They fall into an easy silence, save for the sounds of the bubbling cauldron and knife against the cutting board. Hermione tries to turn her energy to her stirring—three times clockwise, four times counter-clockwise—but the rest of her body feels hyperaware of the movements around her, the three boys who are keeping a respectable distance from her. She looks up from the potion to watch Theo, who’s peeling dittany root with a knife using fine precision. He has those kind of hands—pianist hands—with long thin fingers, blue veins running along the back of them, sharp knuckles protruding under his pale skin. A silver signet ring sits on his pinkie. Strange to imagine the same hands pressed into her waist, prying her legs apart.