"I must say, sir, is this a traditional way to serve pheasant? I admit I've never seen anything like it."

"What a keen eye you have, Mr McLaggen! And a very discerning palate, too! You are, of course, quite right…"

Hermione stayed rigid, staring at her own plate where the cooked bird was arranged into an origami-like structure; apparently, the meat became more well done with every fold. It was a clever bit of charmwork. She didn't care for it at all. With mechanical precision, she carefully tugged a bit of meat away from bone and speared it on the end of her fork.

To her right, Draco carefully manoeuvred his cutlery around the bird, folding a strip of meat over the edge of his knife until it was his preferred shade, before guiding it to his mouth in one elegant motion.

She couldn't even look at him without turning some horrible shade of burgundy. How the rest of the table hadn't noticed was beyond her; the two of them had barely looked at one another since they'd sat down. Surely the rest could sense this bizarre new energy? How every twitch of his muscles ricocheted through the air between them, practically winding her and most certainly robbing her of all sense?

This is a nightmare. Hermione plucked a roll from a basket of bread floating by. Will I ever tolerate being in the same room as him again?

Well, being with him wasn't the problem, not exactly. When it was just the two of them, it was mostly fine. Her ridiculous, heightened reactions remained, of course, but it was much easier to hide a blush when she could blame it on potion fumes. But now, with Harry here, how was she meant to act like everything was as it had been? As it ought to be?

Maybe it will. Maybe last night was another anomaly. Maybe things will go back to how they were and nothing will happen at all — "Oh, sorry, Melinda — pepper grinder? Sorry, I don't see it here. I think you'll have to call an elf" — maybe I need to stop catastrophising —

But that's impossible, isn't it? His — interest, or whatever, is enough that he thought it worth the humiliation to pursue me all those times and what are the odds it will just — go away?

Will mine go away?

He reached for his goblet, the side of his arm brushing hers, and she stiffened. His movement languid as ever, she sensed him in her periphery bring the rim to his lips, sip, and then observe the vessel in quiet contemplation.

"You can breathe, you know."

His whisper cut through the hum of conversation like a cool breeze, raising gooseflesh and remembered touches against her skin. "I am breathing perfectly well, thank you."

Draco scoffed quietly and set down his drink. "Is that so? One would think you were… distracted."

"Not at all." Hermione spooned some mashed potato into her mouth to cover her smile. "Merely riveted by the conversation this evening."

"Indeed." There was a flutter of movement by her side; something brushed against her robes. Her stomach flipped and she pressed her lips together tightly before she could make a fool of herself.

This is utterly ridiculous and childlike and completely below me and —

Her foot inched to the right until it encountered something that could plausibly be his shoe; she gave his ankle a light kick, then retreated.

She heard his smirk, if such a thing were possible. "Honestly, Granger, you have the most appalling table manners."

Gaze never moving from straight ahead, she sipped her wine and smiled.

Across the table, Harry gave her an odd look.

She choked.

Badly.

"Goodness, me, Miss Granger!" exclaimed Slughorn while she spluttered, desperately trying to hold back the coughs while the rest of the table watched. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" — cough! — "Yes, I'm fine!" — cough! — "Just went down the wrong pipe!" A goblet of water appeared at her side; Hermione gave Melinda a grateful, watery smile and gulped it down. For several excruciating seconds, the tight burn in her gullet persisted and she struggled against the reflex, desperate to clear it, but she recovered enough to swiftly divert attention away from her utter humiliation.

"Not to worry, Miss Granger!" clapped Slughorn merrily while the rest of the table resumed their dinner. Hermione blinked against the tears which would not dissipate. "Although, you must know I'm very proud of my record: In all my years of teaching, not a single student has expired in my care." He gave her a devilish wink. "Do try not to be the first, eh?"

"Actually, professor," Harry set down his cutlery and turned to the head of the table with a thoughtful look, "I've been meaning to ask about that, if you don't mind."

"About the survival rate of my class, Mr Potter?" Slughorn's eyes shone with amusement.

"Well, no, not exactly. It's just… Well, you've been at Hogwarts for generations of students and seen so much change — and you were Head of Slytherin, weren't you? What was that like?"

Hermione's heart shot into her throat. So this was his plan? Hermione couldn't tell if it was foolhardy or ingenious. Harry's gaze was intensely and unnervingly sweet as he looked to Professor Slughorn, perfectly playing the ideal student waiting patiently for an answer. Slughorn revelled in it.

"Ah, now that is a very interesting question, young man." Hermione watched in fascination as Slughorn settled into his seat, happily assuming the role of wise sage, perhaps. "One of the most remarkable things about Hogwarts is that, at its heart, it is unchangeable. Why, you would not believe just how much things stay the same even throughout decades. Fashions come and go — and goodness me you would laugh yourselves silly if you saw how some of your predecessors adorned themselves on the way to Charms! — but in its essence, the spirit of the school is preserved, merely passed on to the next generation. And" — he adjusted his napkin across his lap in a transparent attempt to affect humility — "as for heading a House… That has always been one of the most profound privileges of my life."

