Malfoy glanced uncertainly over at Hermione, and then reached for the fork. With his right hand. The stump of his wrist stuck out over the table, and he looked down at it for a second, as if he was surprised by its scarred presence. As if he had forgotten he had it, which he obviously had. Hermione winced as she saw his face cycle through a series of emotions; brief shock, then hurt, despair, anger. Malfoy’s eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, his jaw clenched and pale complexion draining further of colour. He swore, and his face crumpled as he tucked his arm quickly away out of sight again. But Hermione had already seen it; better than she had seen it before. It was just a normal arm, except that it ended abruptly where it should have matched the other limb; his bony wrist, and elegant, long-fingered hand.