Hermione's body was snuggled warm against his, her hair whipping loosely in the wind, like little banners flailing over his chest and neck, and her fingers had crept nervously until they nearly encircled his stump and Draco's eyes kept flicking down to the sight. It was disturbing and painful; the contrast of her perfect hand wrapped around his mutilation, but it also sent an unexpected, unhoped for feeling of acceptance worming through him. It didn't disgust her too terribly then; he had always wondered.