He felt that there should be something profoundly pathetic about that fact. But there wasn’t, not to him. Draco was, above all else, a realist, and he stared at Hermione all little-ball-tangled in his blanket and let go of the tattered shreds of his pride he was still clinging to. Mud– Muggle-born or not, Hermione was here and Draco was here, and he would damn well take his happiness where he could find it. The idea made the old part of him that he was trying to shed like a moulting snake shiver and roil with angry disgust. Draco’s mouth tipped up at one side as Hermione wriggled onto her back and flopped her arms out at her sides, her chest heaving with a sigh.