            Hermione shook her head. "She’s too close to Kingsley. And I don’t really fancy letting her know about my...dabbling in the dark arts quite yet." They were sat on the couch, her legs stretched out over the tops of Sirius’s thighs. Lucius had claimed one of the armchairs, his gaze flicking intermittently to the couch since Sirius had dragged her calves to his lap. She had been surprised at Sirius’s act of possessiveness, despite the reality that he had just agreed to marry her. Still, she couldn’t help but savor the heavy warmth of his fingers—or the heat of Lucius’s gaze, when she caught him watching. The memory of their conversation in the bathroom—Lucius’s hand curled around her knee, stirred uncomfortably at her stomach, and she nonchalantly pulled her legs back to her side of the couch. "We need someone who won’t question what we’re doing," Hermione continued, ignoring Sirius’s disappointed expression. "Or at least someone who won’t overact."