He slipped out of bed without waking Hermione who was sleeping like the dead, and jerked on a pair of pyjama trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. He stared down at her; she sprawled herself out across the free space Draco's exit had left in the bed, her arms outflung and mouth ajar, snoring faintly. She wore no shirt, and her nipples were a silvered pink in the moonlight, the scars Aunt Bella had left on her dark and ugly in the pale wash of light. It hurt to see them, bringing back memories he'd rather forget – but even if he could forget, he wouldn't allow himself to. He deserved the guilt. He deserved to feel that sickened pang of hurt, just like Hermione did every time she saw them. His mind wandered. Today, Hermione had returned from her first trip to Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's laboratory simmering with a contained excitement, and told Draco in hesitantly hopeful tones that Dubois-Volkov thought she could find a way to remove the scars.