The night before the Gringotts mission Draco had fallen asleep before her for once, and Hermione had lain quietly beside him, face to face, and just watched him sleep. The moment is imprinted in her mind, and she remembers every moon-soaked detail like it is happening now. She had laid there, his breath warm and minty on her face, and committed every last millimetre of his face to her memory. His high forehead all fallen over with sheaves of platinum hair, his eyes shut and lashes throwing curling shadows on his cheeks, his straight, aristocratic nose, and the sharp strength to his chin and jaw, the thin lines of him carved with war and worry.