Hermione groans, brushing hair from her eyes, and tries not to dwell on the difference in color and texture in her fingers (or how these fingers do not look like her own, are missing her blue glitter nail varnish, are missing the tiny scars acquired through a childhood of war). She is less interested in a sixteen year old’s life or the intricacies of pureblood engagement, and much more interested in who she can trust. 