分卷阅读22（2 / 2）

The blonde looked away, staring at the collection of alcohol bottles against the back of the bar. “I sensed something when we were all in Nev’s office. I know most people consider me somewhat of a whimsical caricature of a witch, but I can be rather decisive, even useful.” She turned back to Pansy and gave her a soft smile. Pansy took a sip from her drink and Lovegood continued, “I could tell you were in great emotional distress and felt compelled to help in any way that I can.”

Pansy couldn’t tell if the bitter taste in her mouth was the liquor or her body’s reaction to yet another member of Potter’s clique offering assistance. The very idea of someone from that side of the War offering help to Pansy was farcical. Except the Golden Trio had bent over backwards, probably broken a thousand Ministry rules in the process, just to find Bertrice. Now Lovegood? Pansy suspected on rare occasions Lovegood displayed her dry and subtle sense of humor, but for the most part, the blonde was a sincere person and genuine oddity. Pansy took another sip and sighed.

“Alright, Lovegood,” she decided. “You can help by keeping me distracted until the others get back.” Lovegood smiled, and Pansy briefly wondered how such a person could be real. Most of their classmates would sooner see Pansy fed to the giant squid than help her, or Salazar, comfort her. She looked down and couldn’t stop herself from returning the smile.

“I wondered where Harry and Draco were when I saw you alone at the bar.” Lovegood draped an arm over the back of the barstool, striking a pose that had her facing Pansy. “But I’m sure they’re fine,” Lovegood continued and leveled Pansy with a calm stare. The weight of it made Pansy take another sip of her drink. “They’ve probably just found a suitable broom closet in which to work out their complex and abundant problems.”

Pansy’s drink came out of her nose in a stinging hurl of surprise.

“Oh, and you can call me Luna,” she beamed.

The tingle that spread across Harry’s body was the result of time travel and definitely not because Malfoy had been pressed against him. He ambled up the steps and into the hotel to try to shake off the feeling. Even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew how it felt to travel through time, Harry was convinced it had nothing to do with Malfoy.

“Potter!” Malfoy hissed and trailed after him. Harry sped across the lobby in the direction of the lift. By the time Malfoy caught up to him, Harry recovered enough to remember he was still very angry with him. He grasped the rolled up Prophet in his hand and pointed it at Malfoy.

“I told you, we need to discuss this as a group.” Harry waved the paper around. “You can’t just make decisions like this when there are lives on the line,” he admonished as he reached out and pressed the button for the lift. “I’m sure Pansy will agree with me.”

“Well,” Malfoy frowned, “Parkinson will probably agree with you. But you’ll have to wait—” he pulled out and opened the pocket watch “—six weeks, two days, and fourteen hours.”

At the impact of the words, Harry’s demeanor sank. He should’ve realized Malfoy would do it. Their exchange before the second trip all but spelled out the other man’s intentions. Six weeks? Harry wondered, but then Malfoy’s voice played in his memory. “He hired me…six weeks ago…” He was hit with a welcome rush of clarity and said, “You’re going to go to Zivantus before he hires you. You think he’ll have the answers?”

“If anyone is going to shed some light on this ridiculous web of—” but Malfoy stopped. He stared around the lobby with wide, almost panicked eyes.

Harry pushed, “What if you going back like this is the reason he hires you in the first place?”

Malfoy had gone white, much paler than his usual complexion. “I can’t—I can’t think. I can’t focus. There’s too many threads.”

“Threads?” Harry rolled up the paper and shoved it into his waistband. Stepping forward, he wrapped his hands around Malfoy’s forearms and held him still. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re not linear anymore,” he was practically panting. Suddenly Harry’s anger was replaced with a growing concern that Malfoy might be hyperventilating. “Salazar,” Malfoy breathed, his eyes darted around out of focus. “They’re going in every direction. I can barely see.”

Harry glanced around, his heart pounding. Was Malfoy having a panic attack? If they were six weeks in the past, they didn’t have the room as shelter. He scanned the lobby. The lounge’s cloak room was dark, quiet, and they’d not attract any attention in there.

“Come on,” Harry pulled Malfoy forward until his arm locked snugly around the Slytherin’s back, leading them into the room.

From the outside, the lounge cloak room appeared to be small, no bigger than a broom closet. But inside, it housed rows and rows of racks and shelves containing not just cloaks, coats, hats, and accessories, but items of any manner of trade.