Malfoy is shirtless, in low slung pyjama trousers knotted with a drawstring, and his torso is as bruised as hers was several days ago - more bruised if she counts the bruising he'd received several days ago. He is covered in dark flowers of purples, blues, red-blacks, and old yellow-greens, and Hermione is drawn out of the last vestiges of dazed sleep by a pained sympathy. Her breath wrenches in, her gaze sweeping over the lean angles of him. Silver ridges of scar tissue catch both the lamplight and her eyes; old scars striped diagonal across his chest and abdomen, half-buried by all the vivid bruising, along with a sprinkle of other odd, uneven scars. She stares; mapping the old wounds and fresh injuries that crisscross Malfoy's pale skin is a distraction from the memory-thoughts looping harsh and frantic through her head. There are a surprising number of them for someone his age, even given the war.