Hermione’s breath was ragged as her heartbeat quickened. She hesitated, but thought better as she rounded the table until she couldn’t help but stop at the corner of the table, facing Voldemort. She didn’t want to be any closer to him than she had to be. She didn’t want to see his face, if it was still as deadly handsome as it had been in the forest when she fell into his trap. Her eyes glanced at the table, at the fine cutlery, linen tablecloth and napkins, and the fine china that sat empty before the serving bowls of mashed potatoes, vegetables, a platter of chicken, and a boat of gravy. Two of the glass goblets that sat by the place settings were filled with wine, marking where Voldemort and Hermione would sit. He would be at the end, no doubt, and she would be at his left.