Pathetically, even with everyone in the house; so many of her friends and surrogate family members and allies, Hermione couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to wake and seek some comfort from. At this moment in the wee hours of the morning – the witching hour, her Nana used to call it – Hermione felt very alone. And then she thought of the dream, and a little tug started in the centre of her chest. Tug. Tug, tug, tug. She tried to ignore it, closing her eyes and curling into a ball.