The next day saw Draco Malfoy up early, showered and out for Quiddich practice. Being seeker meant that most of practice was spent either yelling at people, or speeding along as fast as he was able. Surprisingly enough, the latter left plenty of time for contemplation. Defying death in spirals or zigs was just part of the game, after all. Unlike Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy wasn't prone to falling off or other such ignominities.
By the end of the practice, Draco had a decent plan, a subtle plan that wouldn't implicate him in the slightest. A simple, anonymous note, delivered to one of the bigger gossips in Ravenclaw - George Clary, asking just what was wrong with Neville?
There were two problems with that plan: The first being that Clary had seen fit to read the damn thing aloud, which was bad enough. The second was Luna Lovegood, who had looked straight at Draco Malfoy and said, "I'm not quite sure, but you'll figure it out." And that blasted tone was bothering him! It wasn't mocking, it wasn't confident... it was strangely flat, as if speaking plainest truth. Of course, if anyone was likely to be a seer, Luna Lovegood would have to be it, wouldn't she?
Nevertheless, none of the Ravenclaws seemed to understand - with one of the dullest going over to ask if Neville had taken sick. Or maybe she wasn't quite as dull as she pretended, Malfoy mused, as he watched a rather fetching blush paint her neck.
Draco contemplated his options over breakfast, looking at the entire room, hoping for a clue to drop out of the sky. He'd have considered asking the Gryffindors, but... nothing was going to make Ronald and Hermione snap out of mourning. Not now. They were clinging to each other like lifelines. Which was a pity, the mudblood witch knew more about unraveling puzzles than most any other person he could name. Thinking of who he could name, his gaze flicked up to the high table, towards ol' man Snape perched like a bird, with a scowl worthy of a disgruntled bear. If anyone knew what was going on, anyone at all, there was fair odds that Snape knew... for such a tall, angular man, he slunk through the shadows, quiet as an owl's wing. Thing of it was... Snape had no reason to tell him. And Snape never did anything for no good reason. If he even knew, he'd ask a favor... and the price for this one sounded suspiciously high. Because whatever it was, had to do with the Wizarding World's bizarre fascination and idolatry for the Boy Who Lived. And asking to be let in on that big a secret... well, this was hardly just classroom gossip, now was it?
Besides, Draco thought dourly, he'd like to figure it out himself. He spared a considering glance towards the Weasley twins, plotting their next crazy prank... Now there were two lads he could do a simple favor for. Sticking the thought in the back of his hat, he strolled off towards his first class of the day. Potions, a double. If he played his cards right, he might actually be able to show Neville off in a good light. Operation Quince: make the chubby kid look like a hero. Well, if it only shook something loose, it would have done well enough.