She had put her fingers on it and felt the writhing darkness that slithered through the magical tattoo. She still couldn’t believe she had done that; that she had somehow gotten the nerve to ask to see it and touch it. But she was glad she had. It had made Hermione realise that it didn’t define him. It was just a scar – more horrible than other peoples’ scars perhaps, but still just a scar. It had no power unless Draco wished to give it power. And Hermione trusted him not to do that. She trusted him. The thought was such a strange one.