She felt unaccountably nervous herself now, too – infected by his nerves she supposed, but she slipped her hand into his and let him brace his maimed forearm against her waist, and they danced. A shock and a thrill ran through her as they began – Ron might not be capable of sweeping his partner around the dance floor, but Draco certainly was. His steps were sure and graceful, guiding her with him, not allowing her to misstep or make a fool of herself, and she felt almost like a princess in his arms. Hermione stared up at Draco, at the faint, tight smile on his lips and the way his pale hair fell over his forehead, and the thin, pointed angles of his face, and her heart swelled, ached.