Chapter 8: Rain on the Bridge

It began to rain on the bridge, and Harry saw her before she saw him.

The bridge ran from the village to the college gate, a long humped span over the estuary.

The rain came in off the water in grey sheets.

She was halfway across with a parcel of books under her arm and no coat.

Her hair was plastered flat on one side.

She was walking at what she plainly considered the correct speed.

He caught up with her at the highest part of the bridge, where the wind was worst.

"Peverell."

"Malfia."

"I'm perfectly dry," said Draconia, without being asked.

Water ran off the end of her nose.

"You've left your coat at the inn," said Harry.

"I haven't left it. It's been misplaced."

"By you," said Harry.

"By circumstance," said Draconia.

He had one dry coat.

It was on his back.

It was the thick grey wool one that his great-aunt had given him in September and told him not to lose.

He took it off.

She watched him do it with an expression of rising alarm.

"No," she said. "I don't want it."

"It's not for you. It's for the books."

"Then give the books the coat," said Draconia.

"The books have a parcel. You've got nothing but contempt."

She opened her mouth.

He put the coat over her shoulders and settled it, with both hands, at the collar.

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