He had seen Hermione looking at it so many times and yet she always skirted around it, and despite what she had said so long ago about not being shallow, Draco had never been sure if she was disgusted, afraid of hurting him, or just plain afraid. It looked alien he knew, and he didn't like touching it – still hadn't adjusted to it, even after so many months. Draco wasn't like Cho Chang, who had seemingly bounced back from losing her leg, taking the injury with cheerful, determined amiability. He still hadn't accepted it. He sipped the firewhiskey, enjoying the way it had slowed his brain and dulled his senses, and offered the bottle to Hermione. She shook her head, curled her right hand around the inside of his elbow, leaning heavily on him; perhaps she was more affected by the firewhiskey than Draco had thought.