Draco shifted as he realised his toes were going dead and resettled Hermione, who was nestled between his thighs; her back against this chest, her legs bracketed by his and that horridly dry potions book open on her lap. He'd read over her shoulder for a while and it had nearly put him to sleep. She was nodding off herself; every so often her head would thud back against his chest, and then she would jolt upright again and turn a page, even though Draco knew full well she wasn't really reading it. It was like she had to appear productive all the time. Shades of the old swot lingering in her, despite the war. It was rather adorable, actually.