As the snow began to melt, a dampness crept into the corridors of Hogwarts.
Hermione had been counting the days since the morning Vincent had revealed his plan. Three days had passed.
For those three days, she carried on as usual, though her gaze occasionally drifted toward the Slytherin table.
Draco was even quieter than before. He barely lingered in public, coming and going in a hurry, like a ghost ready to fade away at any moment.
His eyes kept straying toward the North Tower. Hermione knew he could not hold out much longer.
On the evening of the third day, the Great Hall was as lively as ever at dinner.
Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, leisurely cutting the fried pork chop on her plate, and unconsciously glanced up at the staff table.
Professor Trelawney sat in a corner near the end, with a glass of sherry before her—not the specially prepared kind, but ordinary table wine.
She poked absently at the vegetables on her plate, occasionally looking up at the ceiling as though communicating with some unseen presence.
Hermione looked away and savored her golden, crispy pork chop.
The House-elves were getting better and better at cooking. This almost rivaled the food made by Gordon Ramsay, the head chef at the Eggplant Restaurant.
She took a sip of Pumpkin Juice and habitually glanced back at the Slytherin table.
That seat was empty. The plate was clean, and no Pumpkin Juice had been poured, but its occupant was absent.
Hermione continued cutting off another small piece of pork chop as though nothing were wrong. While Lavender and Parvati beside her were distracted, she quietly slipped a hand beneath the tablecloth and opened the updated Marauder's Map for a look.
Draco was moving—not in the dungeons, but upward through the