Hermione twisted, and twisted, and twisted the sheets between her fingers. Whether trying to erase the memory of the feel of him from between the ridges of her finger prints or to sear the reminder of the warm and satiny slide of his skin against hers into her sense of touch, she didn’t know. Either way, the simmering fear and anger and hurt grew like a melon in her gut as she watched Draco dress at the foot of her bed.