"I can hardly imagine, sir," agreed Harry. "After all, you must've guided some of the greatest wizards of the last forty years into — well, into what they became, really." He nodded to the several dozen waving photographs around the room. "I can't imagine the stories you must have, professor."

"Oh, yes, well —"

"After all, you said the wizard who developed Wolfsbane was one of yours, didn't you? You must've seen something in him from when he was a first year."

"Ah — a first year?" Slughorn chuckled. "Perhaps not quite so early but I do attest that greatness must be cultivated from a young age!"

"I'm sure. But professor, can't you share just a few stories of your past students?"

Harry's eyes had a wicked look that Slughorn seemed utterly oblivious to. Hermione had stopped breathing and watched, dumbfounded, as Harry manoeuvred around his prey.

"Stories, eh? Well there was one rather memorable third-year lesson in around… oh, far too long ago to bother mentioning! Anyway, a poor Hufflepuff — whose name I shan't reveal but you will find on the current Wizengamot roster — once confused her powdered root and ground seeds…"

Beside her, Draco shifted. She felt the heat of his body move infinitesimally nearer before his breath teased her ear. "What does Potter think he's doing? I could do without hearing this."

"Shh!"

Harry laughed heartily at Slughorn's description of the ensuing mess. "Well, professor, if she can make her way onto the Wizengamot, I don't feel quite so badly about my own third-year potions exams!"

"Oh, hardly, Mr Potter!" scoffed Slughorn. "I maintain you are one of the most prodigious Potions students I've ever seen."

"Thank you, professor." Harry ducked his head in a display of humility the likes of which Hermione had never seen before. She couldn't take her eyes off him. What was the saying about watching a car crash? Yet around the table, everyone else seemed oblivious, merely grateful for the reprieve from Slughorn's attention. "But, sir, surely there must also be some students who — well, didn't live up to the potential you saw in them."

Slughorn frowned. "What exactly do you mean?"

If Hermione didn't know better, she might have thought Harry was searching for words as he took a slow slip of his drink. "I mean that there must have been a few bad eggs. Students you mentored who didn't turn out how you would've liked." Like maniacal dark lords, for instance.

The shift in Slughorn's countenance was instantaneous. His genial smile cooled by several degrees and the usual brightness of his eyes became so shuttered Hermione didn't think anything would be able to penetrate his guard for the rest of the night. "I'm proud of all my students, Mr Potter," he said dismissively, his gaze now flickering to each occupant of the table. "Say, Mr Zabini, did I hear you say something earlier about having dined with the French Deputy for Magical Mishaps?"

The conversation swiftly turned away from Harry, who was looking at Hermione with a smug grin.

Fine. Well done, Harry. But thank God you knew when to give up!

Professor Slughorn staunchly avoided Harry for the rest of the evening, as Hermione predicted. She spent the time in a similar state with Draco as they carefully ignored one another, all the while she tried to remember how they behaved before — well, before they started snogging in cupboards. She still found it difficult to believe that that very fact was not plastered across her face, that Harry and Ginny could look at her and not immediately see the memories frantically replaying in her mind until she got flushed and dizzy.

Because she couldn't stop thinking about it.

Draco shifted beside her and she didn't fully breathe again until the party had disbanded and she found herself walking back to Gryffindor Tower with her housemates, the knowing look in Draco's eyes as they'd awkwardly bid each other good night stuck firmly in her head.

"I told you."

"Shut up, Harry. We get it."

"See!"

"Still doesn't prove what he knows though."

"But he does know something!"

"Hermione, tell him he's being ridiculous."

"Hm?" Hermione blinked and found an exasperated Ginny and an excessively pleased Harry. "What?"

"You saw it, right?" Harry whispered with eagerness as they walked past curious portraits. "You were right: Slughorn definitely knew Voldemort as a student and something about that sits wrong with him. Or something. I'm not sure, exactly, but I'm going to find out."

Ginny rolled her eyes whilst Hermione felt a sinking feeling of dread. Harry on an intelligence mission was almost never a good thing. Memories of their second year reminded her that they rarely led him to correct answers, either.

His determination did not fade as they made their way through the castle, and when he disappeared up the boys' staircase it was with an air of self-confidence that left Ginny shaking her head.

"That boy is going to be the end of all of us," she declared and dropped herself onto a sofa.

Hermione followed, softly sitting down beside her. "I suppose this means we'll be spending the next few weeks holding him back by the collar of his robes."

Ginny snorted. "Probably the only way to stop him breaking down the door to Slughorn's quarters in the middle of the night."

Now there's an image.

Although, it did raise some other issues, Hermione thought. Her heart thrummed unevenly, inexplicably nervous about breaching a topic that felt taboo, but she pushed on anyway. "I suppose you'd rather he break down someone else'sdoor in the middle of the night."

Ginny scrunched up her nose. "Such as?"

Oh, great. She didn't get it. Drop it —! "It's just… you two talk a lot at Slughorn's dinners."

