She'd managed her name without even a stammer, and consequently Don Juan was inspired to try something else that would take her capacity for reason away. She seemed like the sort that might be impressed with Romantic metaphors — if she was friends with Porphyria, it was as good as a certainty.

"November," he said warmly. "Of the leaves worn so thin the light shines through them. November of the crisp clear mornings and the teatime sunsets. November with steam rising slowly from mugs of hot cider. November wrapped in cloaks and scarves and still seeing breath cloud on the air." He raised her hand slightly, as though to kiss it again, but stopped short. He was still looking at her eyes, even if she wasn't looking at him; he thought she could feel his gaze regardless.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Malfoy," he said, finally dropping her hand.

---