He looked at her and rubbed his thumb and fingers together.  She understood at once.  Enough money meant nothing was private.   She hoped the details of the various scars she bore, courtesy of Death Eaters, had given him at least a frisson of guilt.  She hoped he'd read about how she still woke up with nightmares now and then, thanks to his aunt, and felt miserable.  She hoped he'd felt terrible that she couldn't bear to have her neck touched now because it brought back the knife at her throat with paralyzing clarity.