Don didn't let go of his yearmate as he steered her toward one of the couches in front of the fireplace. He plopped himself down on the dark blue piece of furniture and gave a relieved smile when she said that she was, indeed, alright.

"You are alright too, right?"

"Yea," the dreadlocked boy answered, trying to give his friend a comforting smile. He'd missed off on the Diagon Tragedy, as it was now called everywhere. Finally it had been a good call to take that job at the record shop instead of at Flourish and Blott's, even if it had kept him away from London, or, more accurately, especially for that reason. He repressed a shudder as he imagined what might have happened had he taken the job in the bookstore.

"I was back home," he explained. "Got a job at a record shop this summer. I didn't really spend any time in London, let alone Diagon during the holidays."

The boy stopped talking and gazed off thoughtfully into the fire crackling away in front of them. He hated feeling obliged to talk about the carnage. He wanted to ask about anything else without feeling selfish or guilty not to have a bleeding (in all sense of the word) massacre be his only thought.

But then, he figured, he was selfish. So, bugger Diagon just for tonight, he could feel bad about it again tomorrow. Turning back to Daria, resolved to make this evening be as normal as it should be, he asked, a bit more brutally than was necessary perhaps, "How was your summer, then?"