For a moment, Draco had been grateful to Granger for giving a fuck about him. He had quashed the feeling quickly. But how fucking far had Draco fallen, that he, a Malfoy, a pureblood, had been grovelingly grateful for Granger’s sympathy? He had recovered his distance from her by telling her about how he had lost his fingers, trying to enjoy the hurt and guilt in her eyes. It hadn’t been as satisfying as he’d thought it would be. He couldn’t take pleasure in hurting people now. He had seen too much suffering caused to others – had experienced too much himself – and now, beneath his pale attempts to act like his old self, Draco mostly just felt tired, broken, sick of it all.