Don Juan knew enough French and Spanish to recognize the language Hudson slipped into as Italian, but not enough to parse out what he'd said. Something about the cellist. It didn't really matter. Don Juan was already smiling at it; the sounds of the words were lovely enough to put a buzz in the back of his brain even without his understanding the words. And there was something delicious about the way he'd said it, lowering his voice and leaning in just slightly as though the two were sharing a secret. At the moment, enchanted as he was with his new acquaintance, Don Juan might have been perfectly content to listen to an entire conversation he couldn't follow just to have an excuse to watch the way Hudson's mouth worked. Particularly if he was going to be leaning in this way, with that particular look in his eye.

"You're not here with anyone?" Don Juan asked. "There's a party at a house near Diagon. We could walk," he ventured. They were already in London, though not in the same neighborhood as the party he was referring to, so it would take at least a quarter of an hour to make their way over to it. They could also take the floo just as easily, or apparate, but — he was keen on the idea of having Hudson's company to himself for some time, if he could manage it. It was why he'd suggested the London party and not the Hogsmeade one.

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