London. And like every other International Cauldron Makers Guild Convention held in Diagon Alley for the past century or so, the good folk who slaved away over forges and kilns for long hours each day, were doing their best to spend as much money as possible, on food, entertainment and alcohol, in as little time as possible.
The hawkers of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys rubbed their hands together with glee and hiked up the price of all street-side trinkets, souvenirs and take-away foods. There was usually drunken skirmish on each day of the five-day Convention (for there were cliques within the Guild).
It was the perfect opportunity to blend into the crowd. Whether Borgin had scheduled the meeting on that weekend, for this precise reason, was unclear.
Wizards and witches and a host of other beings of various Ministry classifications attempted to navigate around Magical London's many, winding streets, using a sort of conga-line approach to get one from spot to another. This consisted of taking a deep breath, stepping off the sidewalk and taking the first available gap in the throng of people moving slowly up and down the street.
If you got pick pocketed, then you were silly enough to not magically seal your pockets. If you were unfortunate enough to get groped, then you were entitled to clobber the offending individual over the head or groin with whatever was handy (usually umbrellas, handbags and in one Guild member's case, her award winning, prototype cauldron).
Hermione left Hogwarts in the early afternoon, a day after Draco and Tandish Dodders' concussion-inducing adventures on the Quidditch Pitch. Madam Pomfrey had examined a slightly groggy Draco before breakfast, and had declared him in no shape to do anything more than delicately lie back in bed and give them all looks of contempt.
Naturally, he scowled at her, got up, got dressed and was out of the Infirmary in five minutes.
Hermione had been leaving the Great Hall after having breakfast with Harry and Ginny, when she spotted her harried-looking 'husband', stalking across the foyer towards her.
There was hardly anyone left at school. Most of the younger students had been whisked home early by their parents in the past day, since the announcement that two Aurors had gone missing. The only students remaining were a dozen sixth and seventh years, school prefects and a handful of younger children whose parents were either abroad, or Muggles.
Hermione steeled herself for a barrage of questions about what had transpired in the Infirmary. But then Professor McGonagall came down the stairs, bid them both a terse good morning and stared beadily at Draco.
"How is your head, Mister Malfoy?"
"Still attached, Professor," was Draco' s response. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, with a light grey t-shirt, and was looking much better than the night before.
"I have just met with Madam Pomfrey, who is most concerned about your premature discharge from the Hospital Wing," she informed.
"Is she?" Draco asked, with no remorse whatsoever. "Didn't notice it, myself. Have you seen Tandish Dodders, Professor? Is he well?"
"Alive and in one piece, last I saw him," the Deputy Headmistress said, "though he's since been in the company of your extremely irate Head of House, so that fact may require reassessment."
"Poor boy," muttered Hermione.
McGonagall' s sharp eyes turned to the Head Girl. "And you, Miss Granger. You have my thanks for deciding to stay on these last two days. Our numbers are down to two dozen in total, but I daresay these hardy souls will be reassured by the presence of their School Captains."
"As Head Girl, it is the least I can do to be here until the last day of term. I think I can speak the same for Blaise," Hermione spoke, with more sobriety than Draco had.
McGonagall smiled, touched her lightly on the shoulder and then set off once more.
Draco waited until the sound of her footsteps could no longer be heard. He then made a faint, gagging noise. "Good thing I missed breakfast. That display of sugar-soaked loyalty would have tried my weak stomach."
Hermione gave him a hard look. "Well I'm glad you're feeling better."
He stared at her, not saying anything. Did he remember then? He didn' t look like he did. She became wary, nonetheless. "Is your head still sore?" she asked, cautiously.
"What you mean to ask is if I remember if you came to visit me last night?" he drawled, one eyebrow raised.
"Er," said Hermione.
"Not really," he continued. "I can't recall all that much after the part where you