"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Draco said, stepping forward to shake Flint's hand. "The Greek Minister took an interest in my Lot."

Hermione waited in the doorway, pausing for instruction as Draco greeted his friends.

A girl with strawberry-blonde hair looked up at her from across the room, and the calculated interest in her eyes made Hermione look away, ashamed. She could only imagine what they must think of her. The privileged Lot.

She turned her gaze back to the table and found several bottles of wine decanting, some already half-drunk. A pig roast lay in the center of the table, an apple in its mouth, looking like he had been caught on the wrong side of all this as well.

Gregory Goyle hadn't taken his eyes off her legs since the moment she walked in, so she felt the pit in her stomach loosen when Draco guided her to the other side of the table to stand behind the only empty chair — the head, across from Flint.

Draco took his seat, the conversation easy and boisterous again. The moment he sat, the nine girls around the table stepped forward, reaching for the wine bottles. She watched as they poured the russet wine into the glass of the boy in front of them. Several eyes turned on her as she stared at them, doing nothing. Were they expected to play their parts as menial servants as the boys had their fun? Even though all ten of them had full use of their wands?

"Come on, Granger," Draco taunted. "Do keep up."

Stepping forward on trembling legs, she reached around Draco's shoulder for the decanter of wine next to his glass, filling it. The girls had stepped back, blending in with the wallpaper, and Hermione quickly followed their lead. She let out a shaky breath as she leaned into the windowsill behind her, letting the cool glass press against her shoulder blades.

Draco lifted his glass. "To the Dark Lord's power. May he reign forevermore."

The boys chorused his toast, and Hermione saw Penelope Clearwater's lip tremble out of the corner of her eye.

The clamor of ten boys chatting and drinking washed over her, and she tried catching onto snippets of conversation where she could.

"Cass, what did your father say about—"

"—hear about the incident at the Bastille?"

"What did I tell you! It was a two laceflies, not three—"

"Think they'll still play this year? I missed the last World Cup."

Hermione reeled, her dizzy mind trying to narrow down what she should be focusing on. Which of the conversations? She couldn't follow all of them at once. Or was it what existed in the silence, in the glances and bullying? She glanced at the other Lots for cues, but they were staring fixedly at their heels. Except for the strawberry-blonde girl, who looked more attentive than the rest. What was she staring at?

And through it all, Marcus Flint kept grinning at her.

"Malfoy," Flint called across the table, and the room dipped into silence. "Dragon Pox?" He gestured to her with his soup spoon.