            Hermione rose from her chair, her legs surprisingly steady. His eyes remained glued to her as she walked slowly around the tables, until she was standing just to his side. His head tilted down. Hers tipped up. "You let a muggle-born into your home," she started quietly, eyes locked on his. "Your private quarters. You aided her, and befriended her, and carried her home when you could have left her drunk in your floo. Some might call that devastatingly naïve, or incredibly desperate."