"It has been a long time since I've hunted under an aurora," he says with a shrug. A part of him misses the northern Shiverpeaks. There is a certain stark allure to such places he cannot deny however much he waxes poetic about the desert, and the Frostbacks remind him of the snowcapped peaks with their bitter winds and harsh, unyielding beauty.

He takes his eyes off the shifting, dancing lights long enough to watch Hermione's own ungainly, hopping dance. He wonders first if she is just doing some bizarre exercise (he's seen some of the warm-ups in the training yard, thank you), before the situation clicks.

With a huff, he lifts part of his heavy cloak, lets it fall over her.

"You should have packed better for the cold. Mountains are without mercy."