Hermione was having a very vivid dream. It was strange, but comforting. She was warm, curled up beneath something heavy, like a stiff sort of quilt. It smelled lovely, a smell that made her want to bury herself further into it: herbal in a deep-earth kind of way, like rosemary or tarragon that had been lightly smoked, then dipped in leather polish. It made her think of moonlight, for some reason, and a bone-deep sense of security. She could feel the weight of this warm and nice-smelling thing above her, and below her, there was more softness and earth-smells. She floated in dusky light, and through the slits of her eyelids, cracking open, she saw: Draco Malfoy.