Draco’s hand touched her shoulder lightly, and Hermione jerked her head up and recoiled from him, her eyes wide and her hands up to push him away. Grief and guilt shaped Draco’s features, and he pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers by his side, and Hermione couldn’t pull her eyes from it. His long, elegant fingers and the smooth, soft skin of his palm made his hand look designed for delicate, precision work, not brute force – and yet it was deceptively strong. Obviously. Hermione touched her throat again, eyes sliding down to her feet, her bright socks dark in the small, dim room. It had hurt, the way Draco had choked her and hated her, and yet a part of Hermione had relished the feelings he had provoked.