Draco's lips moved, murmuring a silent plea to Merlin. And then, another clean sheet of parchment before him, he slowly began to write, using his very best calligraphic script.
To Miss Hermione Granger:
I do hope you are having a lovely summer and that you don't miss school too much. For our part, Harry and I aren't missing it at all. The weather here has been delightful most days, which has given us a good deal of time for flying. I think you can expect the upcoming Quidditch season to be the most thrilling one yet.
Harry's swimming lessons are going well. He's got a highly skilled coach, a Muggle bloke by the name of Roger who seems very affable; he's always got a bright smile when he sees Harry arriving at the pool.
Harry and I have also spent a spot of time at an orphanage that takes care of abandoned squib children. Absolutely disgraceful the way their own families have cast them off, but at least the wizarding world is doing the best it can for them. I've endowed the home in hopes of making sure it continues to provide a top-notch public school education.
What have you been spending your time on, this summer? I'm sure you have any number of worthy causes on your agenda and that you must be keeping busy. With that in mind, I'll come to the matter most important to me at present.
I've had what one might call a revelation of sorts, I suppose. I must say, I hardly know how to begin explaining just what sort. You and I have had, shall we say, a less than rancour-free relationship in the past. Hence, my news, such as it is, may well shock you. It's taken Harry completely by surprise, after all, and I fancy that he knows me better than do you. The sum of all is this, Hermione: I find that I most urgently need to speak with you. I would prefer not to go into details until we can be face to face, but suffice it to say one thing now: the distance between myself and the Muggle world, I have learnt, is not nearly as great as I once believed.
Would you be willing to discuss the matter with me? I will be more forthcoming once we are together, I promise. Owls can be so impersonal . . . and this matter could not be more the opposite.
Please come to my summer home at your earliest possible convenience. I enclose a Portkey to facilitate matters. If, however, you are unable to travel at present, please do advise me by owl and I will come to you, wherever you may be.
With utter sincerity,
Draco Snape
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The first thing Draco did, when he woke up the next morning, was check the letter box.
No luck. There was nothing in it except their usual delivery of the Prophet.
Harry gave it a dirty look, which was typical of him. Draco had tried to tell him that reading it was a good idea. Even though it was full of misrepresentations and outright lies, if you knew how to read between the lines you could figure an awful lot of things out. But Harry just couldn't get over how he'd been treated by that paper in the past.
The whole thing made Draco feel a bit bad about the way he'd helped Rita Skeeter that one year . . . but he thought better than to say so. It was so long ago, and anyway, apologising was a sign of weakness, wasn't it?
Draco frowned, thinking of how abjectly he'd said I'm sorry to Rhiannon. Well, it was different when you were in love, probably.
Taking the paper out, Draco settled in to read, but had hardly got three words in before he decided he ought to check the letter box again. Just in case he'd missed the letter, somehow.
But no, the box was still empty. Depressingly so.
Well, nothing for it but to wait. It was already gone eight, so the Hogwarts' owls would be flying by now, surely. Grander was probably reading his letter just about now, and any second now she'd dash off a quick reply . . .
Draco's heart sank. No matter how quick she was, he'd have to wait until the redirecting spells did their bit. No owl was coming to Devon.
Bracing himself against the disappointment, Draco tried not to think about what he'd say to Rhiannon later that morning at the pool. The truth was, he didn't have any idea how to proceed, and until he talked to Granger, that wasn't going to change. No point going over it in his head a thousand times.
Instead, Draco tried his best to focus on the newspaper he was holding. He did browse it most mornings, though he didn't read it cover-to-cover. Now, though, he started to. It was either that or whinge.
"Interesting news?" asked Severus as he came out into the main room of the cottage.
"Hmm," said Draco, rather non-commitally. Nothing had really caught his eye. And nothing was likely to, since all he could think about was Rhiannon. And dratted Granger for being so slow, though perhaps he should be blaming owls and redirecting spells and the like.
"No post?" That was asked rather kindly, but Draco was in no mood to talk about it. Or admit, really, how much he needed a Muggleborn's help. He'd said quite enough on that topic the night before. Quite. He shook his head, glancing over the top of the paper at Severus, and felt a sudden need to distract the man from all topics related to Draco's love life. Or lack thereof, at the moment.
And after all, it was Severus' turn to cook.
"I'll have two eggs fried in proper butter, not that yellow fake stuff Harry made us buy, and do be sure the edges are crisp and brown, would you? Oh, and I'd like my toast done medium and served with a good dollop of double cream."
Severus raised an eyebrow. "Cream on toast?"
Harry wandered out, raking his hand through damp hair. Which explained a lot about his usual appearance, in Draco's view. "Yeah, he likes that. Didn't you ever notice, Dad?"
Draco turned a page in the Prophet as though he had much better things to do than debate his breakfast. "I might have only asked for it when Severus was off teaching."
"Might?" asked Severus dryly.
"All right, did." Draco lowered his paper enough to glare. "I knew what you would think of it."
Harry plopped himself down in a chair, his brow wrinkled as he looked from Severus to Draco. "Cream's just butter that hasn't been . . . er, I don't know what they do to it, actually . . . Anyway, it's a bit weird to have it on toast, but what's the big deal?"
Draco could feel himself flushing, and hardened his features to try to stop it. "It's rather a Malfoy tradition."
Harry's eyebrows drew together in clear annoyance. "What's that all about, then? It's all right to act like a Malfoy in front of me, but not in front of Dad?"
Draco made a show of ruffling the broadsheet. "Dad appears to be present. Maybe I just decided food preferences were a rather silly thing to try to lose. After all, haven't I lost quite enough?"
"A father who put out a death warrant on you, you mean?"
"A mother who loves me and can't come visit because she has to pretend to be loyal to your werewolf friend!"
Severus cleared his throat, loudly. "I certainly don't care if you want cream on toast, Draco. Now, since I appear to be taking breakfast orders, have you any preferences, Harry?"
Harry gave a little shrug. "Whatever Draco's having."
"He'll scrape his toast," said Draco with a straight face. "Crumpets for him."
Well, at least that had both his father and brother laughing a bit, and off the subject of Narcissa. Draco tried not to think about her very much. He understood that she'd had little choice but to side with Lucius against him, publicly at least, and he did know that she'd tried to make sure he wouldn't be left destitute when he was disowned, but still . . . when he thought about her, he ached.