Out of Time

Chapter 19

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

"This is... weird."

Draco rubs his hand over his mouth and re-reads the title work in the collection of poetry. He squints at it closer, feeling the beginnings of a headache start to pound. The title says it's a love song, but it doesn't seem much like one. "What does 'etherised' mean?"

Surveying his small crowd of three, he receives no aid.

"It mentions some bloke named Lazarus. Ring any bells?"

Nothing. He sighs, accepting that this Muggle author wrote about Muggle things that he won't be privy to understanding. Or maybe it's that it was written a century ago and these terms would sound odd, even to Muggles. At least his own copy of the book was a pittance. Maybe Hermione can explain it to him.

That'll have to wait, though. He won't send her a gift like this via his owl, Fox. He wants to be there when she opens it to see the excitement on her pretty face.

Maybe he'll have more luck with the Agatha Christie novel. He has vague, undefined plans to read this one first and follow it with assorted others. He'd like to be able to talk to Hermione about them and figure out which ones she truly favours before buying her those, too.

Pansy yanks the copy of the book from his hands and begins to skim. Draco's about to tell her that won't work when he sees her blink twice, shake off an irritant, and start back at the beginning.

Theo leans over one shoulder, Blaise over the other. Theo, the fastest reader, clearly reaches the end of the page before the other two and makes a face at Draco.

"What is this?"

"Apparently, it was a large part of Hermione learning how to read when she was young."

"What?!" Theo blanches, returning to the text as Pansy flips the page with a manicured index finger. "What kid would read something this difficult?"

"The kind with a father who would help her through it," Draco replies, with more than a hint of bitterness. His father certainly wouldn't have, and he doesn't need Theo's commiserating glance to know the senior Nott wouldn't have leapt at the opportunity.

"Swotty little prodigy," Theo grumbles with admiration and Draco can't contest the term.

He's glad the other three are immersed when a delicate aeroplane lands on his wrist. He hadn't prompted her with a question for this one and is rabidly curious.

"When can you wake me up with your mouth?"

His erection mercilessly rages into being without a drop of concern for present company. He adjusts his trousers, trying to seem casual about it. When can he?

He won't have an opportunity until Saturday - no, not Saturday. The Quidditch final is Saturday, and while everybody is either irresponsibly celebrating or wallowing in misery, he's going to take Crabbe to the Room of Hidden Things. He's stretched out the other wizard's patience almost too long, and he can tell Crabbe is growing restless again. That won't do.

Sunday, then. Maybe? Yes. He'll make it happen. Because after Sunday (and with this acknowledgement, Draco's blood runs cold, his erection long forgotten), there are only two more weekends left before the end of term.

Some part of him knew this but it's all happening so fast.

"Sunday? Quidditch final Saturday," he scribbles out, folding it up.