afterthought.
Hermione and Draco both started. 'What do you mean, as long as he doesn't go out at night?' Draco demanded.
Viktor's dark eyes narrowed. 'You really know nothing, you English,' he said, managing to make both words sound insulting. 'I would have expected no better from Lucius Malfoy's son, but Hermione, you at least — '
Viktor broke off, and shrugged. 'The situation here is not what it is in England. We are not protected by our Ministry as you are. The Dark Lord's control has been steadily spreading these past months. His minions walk the streets freely at night; many are wampyr, the undead — '
'Vampires,' Hermione said.
Draco half rose from the table. 'You sent Harry somewhere where there are vampires?'
'It was the safest place I could think of,' Viktor said.
'Safer than your own home?' Draco's voice shook. 'What, you didn't want him here because he's a liability, is that it, he'd draw the Dark Lord's gaze onto you — '
'I could not make him stay. He wanted to go.'
'I bet you threw him out.'
'Did you throw him out? He left you. Could you have made him stay?'
Viktor shrugged his heavy shoulders. 'There are not many, I think, who could make Harry Potter do anything he does not want to do.'
Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione cut him off. 'Stop it,' she said. 'Both of you. Draco, apologize to Viktor — and Viktor, don't bait us, it's unkind.'
Viktor, still glowering, shrugged again. Draco turned his eyes on Hermione — a cold, ice-water gaze- and then looked at Viktor. 'I regret if my ill manners have offended you,' he said tonelessly. 'It was not my intention. Well,' he added, more thoughtfully, 'it was my intention, actually. But you are, after all, my host. I repent my trespass against your courtesy,' he said, with a modicum of grace this time, and sounding very much like his father. 'It will not happen again.'
'I do not care about you, or your ill manners,' said Viktor. 'We have, all of us, more important things to think about. I was going to suggest that you come with me tomorrow to join Harry but I realize now that you will refuse to wait that long. I have no desire to fight with stubborn children over the best dispensation of their energies. I must gather my colleagues and ready them. Do what you like.'
Fleur stood up. 'Shall I give them a Portkey, Viktor?'
He nodded. 'I see no way around it.'
Hermione flew around the table and hugged him. 'Thank you, Viktor.'
Seemingly gratified, he returned her embrace. He still smelled the way he had when he was eighteen: like cigarette smoke and black pepper and wool sweaters. He patted Hermione on the back. 'There, there,' he said.
Draco cleared his throat. 'Hermione. Sometime in the next century, please.'
Detaching herself, Hermione went over to where Draco was standing next to Fleur. Fleur had a pale eyebrow arched; Draco looked as if he were vexed and trying to hide it. 'Was there a really pressing need to apply yourself to him like a coat of glue?' he muttered. 'It did rather undercut our whole 'need to leave right now' argument. I do wish you'd think about these things before you do them. Rash and impetuous, that's your problem.'
Hermione allowed herself a small smile. 'Looks like I'm not the only one who needs a dictionary.'
'Shut up, Granger.'
'You'll find 'hypocrite' in the H section, I believe.'
'I do not understand your relationship,' Fleur said gloomily, glancing from Draco to Hermione and back again.
'That makes three of us,' said Draco, and Hermione did not contradict him.
The Portkey deposited Hermione and Draco in the anteroom of a large, well-appointed flat, presumably somewhere in the middle of Prague. The walls were white, hung with colorful paintings, and down the long hallway Draco could see doors leading off into various rooms. There appeared to be a kitchen at the end of the hallway, if the checkerboard linoleum was anything to go by. The lights had been left on: several shaded lamps were burning and there was a lit candle atop the small table near the door. On a peg near the table hung a dark red jumper, the cuffs of its sleeves frayed and pulled out of shape. Draco couldn't count the times he'd watched Harry absently pull his sleeves down over his hands and worry at the cuffs with his fingers. It was a nervous habit he had.
Hermione put her hand against the jumper. 'He's here,' she said.
'He's here,' Draco agreed. 'But he isn't here.'
'What do you mean?'
'He's not in the flat.' Draco began walking down the corridor anyway. He sounded remarkably calm even to his own ears. Inside, his stomach was knotting and he felt as if he were going to throw up. He wasn't sure what he was more afraid of: that Harry wasn't here, or that he was. 'I can tell.'
'Well, is he nearby?'
'I don't know.' Draco stopped and peered into what looked like the living room. Viktor, he had to grudgingly admit, actually had pretty adequate taste in furniture. Either that, or he'd had someone else design the place.
Fleur, possibly. The room looked both comfortable and elegant. A low fire burned in the grate of a large marble fireplace, elegantly carved with a pattern of leaves. A wingback chair was drawn up to it. There were several sofas, and a low table. Other than the fire, the place appeared untouched.
The kitchen and study also showed no sign of occupation, but when Draco pushed open the door to the bedroom, they found Harry's things scattered haphazardly around the room, an almost comforting display of his habitual careless messiness. His clothes were flung across the bed, his bookbag, half inside-out, hung from a peg on the wardrobe, his boots were upended on the rug and all over the floor was scattered a motley pile of weapons — long-bladed daggers, sharp pikes, several swords, even a crossbow. 'Now we know what happened to Harry,' Draco said dryly. 'He exploded.'
But Hermione had gone pale. 'Didn't Viktor say he wasn't supposed to go out after dark?'
'It's not quite dark yet.' Draco looked pointedly at the window, where the sky was darkening to sapphire. He could see the angled roofs of the nearby buildings, the gabled windows hung with colorful curtains. Soon, outside, the Lighting Charms would go on and the sky would darken and Harry would come into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, opening his mouth in surprise when he saw Hermione and Draco there.
And maybe he would be angry and maybe he would crumple in resignation and maybe, just maybe, if he was caught off guard enough -
Draco broke off the thought and turned away from the window. Hermione was sitting on the bed, and she had taken one of Harry's shirts — it was his old Puddlemere United shirt that he usually wore to bed and that had a rip in the left shoulder, just below the collar — and was stroking it absently, plying the worn cotton between her fingers.
In his head, Draco heard his father's voice, those clear familiar cadences.
A Malfoy does not want for anything, Draco. There should be nothing beyond your reach that you desire and cannot have, for you are what you are, and if you cannot have it, it is likely not worth desiring. Desire is a tyrannical master. You are a Malfoy and you should never let yourself be mastered by anything that is unworthy of you.
Draco wondered if his father considered himself to be a worthy master.
Very probably he did.
'I'm going into the other room,' Draco said abruptly. Hermione looked up, surprised, but before she could inquire further, he had walked out, and slammed the door behind him.
'And Pansy masterminded all this? Pansy Parkinson?' Sirius said, for what, Ginny thought irritably, had to be
