"Don't touch me," Hermione says on a gasp, shaking and breathless, and Malfoy's brow furrows in confusion. Her hand slips to the base of her throat, her short fingernails dig hard into the flesh over her collarbone, the sharp points of pain a relief. "Don't ever touch me like that," she tells him in a sharp quaver, her chest tight and heart pounding too fast against her ribs. "Never again, un-unless we have to because of – because of Him." Hurt blooms dark in Malfoy's eyes, and his mouth twitches, hardens, and then his features smooth to something as close to neutrality as he can probably manage, drunk and injured.