"I’ll grab the ingredients." Blaise volunteers, and he stands, making his way around her side of the table. He moves past her, like he has to squeeze through, and presses a hand to her lower back. It burns, like he’s pressing into bare skin, and Hermione’s stomach swoops. But it’s barely a second of contact, and he breezes through, heading for the potion cupboard. She shoots him a glare, fully aware of the miles of space behind her—he didn’t have to squeeze past anything—but he ignores her.