Pansy shouldn't be drinking, she thought to herself, mind on Draco, picturing him sprawled on the couch and watching the movie just like one of the group. One of the boys. Except in an intrinsic way he wasn't, and never could be – even if they totally and utterly accepted him in every way, and Hermione suspected with gratitude that they were beginning to – he was a Slytherin. And they weren't. It made a difference, it really did. It had to be him who was slipping Pansy alcohol; who else could it be? No one else cared enough about Pansy to do any favours for her. It had to be him, and Hermione only hoped he wasn't partaking in the purloined drink.