"No. Ah. Not particularly. But you might think it was..." he muttered with a sullen note to his voice, feeling set off balance by the look on Hermione's face, by her whole demeanour. She came into the room properly, pushing the door shut behind her with one foot and radiating joy, and Draco wondered with his heart suddenly in his throat what had made her so happy. His mind leaped to the best possible things. The war was over. Voldemort was dead. His mother had said she wanted nothing more to do with his father. Draco was going to be decorated as a war hero. Ridiculous, improbable possibilities flashed through his mind. And she just kept grinning at him like the cat from that ridiculous, weird old Muggle book she'd given him.