She’d filled out–impossible not to notice when she wore a  suggestion  of a top over a pair of impossibly tiny shorts. Draco could see the womanly curves that her year of starvation and running had denied her. Her abdomen was soft, her hips and breasts fleshy enough that at least two of the Slytherins briefly imagined nibbling that hot, yielding flesh. Her hair was tightly braided in two long plaits, streaks of purple mixed in with the honey-colored hair. Draco wondered if it was as curly and big as he remembered. Her eyes were painted dark, her lips an immovable shade of red. He could see the vague shapes of her tattoos, but it was the flash of silver in her face that really caught his eye. A silver hoop in her nostril. The sight of it unmoored something in Draco. This wasn’t the swotty, rule-abiding Granger he knew from school. Nor was she the hardened war hero, the stoic soldier who’d sat in front of the Wizengamot and given testimony at his trial. This Granger was confident, brazen, and powerful. 