Hermione was contemplating how thoroughly useless this record was when Pansy let out a shaky sigh and she looked up.  Harry had his hand resting against the side of her neck and wore an expression that mixed both terror and yearning.   Pansy had turned in her chair so she could gaze up at him with a rapt adoration that made Hermione's gut knot up.  So that was what she looked like when she touched Draco.  She told herself she was grateful she'd never be that unguarded and helpless again.  She told herself she was glad that she'd never risk being seen that dopey-eyed and glassy.  She told herself she didn't miss the languor she knew was pushed up against all of Pansy's aches and fears, a slow creep of the tide where every wave washed ease a little higher along the beach of your soul.