Hermione never really let Draco touch them – when he brushed his lips against her arm or chest as though he could kiss away the marks she stiffened – she didn't push him away, but she might as well have. When his hand encroached on the scars on her stomach when he was exploring her luscious, naked body, she pulled back and made a small sound of protest. He'd eventually stopped trying to touch them – trying to prove to her that the scars didn't matter, didn't mean anything to him, and didn't mar her in his eyes, because no matter how little he cared, she obviously cared a great deal. He glanced down at his truncated arm now, in the dim silvery light that trickled in the windows. He understood how she felt, all too bloody well.