Hermione passed it back to Draco, and her arm linked through his, elbows hooked together, her fingers stroking over his forearm just above where the fading scarring of the stump began. He stared at Hermione's fingers, light and gentle over the skin, which was half numbed by nerve damage so that he could see her touching him but the feel of it was like a far off echo. The sensation was soothing though, smoothing over the spiky edges of his turmoil. She shuffled even closer so that she was snugged against his side, laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. Draco drank silently, staring out at the tree at the end of the garden, branches bending gently in the wind, in no hurry to talk. Her touch was the faintest whisper and the firewhiskey was slipping through him, hot and unwinding some of the worst tension. The only sound was her breathing, and the wind rustling tree leaves and whistling over the chimney.