But Draco finds Hermione's fingers in the dark and curls his around them, and remembers the way the slim digits had twined in her lap as she had stared at him surreptitiously while he'd eaten that day – trying to be sneaky but failing miserably. He had thought at the time that she was just staring at his stump, and he had been angry, uncomfortable, all mixed up with that horrible, unwelcome gratitude. And he'd hated her when she had asked him what happened, to maim him. He had lashed out, and so had she, and the poison of old hate and fresh anger had hung thick in the damp cellar air. But she had been distressed as well as angry, and in the end he hadn't wanted her to go.