Draco climbed into his bed that night feeling like his life was going too well. There had been no more sightings of Dolohov, nor of cursed students flinging hexes aimed at his chest. Shadow buried into his neck and Angel sat on a small outcropping of wood in the upper frame of his four poster. Consciousness slipped from his mind to be replaced with swirling images of Hermione's honey silk hair and emerald bathrobe.