Draco remained silent for a moment, but then he shrugged and quickly kissed her again. "Usually I like thinking strategy, actually. This, though . . . it's a matter of loyalty."
"Yes, I can see that," breathed Rhiannon, so softly that Harry barely heard it.
"So your uncle may well hate me."
She shrugged. "You still have the accent. He'll respect that, I guarantee it. And in any case, if he tries to make me stop seeing you, I'll have my father give him a ring."
Harry had been trying to stay out of it, but he thought he'd better jump in before Draco asked something daft, like whether her uncle wanted an emerald or opal ring. "He'd listen to your father?"
"No, but I think he'd realise he'd stepped over the line if he had to listen to my father rail at him for trying to control my love-life, of all things. That wouldn't be reasonable even if Stanley Tilden were my father. Which he's not, thank God."
Draco suddenly brightened, his whole mood seeming to alter, his step swifter and more joyous. And Harry knew why. Two words.
Love-life.
Rhiannon had said love-life.
And Draco, quite clearly, was over the moon.
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Cecile turned out to be nothing special, as far as Harry was concerned. Shorter than him, with shoulder-length brown hair and a habit of squinting a bit, he supposed the best word to describe her was nondescript. She wasn't ugly, but she didn't do anything for him, either.
Of course, he hadn't been introduced to her under the best circumstances.
On their walk to Rhiannon's house, they'd stopped by a stand selling fruit ices, and then they'd eaten them in a park. Harry couldn't help but notice that Draco absolutely stared at Rhiannon the whole time.
Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan. It didn't take a genius to figure out what Draco was thinking about, after all. Rhiannon's pink tongue kept swirling over the surface of the ice as she licked it.
Harry didn't know if she was trying to be provocative or if that was just how she ate a fruit ice. Either way, it was getting to Draco in a big way.
By the time they reached Stanley Tilden's house, it was ten past five and Cecile was already there.
What ended up happening was that the moment they walked inside, Rhiannon's uncle strode into the front room and more or less demanded that Draco come into his study for a "man to man" talk.
The look on Draco's face was priceless. He'd never been inside a Muggle's house before, and he certainly wasn't accustomed to having a Muggle boss him about. He looked nothing less than outraged, but quickly schooled his features into more pleasant lines as he moved to follow Stanley Tilden from the room.
Harry stared after his brother, worried on so many levels at once that he almost felt winded. Any other Muggle who tried to tell Draco what to do would quickly find himself on the receiving end of a very nasty hex . . . and Draco did indeed have his wand with him. With his impulse control problems, the consequences of such a rash action might not be enough to keep him from making a serious mistake, especially if Rhiannon's uncle said something derogatory about Severus. Maybe Draco's feelings for Rhiannon would help him mind his manners, but they wouldn't help him with the other problem he faced, which was pretending to be a Muggle, himself. Rhiannon's uncle wouldn't have his thoughts clouded with infatuation, as she did. If Draco's remarks didn't quite add up, Stanley Tilden was bound to conclude that something was very, very wrong.
Harry just hoped that Ministry Obliviators wouldn't be needed.
Rhiannon was clearing her throat. Loudly. "Cecile Harris," she said, her tone sounding like it was the third or fourth time she'd said it.
Harry frankly didn't care if he impressed Cecile or not, but neither did he like the idea that she might think him rude. "Hallo," he said, thrusting out a hand. "Harry Potter."
Cecile shook his hand brusquely. "Yes, Rhiannon mentioned that."
Bit snide of her to point that out, Harry thought.
"Harry and Draco go to school up in Scotland. Their father teaches there," said Rhiannon. "Cecile, would you like something to drink?"
"I'll wait until we go out." Cecile moved to sit down, her legs looking a bit stubby when she crossed them. Maybe the shortish skirt she had on was responsible, Harry thought. It was a hideous plaid.
"Harry, something to drink?"
Harry would have liked a glass of water after his sickly-sweet fruit ice, but he didn't want to ask for one, since that would leave him alone with Cecile and he really had nothing to say to her.
As it turned out, he should have asked for the water after all, since Rhiannon's next words were, "Right, then. I'll just go freshen up for dinner then, shall I? Bit of a rough day at rehearsal, it was."
With that, she was gone, and Harry was left staring around at the walls. Huh. There were some photographs of Rhiannon hanging here and there. Harry had an odd flash of jealousy at that. This wasn't even where she lived, and she had her photo scattered about.
Harry was still pondering that when Cecile turned an expectant expression towards him. "Rhiannon said dinner. Where are we going?"
"Oh. Uh . . . don't know, really. I'm just along for the ride." Then, because Cecile was still looking like she wanted more of an answer, Harry turned the question around on her. "What would you like?"
Harry might not have asked if he'd known what a lecture would result. Cecile began holding forth on food for what seemed like forever, including such idiotic topics as exactly why Gujarati cuisine had Punjabi food beat, "hands down," as she put it.
Harry was just glad that he knew she was talking about Indian food.
But at least her obsession with the topic kept them busy for the ten additional minutes it took for Draco to return. He looked . . . well, Harry wasn't sure. Confident to the point of smirking, but something in his silver gaze was troubled, as well. Harry wanted to ask him what had happened, but it wasn't the kind of thing they could discuss in front of Rhiannon's slightly unpleasant friend.
"All set, then?" asked Rhiannon brightly as she came back into the room. She was wearing a gauzy tan skirt topped by a blouse that vaguely reminded Harry of something a gypsy might wear. Or maybe that impression had more to do with her hair, which was held off her face by an olive-coloured scarf doubling as a headband. "Shall we be off?" Then she glanced around and seemed to realise something. "Oh. This is Cecile Harris, Draco. Cecile, this is my boyfriend. Draco Snape."
Draco lost his troubled air completely, hearing that. Or at least it looked that way to Harry. And he only got all the more smug when Cecile gave him a close look. "So you're the one she won't stop talking about."
Rhiannon blushed a little.
Meanwhile, Draco shook the hand Cecile had thrust out.
"French food, then?" suggested Draco, glancing at Rhiannon as if for approval.
But it was Cecile who replied. "Ugh. Too much butter and cream."
"Nouveau cuisine," said Draco in a markedly cooler tone. "Something casual, considering how I'm attired." He turned to Rhiannon. "I don't know Exeter very well. Do you know a place?"
"Within walking distance?" She shook her head. "I could see if my uncle will lend me the car, though."
The man scuppered that plan, though. "Absolutely not," he said, scowling as he stepped out of his office, Rhiannon looking a little crestfallen as she followed him out. "Didn't realise you didn't have a car, though," he said, the comment clearly directed at Draco. Actually, it sounded more-or-less like a challenge. Like Draco damned well should have a car, and if he didn't, something was obviously wrong with him.
Draco shrugged, the motion so smooth that it probably looked natural to everyone else. Harry, though, could tell it was an act. He could also tell the Draco had suddenly started Occluding. No other reason why his lie should come out sounding so offhand. So truthful.