Only now he could see the scars Aunt Bella had left; exposed on her chest and her flopped-out arm. They looked wrong on her skin, made Draco duck his head and remember. He wanted to crawl onto the bed and wake her with a touch, a whisper of her name in her ear – if he could find her ears beneath her mass of hair – and then kiss the scars, lave them with his tongue as if that could wash them away. He wanted desperately to apologise for not doing what wouldn’t have helped anyway. To whisper his remorse against her skin and feel her fingers weave through his hair, and her body push up into his, and his mouth to go from her scars to her...