Draco's eyebrows lifted fractionally in surprise. So, not a wizarding hotel, then. Or not one in Britain, anyway. Even six years hadn't been enough to dim his infamy in the eyes of the wizarding public; he'd gotten used to being accosted in the street by total strangers looking for someone to blame the war on. He couldn't even deny he presented an easy enough target— so this girl was either possessed of commendable self-control, or had no idea who he was.

Whatever the reason, he'd escaped censure for the moment, which meant it was time to see if he could get some answers. One fortunate side effect of his job with Gringotts was that he'd learned to get over his hatred of pleasantries and small talk— or at least, to hide its existence when speaking to strangers.

"Excuse me," he said before the girl had gotten very far away, "but do you know anything about this place? I've just mistakenly Apparated here, and I need to be— well, anywhere else." His mouth tilted slightly, not quite a smile, but not not one either.