"Draco..." She could do it. He didn’t need to get frustrated – she could do it. She wanted to say it but she bit her tongue. Hermione knew through the haze of lust fizzing in her brain that the fact that she could do it for him didn’t matter – Draco wanted to be able to do it himself. Empathy welled up in her; he could never get away from the disadvantages of losing his hand, nor, no doubt, the memories that went along with the wound. Even now, during this – when things should be easy and thoughtless and good not some stupid struggle – Draco couldn’t do what he wanted to. Couldn’t forget.