She wasn’t sure why they had made a tent that looked like an Italian trattoria down to the fake ivy on the walls, but it was easy to find and large enough they wouldn’t stick out. He was a washed-out Quidditch player, reduced to running illegal betting for galleons. She had helped him out of a tight spot with some Bulgarians a few years ago, not a bad thing when a Slytherin owes you a favor. She slipped into the corner booth with a massive man who ignored her, giving his attention to the full plate of pasta in front of him. 