"I don't understand." Draco looked up from his bottle and examined Hermione as if he'd find the answers in her paled face, or in the tense, almost brittle way that she sat, or in the way her nails picked compulsively at the firewhiskey label. But all Draco saw was a teenage girl – woman, really, by both wizarding and Muggle standards – who was wearier than should be allowed, brown eyes dull and hurt, nails bitten raggedly, an odd pleading in the way she stared into his eyes. She sighed.