Hermione Granger had been both eating and reading, and - as often happened when her friends failed to rouse her, she was one of the last people in the Great Hall.
"May I?" a dark voice rolled over the Gryffindor table like onrushing night.
Hermione looked up, luckily just a shred short of squeaking or jumping. It was Blaise Zambini, tall, dark and handsome - and with the whitest teeth she'd ever seen. "If you dare," Hermione smirked, enjoying the wordplay.
"No one's looking," Zambini said, smirking right back.
"Got a question about hydromel?" Hermione looked up and said.
Always so straightforward. "You've been receiving letters this year... rather a lot of letters," Blaise began.
"Oh, you're here about the bet." Hermione said, straightening her spine and giving him a no-nonsense look straight off McGonagall's face. "Fraid I can't help you. I haven't the slightest idea."
"But you'd like to know..." Blaise said slowly.
Hermione's eyes gleamed, as she looked at him steadily, for a long moment that seemed to span a chasm of time. "Yeah. I would."
"I might could see my way to telling you what I can..." Blaise said, the tentativeness of the words entirely belied by the smooth, nearly unctuous tone of his voice.
"What's the catch?" Hermione asked.
"You'll owe me a favor." Blaise said.
"Y-" Hermione said, and Blaise cut over her, "Think about it. I'll take your answer on Tuesday."
The die is cast.
[a/n: Malfoy's forgotten the old trope: Everyone's the hero in his own story.
You are invited to speculate (particularly in review form) as to what Blaise's agenda is.]