            Sinking into the dead man’s bed felt like slipping into a steaming bath. His scent enveloped her, the comforter sun-warmed from a day with the curtains pulled wide. Kreacher must have come in to dust, she mused, tracing a seam along the pillow. A shaft of early evening light cut in from the window, pooling across her face as it pressed into the plump goose-feathers.