This all-consuming dark is conducive to letting his mind wander, and Draco finds himself leafing through memories like they are pages in the book of his life. Seeing them play out behind his eyelids like Muggle movies. Some of them are good, and some of them are bad. Tonight – this morning? this afternoon? this evening? – he keeps thinking about the bad ones. It is a punishment of a sort, to lie here with Hermione's cold, limp hand in his, and think about all the times he has hurt her. He can think of so many. So many. Right from the very first mudblood thrown at her, most of his interactions with her have been cruel, designed to hurt her, designed to punish her for what she was. What she still is.