"Well, yeah. I mean, I'd talk to you too, Hermione, seriously, but you're so far away and I'm not about to start chatting up McLaggen anytime soon."

"Yeah, but…" Hermione floundered. How did people go about these conversations? Was she lacking some fundamental understanding of platonic intimacy? Ginny was frowning at her, and Hermione resorted to facial expressions and eyebrow gestures that she hoped got the point across.

"Oh. OH!" Ginny blurted in a rush of comprehension. "Merlin. Nah, I don't like him. Wait — do you think I like Harry? Does Harry think I like Harry?" Ginny now faced Hermione on the sofa, staring intensely in a way that further solidified the ice in Hermione's stomach. "Shit."

"Hang on — you mean to tell me you two aren't — aren't getting together?"

"WHAT?"

"Shh!"

They froze, gazes locked, waiting for a sign they'd woken someone. None came.

Ginny took a deep breath, though it didn't seem to soothe her, and Hermione was rapidly beginning to regret ever bringing this up. "Does it look like we're 'getting together?'"

"Well… yes. A little." Ginny opened her mouth to protest but Hermione held up her hands, defensive. "I mean, you guys talk all the time, and you laugh a lot together, and you're always sitting really close at Slughorn's dinners — not just at the table, by the way. I'm not the only one who's noticed!"

Ginny looked incensed. "Who else?"

Draco, for one.

"Er… well, Harry, I think."

In a second, Ginny's fire extinguished and she slumped back into the cushions, looking more defeated than Hermione had ever seen. "Fuck."

Heavy silence settled over the both of them, the sort that left Hermione feeling smothered and uncomfortable. Should she apologise or offer comfort somehow? But the pain on Ginny's face was so much deeper than she ever could have anticipated, and Hermione was afraid to prod her any further.

"I'm really sorry, Ginny."

"Nah, don't be sorry," mumbled Ginny, still staring into the middle distance. "It's just… I chose to hang out with him at the parties and everything because I thought he was the one person I could count on not to like me. Remember?"

Hermione nodded. Harry's gentle rejection of Ginny's adolescent feelings and their subsequent friendship had been a relief for all involved.

"It was really nice to do all that stuff without worrying if I was sending signals." Ginny's hands went to her face, covering her eyes as she leaned back into the cushions. Hermione scooted closer, already searching for a handkerchief. She would hear Ginny out. And then she'd figure out, somehow, what to do about Harry.

What a mess.

"I'm seeing someone, actually." It was so soft Hermione barely heard it.

"Oh. Really? I didn't know that."

"It's meant to be a secret. For now, at least."

"Oh." I know what that's like.

Wait — is that what we have? Or —

"Yeah. It's to… I don't want to be teased."

"Ginny, we wouldn't tease —"

Hermione flinched as Ginny bolted up, glaring at her. "Yeah? You think so? Fine: It's Luna. Looney Lovegood."

Hermione's mouth opened. And closed. She hadn't had a name in mind, but now that Ginny had provided one, it all made so much more sense. And she swallowed back a surge of guilt, because she knew Ginny had cornered her. How many times had she mocked Luna's odd nature or general strangeness? She'd never been as outright mean as some other people, and she'd taken pride in that, but now it felt meaningless. She'd been just as much of a bully, even if it had been discreet.

But I never would have said those things if I knew you cared about her that much!

God, that makes it worse, doesn't it.

"I'm so sorry," she choked, and it would never be enough, but what else could she do? Ginny frowned and sat back. "I — I won't tell anyone. I promise."

Ginny shrugged. "Honestly? May as well. It's not like I'm not proud to be with her. It's just to protect her, really. She doesn't need any more people picking on her. Besides, people will probably find out at Christmas anyway. Slughorn's party."

"Oh."

Ginny slumped back again looking very tired. "Harry thinks he's going with me, doesn't he."

"I — yes. I think so."

For a long moment, Ginny blew away a lock of hair caught between her lips. "We'll figure this out. I'm not like him and Ron; I won't leave you to hold our friendship together on your own."

Hermione sighed in a surprising amount of relief. All the speeches she'd been subconsciously drafting to break Harry the news of Ginny's updated single status (or lack thereof) dissolved. "Thank you."

"Right." With great difficulty, Ginny stood. "That's a problem for tomorrow, though."

"I can work with that." Any reserve energy Hermione may have had had been thoroughly exhausted by this conversation. She wobbled a bit as she stood.

They ascended the stairs in silence. Hermione loathed the grateful, terrified part of herself that was glad Ginny had not reflected the question. Had she seen how Hermione shifted at the idea of hidden lovers? (If they could be called such a thing to begin with!) But how would she lie to her friends' faces when the question inevitably came?

Doesn't matter. Not now.

This was an unwelcome development, all things considered. She would need to tread carefully with Harry; he wasn't in a spot to weather emotional surprises, and she wasn't keen for a repeat of last year's turbulence. It wasn't about her.

Yet though she mourned for Harry's imminent heartbreak, she could not erase the image of those cool eyes that shared her secret.