Ron looked baffled. “Why would my sister be writing love notes to Harry?
I mean, I thought that sort of thing was well in the past.”
“It’s not a love note,” said Harry, clutching the balled-up parchment to his chest.
“It is, rather,” Draco pointed out unhelpfully. “Clearly the product of an infatuated mind.”
“Yes, but —“
“But why would Ginny be writing a letter like that to Harry?” Hermione demanded, setting her plate down with a clatter.
“Well, you don’t need to make it sound like I’m an unfanciable berk who no one could possibly ever be fond of,” Harry pointed out, nettled.
“Don’t change the subject,” Hermione snapped, and before Harry could react, snatched the letter right out of his hand.
“Excellent reflexes,” Draco said admiringly. “Why didn’t you ever play Quidditch again?”
“Because it’s a loathsomely dull game,” Hermione replied, her quick dark eyes scanning the parchment. “It certainly is a love note,” she said coldly, and then, slightly less coldly, “but Harry, you haven’t got silvery hair, or moonlight colored eyes, or — my goodness,” she finished, flushing a dark red. “I have a feeling this letter was meant to be private.” She dropped it back on the table hastily, looking as if she’d picked up Crookshanks and he’d bitten her on the finger.
“Moonlight-colored,” mused Draco. “So true, so true.”
Ron, who might be a bit stolid but was not actually slow, looked from the letter, to Draco, and back. “My sister wrote a love note to MALFOY?” he demanded, and reached for the letter.
Harry, sensing imminent disaster, flung a hand out. “Immolatus,” he said, and the note shuddered once, and sifted into ashes.
“You burned my note!” Draco looked annoyed. “That note had sentimental value!”
Yes, well, your neck has sentimental value to me, in that if Ron found out what you got up to with his sister last night, he’d snap it in half, Harry pointed out.
Ron looked at Hermione, who was still pink about the cheeks. “What did it say?” he demanded.
Hermione looked from Draco, to Ron and then to Harry, who was wishing just this once that he could communicate silently with Hermione as he did with Draco. He did the best he could with his eyes, and she must have understood him, because she turned to Ron and said, “It was just a note saying that she’d had a good time at the party with him last night.”
“Huh.” Ron looked unconvinced. “Well, don’t think you’re going to get another chance to drool all over her today, Malfoy. She’s gone off with Fred and George for a beach holiday, and I’m not going to tell you where, either.”
Draco looked as if he were about to say something rude back when the kitchen door swung open again. It was Narcissa this time, dressed in pale gray, a worried expression on her face. She stepped into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her.
“Boys,” she said, gently, looking from Draco to Harry, “Dumbledore’s come to see you. He and Severus are waiting for you in the study.”
Sorry I burned your note, Harry said, as he and Draco left the kitchen —
Blaise and Ron looking after them with confusion, and Hermione with large, sympathetic eyes — and headed for the staircase that led to the Manor’s second floor. I panicked.
I could tell. Draco’s inner voice sounded dry and somewhat remote, a sea-change from the dramatic, ebulliently woeful tone he’d taken just a few minutes ago in the kitchen. “It’s all right. Look, would you mind coming with me to my room? I don’t fancy facing Snape and the Headmaster in my pajamas.”
“At least they’re silk,” Harry said. It makes me nervous talking about Snape and Dumbledore out loud. I always have the feeling they’re listening.
“We don’t have to talk about them, then,” said Draco flatly. They’d reached his bedroom door; he reached for the knob.
We don’t need to use our voices —
“No,” said Draco. His gray eyes were coolly thoughtful. “I think it’s about time we got used to not being able to do that any more.” He vanished into his bedroom before Harry could say anything back to that, and Harry was left to fidget aimlessly in the corridor for several minutes before Draco reappeared, now in a dark blue pullover and jeans. Something sparkled on the sleeve of the pullover, but he turned away and began walking down the hall before Harry could see what it was.
He did, however, hurry to catch up. “Look, before we go in there, do you want to talk about this?”
“If there was anything to say, we would have talked about it already,” said Draco. This sturck Harry as an infuriating tautology, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to it. They had reached the study door; it was open by a crack. Draco knocked once and pushed it open.
Harry followed him inside. He rarely came into this room. It reminded him of Lucius, of the day Lucius had brought him in here and offered him the antidote for the poison that was killing Draco, in exchange for the Worthy Cup. It didn’t look much different now — clearly Narcissa had changed nothing in the room. There was the big mahagony desk, the sideboard with the brandy decanter standing on it, now covered in dust, and the box beside it that had held Lucius’ tobacco. But behind the desk now sat Dumbledore. The light that filtered through the narrow windows caught the bright sparks that shone off the rims of his spectacles, but his face was in shadow. Behind him stood Snape, looking more like a dark crow than he ever had before, his face a narrow white line between the parted halves of dark, greasy hair.
“Harry,” said Dumbledore warmly, “and Draco. Good to see you both.
Please, have a seat.” He indicated two high-backed chairs that had been placed in front of the desk. Harry lowered himself into one; Draco remained standing, just beside the other one, and Harry had a feeling he too was remembering facing his father in this room. “You remember,”
Dumbledore said, templing his hands beneath his chin, “of course, why you’re here.”
