Hermione rose to consciousness in the same way that she approached everything in her life: completely and all at once. One moment, she was blissfully unaware, sleeping somewhere deep inside herself. The next, she was awake, gritty eyes making a Herculean effort to lift. When the order to open went from her brain to her eyelids with no definitive response from the offending muscle group, Hermione paused to take stock of her surroundings through the various senses available to her: touch, sound, and smell. Smell was the first thing to register in her sluggish brain: something woodsy and faintly familiar and... something clean. Antiseptic? Something medical in nature, for sure. Was she in a hospital? She felt a brief moment of panic before the sounds, or lack thereof, caused her to reconsider. She heard no beeping, no shuffle of multiple sets of feet, no swishing of healer robes or doctor coats, nothing that would hint at a hospital room, either Muggle or magical. Instead, all she heard was the soft, steady breathing of something or someone just to her right. She turned her face towards the sound, and felt something soft and smooth press into her cheek. A hand? No, hands were meant to be warm. A pillow? Probably. She tried to move her fingers and was pleased when the digits twitched, pressing into something firm and very comfortable underneath her palms. Now that she thought of it, her entire body was supported by that firm comfort. A bed? Had to be. So, she was laying in a bed, somewhere (most likely) private, and was being monitored by someone who was very much asleep. That must mean it was either very late at night or very early in the morning, as normal people did not sleep in the middle of the afternoon, unless they were babies or old.