if it were bound to be. Hermione lifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws on the edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink.

‘Siccuro che capisce italiano,’ sang Hermione, ‘non l’avra dimenticato, la lingua della Mamma.’

She lifted the cat’s head with her long, slow, white fingers, not letting him drink, holding him in her power. It was always the same, this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any male being. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking his whiskers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion.

‘Ecco, il bravo ragazzo, come e superbo, questo!’

She made a vivid picture, so