I Learned Your Pulse

"Damn, you guys can sing."

Draco was unsure of what was going on around him. He was staring at the envelope he held in his hands, the stark-white one with the familiar address and handwriting on it, that which belonged to his home and mother. He hadn't had any mail for around four months, and he'd been fretting almost every second of every day wether or not he'd have to come home to an empty house at the end of the year. It was thick, too, a good sign, maybe because she had four months worth of questions to answer. He ripped open the top and several papers spilled out and onto the floor, covered in scribbles of the same writing that had been on the currently torn-open object in his hand. Bending down, he scrambled to pick up the papers, hoping he could get them inorder - usually, he found his mother's habit of numbering corners annoying, but he found it useful now.

"Blimey," said Ron, "Who wrote you the novel?"

"My mother," he said truthfully, sitting down easily on the loveseat in front of the fireplace and beginning to read.

Draco,

I'm so sorry! I went away on a four-month vacation and completely forgot to tell you where to send my owls! And then I came back and saw the mailbox full to the bursting point and literally hit myself in the forehead. I'm so flighty, don't you agree?

Draco smiled. His mother being flighty was a good thing - it meant she was no longer dwelling on unimportant things, or rather, unpleasant things. And that she'd gone on such a long vacation had Draco even happier - what a great way for her to spend time off! Thinking away from everything else, and all of that - however, he'd had no idea she was off house arrest. He guessed she'd taken advantage of it as soon as she could. He wondereed where she'd gone.

But he didn't have to wodner long. The next six pages were filled with where's she'd gone - all over the country, apparently - who she'd visited, what she'd seen, what she'd eaten, whom she'd met, what she did, who she did it with, and etcetra. Draco went right to laughing at the part where she said she had been able to buy all the original Shakespeare works - whoever/whatever that/those was/were - and had immediately placed them in Gringotts, to keep them absolutely safe. He found this funny because weren't you supposed to read them, not lock them away in a vault?

Harry had wondered idly what was so funny and was looking over Draco's shoulder at the letter. "I've never read Shakespeare," he said, and Draco was confused - was Shakespeare a person, or thing? "Always wanted to, never got the chance."

"Who's Shakespeare?"

"You're kidding!" Harry exclaimed, eyes going wide, but twinkling their bright green.

"What's he kidding about?" wondered Hermione.

"He doesn't know who Shakespeare is!" Harry announced, to the general stonishment of the Muggle-borns and sometimes even half-bloods in the room.

"Well, who is he, mate?" Seamus asked Dean, understanding that Shakespeare appeared to be important, but not quite the magnitude of it.

"He's only the most famous person ever in Muggle history!" Hermione shrilled playfully. "A playwright from the Renaissance era, extremely famous! I can't believe you've never heard of him! He wrote the Tempest, Macbeth, Hamlet, Julius Ceasar, A Midsummer Night's Dream -"

"- and the most famous, Romeo and Juliet," finished Harry.

"I know that one," said Draco, to still more shock. "Isn't that the three-day lust between a thirteen-year-old and a seventeen-year-old that causes six deaths?"

"There's so much more to it than that!" Hermione trilled, defensive, but grinning.

"Although you did sum it up quite well," said Harry, bemusement on his lips as he smirked. "How did you kn-"