Draco groaned. He didn’t want her to see it. He didn’t want to. He hated the Mark now, hated everything it represented, hated the way he could never, ever be rid of it. Both his arms were ruined, in one way or another. He wished he could erase it from his skin, but that wasn’t an option; it was irremovable, unless he wanted to remove it by chopping off his only remaining arm, and Draco wasn’t quite that desperate. All he could hope for was that if Voldemort was defeated it might fade to some degree, perhaps entirely. He didn’t want Hermione to see it; with the inevitable revulsion and aversion it would evoke in her. Draco wanted Hermione to like him, not be disgusted by him. He didn’t want to show her.