This left Hermione with enough time to study him. His hair wasn’t held in place with magic. It whipped about the top of his head like white fingers in the night. His cloak bellowed behind him, exposing long, thin thighs in straight-cut trousers, and muggle dress shoes that shone, reflecting all the lights around them. In his wake, Hermione could smell his cologne. It was floral, but not light and absurd the way women’s perfumes pricked at all parts of your nose and burned your lungs when you breathed. It was like a forest at the beginning of June. Green, and fresh, a little woody, and earthy with the beginnings of summer blooms.