Harry and Ginny shared a look that was half amusement, half trepidation. "Ron, dear. I don't think she would have appreciated your company today, much as she enjoys it."
Ron stared at his sister beadily, and then at Harry, who was suddenly studying his fingernails. "I'm about to be told something potentially unpleasant, aren't I?"
"You tell him," Ginny prodded.
Harry looked up. "Me? Why me?"
"Tell me what?" Ron asked, looking overly concerned. "What's wrong with Hermione?"
"Calm down, Ron. There's nothing wrong with Hermione."
"The hell there isn't!" Ron bristled. "I want to know."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Well of course we knew you' d over react. It' s not a big deal Ron. Harry and I think she's got a boyfriend. Or something."
"What does that mean, 'or something'?"
"It means she's not telling us yet," Harry clarified.
"Do we know who it is?"
Ginny pulled her brother down to sit beside her once more. He probably hadn't realised he had started standing.
"Well, we don' t think she' d be this secretive if it was someone we' d approve of straightaway."
Ron went very pale. "Oh my God."
Ginny knew her brother well enough to guess the types of things that popped into his head at random. "Don't be an idiot, it's not a teacher!"
"You're sure?"
"Yes! Honestly Ron!"
"Well then who is it?" Ron asked, agitated.
Ginny glanced at Harry, who sighed before speaking. "We think he's from Slytherin. We think he's someone she's come to know well lately"
"You don't mean" Ron began.
"Yes, well he' s liked her for ages, hasn' t he? Frankly, I don' t know why he never asked her out earlier," Ginny said. "Timing's a bit bad though, given what's happened lately."
"But - but he's from Slytherin!" Ron said this with the type of vehemence previously reserved for Viktor Krum.
"Blaise is also handsome, smart, polite, charming, accomplished and popular. A bit on the scarily clever side, but then so is Hermione."
Harry raised an eyebrow at Ginny. "You've obviously had a lot of time to think about Zabini."
Ginny patted him on the arm consolingly. "You're handsome polite, charming, accomplished and popular too, Harry."
"Hey, you left out smart," Harry pointed out.
**
People were people, no matter if they travelled to work on broomstick or bus. Speaking in generalities, men liked sport. They also liked the manly, sport-loving company of other men. In the hotter months, they enjoyed cooking things in the outdoors, discussing work, renovations and the latest advances in lawn-mowing.
It could be said that wizards also had the same urges and penchants as regular men. Just because they had that extra something in their genetic makeup that allowed them to summon the morning newspaper from the front step (instead, like Mr. Granger, of darting outside in their underpants and hoping the neighbours don't notice) didn't make them necessarily better or more civilised.
Therefore it went that if there were bordellos and Houses of Ill Repute in the Muggle world, whatever you wanted to call them, then these places also existed in the Wizarding World. And at such places, the oldest trade in the world was plied just like it was in the Muggle world.
Draco was twenty minutes late, but Hermione was not yet willing to admit that standing in this particular corner of Knockturn Alley on her own, was fraying her nerves.
Nice witches did not traverse Knockturn Alley's many nooks and crannies without an escort. Nice witches went with friends, parents or nice wizards.
Draco Malfoy was not a nice wizard to keep her waiting in such adare she say it, rough part of town. But Hermione was no delicate flower. She would not be overcome by a fit of the vapours from a day's exposure to Wizarding London's Red Light District. She had faced the horrors of their day - Snape, Voldemort, Hagrid's cooking, etcetera - without lasting damage.
It hadn't taken her long to locate the Cobblestone, for all that there was an abundance of watering holes in Knockturn Alley. It was one of those places that people gravitated to, for business, or just to stand around and be part of the colourful scenery.
The Inn was ancient and looked less like a pub and lodgings than three backyard sheds placed one on top of another. Apparently, the same architectural genius responsible for the otherworldly wonder that was the Burrow, had also been employed to see to the Cobblestone's impressive fa?ade.
For such a precarious looking building, there were an awful lot of pink and red frilly drapes. People came and went, looking quite happy to