She murmured something in her sleep again, and a tenderness that half-frightened Draco filled him as he stared down at her. So peaceful in her sleep. So soft and gentle and pure. Draco leaned down, plucking a lock of hair draped across her mouth and nose off her face, and she pursed her lips and mumbled something incoherent; her hand rose in the air and then fell back to the pillow by her head. She deserved to have Bellatrix's marks erased from her skin – she wasn't like him. Her outsides may have been damaged by the war, she may have been emotionally battered and bruised, but who she was inside was still everything pure and noble and all the best parts of Gryffindor. Not like Draco. No, he was marked inside and out.