But it's certainly new to be worrying about Draco Malfoy.
Before he leaves, Harry carves the coordinates for Landewednack into a fence post, hoping that if Draco returns to the spot he will be able to locate Harry. Still, it's a long and lingering departure. Harry keeps thinking, I'll wait just another minute. And then, when the minute passes without sign of Draco, he thinks just another minute. At long last he leaves. But even as he starts the engine and turns the indicator on, he's vainly hoping for Draco to reappear.
But the nondescript and empty patch of road slowly disappears in the rear-vision mirror as Harry drives away.
* * *
In Landewednack, he finds a boutique guesthouse close to the coastal walking track. It appears to be of a markedly higher quality than the other places they've stayed. The receptionist chatters brightly to Harry about the weather and gives him the key for the room.
"You're on the second floor, on the eastern side," she says cheerfully. "Breakfast is served from seven to nine, and we have maps and brochures available for your perusal. Enjoy your stay."
"Thanks." Harry pauses. "I'm waiting for another guest to arrive, actually." Just in case.
"Tonight? We close in an hour."
"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
"Would you like to book a separate room? Your current suite is a twin share."
"No, that's fine." He gives her Draco's name and she assures him she'll 'send him through' if he arrives.
Harry finds his room with little difficulty. Draco would like it, he thinks. There's an expansive view over the emerald-green fields, leading to the dramatic drop of the cliffs. The ocean, bright in the setting sun of midsummer, looks tranquil and gentle, a far cry from the lashing waves of winter that last greeted Harry on this coast.
There are two double beds; he chooses the bed closest to the window, trailing a hand along the crisp linen. There's very little to unpack — a few sets of clothing he bought in Hopper's Crossing, his washbag with a toothbrush, razor and comb. Still, Harry spends a long time rearranging the items. When he's exhausted that activity, he roams the small room. There's a little balcony. An armchair in the corner of the room, a small writing desk in the other corner.
He's trying to distract himself, he knows. It's futile.
He goes to a nearby pub for dinner but he returns just an hour later, unable to enjoy himself despite the pleasant meal and scenic walk back to the guesthouse. The receptionist seems to guess at his question before he says a word.
"No guests," she says.
Harry nods and walks tiredly to his room.
* * *
He wakes early, before sunrise. He stands on the balcony and looks out across the dark line of the Cornish coast. The predawn air is crisp with a salted ocean breeze, but soon it will be tempered by a warm summer day. It's the seventeenth of June, Harry remembers.
The fifth of June...the day Draco arrived on his doorstep, tossed his cloak casually across the kitchen counter, and said Come for a drive?
It had been Draco's birthday. He would have turned twenty-five.
In the east, over the dark cliffs and the summer-soothed sea, the sky lightens.
Just a little.
* * *
Harry spends the morning walking along the coastal track. It's not the same, he thinks. He liked it better during his earlier visits. When the winter winds howled through the crumbling cliff edges, when the waves lashed across craggy rocks, when the sea sung a fierce song to a crescent moon.
