang's equivalent of a Restricted Section, apparently. The only trouble was, it was written in Bulgarian. Hermione had tried the standard translation charms on the book, but those were really only designed to help with the current spoken version of the language, and the book was old. Very old. "Middle Bulgarian," Hermione had said, shrugging. "I did a little research to find that out. But don't worry. I've owled for a Slavic translation rod. It's supposed to be able to handle anything written in the last thousand years."
Harry looked like he was about to bite through his lower lip. Obviously, he was still yearning for a chance to talk with his parents.
Well, Draco would like a chance to talk with his mother . . . so perhaps he could understand how Harry felt. On the other hand, Harry had never even really known his parents, so perhaps Draco didn't understand him so well, after all. At any rate, he still did think that Harry's whole attitude was bound to be hurtful to Severus.
Especially if he kept brooding like this.
Best to change the subject, Draco had thought. "Bit odd, that story about the missing half-bloods--" Thinking about his conversation with Hermione, Draco quickly reworded his comment. "That story about those missing Hogwarts' students. Did you see it, Ron? Your brother was quoted."
Weasley got a slightly dark look on his face. "Yeah, he was. He thinks he's Fudge's right-hand man, these days." He turned toward Harry. "After what you said about being a good brother, you know that bit? Anyway, tried to patch it up with him this summer. Even invited him to the--"
"Ron!" interrupted Hermione, shaking her head.
"Oh, yeah. Right," said Weasley in an odd tone. "Um . . . invited Percy to dinner with us, you know? But no, he has to work. Job's all that matters to him, the prat."
Now it looked like it was Hermione who was deliberately trying for a distraction. "I saw that article, in the Prophet. But you know, in the Muggle world, missing children are just a fact of life. A lot of them are runaways. I've seen a few reports like that this summer, on the BBC."
As distractions went, neither Hermione's nor Draco's had been very well thought-out. Harry looked absolutely sick by then. "That's just awful. Oh, God. I hope they're all right, I hope they didn't run straight into trouble--"
"Harry," said Draco, clearly but softly. "You can't save everyone from everything. That's not your burden to bear."
Hermione glanced at Draco quickly, her expression startled in that moment before Draco remembered to school his. He knew what she'd seen on his face: concern for Harry. Or no . . . concern for his brother, quite apart from what his name might be.
Oh, well. Draco told himself he didn't mind so much if she'd seen that. Not after all they'd talked about in the bedroom, and then outside.
Harry seemed oblivious to anything except the missing children. "I bet they have families who love them--"
"You have that too, Harry," said Hermione firmly. She didn't look at Draco as she said it, but she didn't need to. That one look had said it all. She knew. She knew he wasn't on Harry's side just to save his own skin. Not any longer.
Bit embarrassing, that. It was practically un-Slytherin. But probably just as well, in the circumstances. They were all on the same side, now, and it was high time Granger knew that he was in it for good.
"Quidditch," said Ron, slapping Harry on the shoulder. Draco thought he was mad to suggest such a thing at first, but maybe he knew Harry better than either Draco or Hermione did, because Harry gave a ghost of a smile and got up from his chair. Like he was grateful for a distraction. Any distraction.
"We only have three brooms," Draco had said lightly as Harry began passing them out. "I guess that leaves you out, Hermione."
As expected, she didn't think much of his sense of humour. "What did we talk about? Courtesy? Hand it over."
Laughing a little, Draco had.
Now, looking at Rhiannon's house, Draco couldn't help but marvel at how he'd managed to push aside his problems for the rest of the day, yesterday. Chasing the Snitch, the four of them taking turns. Broom races, Draco enjoying the look on Weasley's face when he was soundly trounced. Then figuring out a dinner, since Severus wasn't back yet. He'd still been gone when Ron and Hermione left, still been gone when Harry and Draco had given up on waiting and had gone to bed.
And the worst part was that Draco had woken up with Rhiannon on his mind and hadn't remembered to ask what Lupin might have said about his mother.
But then, Harry hadn't asked after Lupin, either. Which was rather strange, wasn't it? Of course, he might have preferred to ask when he and Severus were alone at the pool. Draco winced, thinking that one over. He had been less than courteous to Lupin over the whole werewolf thing. But who could blame him? Lycanthropy wasn't an issue of blood purity; it was a curse, a disease . . .
"Are you planning to stand there all day?" called a voice, jolting him out of his thoughts.
A voice he recognised. A lovely voice.
Draco glanced up at Rhiannon, who was standing in the open doorway of her home, one hand on the brass knob. Her hair was hanging loose, flowing almost to her waist, a brilliant swath of gold against the emerald green of her strapless sundress. She was, without a doubt, the most breathtaking sight Draco had ever seen.
Even if she was scowling something awful.
Draco walked up the drive, trying to compose his thoughts. When he reached her though, he still didn't have the faintest idea what to say. He couldn't even remember Granger's advice, by then. Or maybe, he was afraid to so much as open his mouth, in case he said the wrong thing completely, in case he made things even worse--
Rhiannon didn't have any trouble figuring out what to say. "What are you doing here? My uncle said you refused to even ring me!"
For a moment he didn't know what she was talking about, but then he remembered. Two things at once, actually. The exchange with Stanley Tilden, yesterday in the pool office, and also, Granger's advice, which had basically boiled down to be honest, Draco. Tell her why you had such trouble realising what she was.
"I've never used a telephone," he said quietly, gaining the top step by then and looking her in the eye. Pity that she backed up slightly, into the house, leaving Draco to hold the door open. "I have the number you gave me, but I didn't know what to do with it. Not exactly."
"Oh." Rhiannon seemed to consider that for a moment. "It's like with that pendant. You don't understand how things are."
Draco hated admitting weakness; he'd been taught to believe that only fools handed weapons to the enemy. But Rhiannon wasn't his enemy, even if she was a-- No, no. Muggles weren't his enemy. Couldn't be, now. That was what he had to try to remember.
Merlin, but it was difficult.
"No, I don't understand much at all. It really is a different world I come from." Draco cleared his throat. "I didn't mean you any offence, Rhiannon. What happened, with the bell . . . I'd like to explain, if I may. If you're willing to listen, if--"
He stopped talking then, sensing that he'd begin to prattle in earnest if he wasn't careful.
"My uncle's not at home." That might have been a bit discouraging, if she hadn't blushed as she said it. Remembering what they'd done the last time they'd had the house to themselves, perhaps?
Draco pushed that thought from his mind. "Could we talk in your back garden?" He didn't care where, as long as she didn't send him packing.
"Oh, just come in, then," she said, crossly that time.
Draco stepped inside and shut the door, then followed her to the sitting room where Harry had waited for him, that time. Rhiannon sat down on a chintz chair and waved him into one opposite, then levelled a glare at him. "Well?"