            After some deliberation, she decided to remove the signs of the traumatic trip from England—with her hands, instead of the magic. Just to remind herself that he was still here, still breathing. Perched on the edge of the bed, Hermione leaned over and set to work on his shirt. The buttons pulled apart easily, the shirt peeling open to reveal a stripe of shining skin. Slowly, she eased off the sleeves, marveling at his bare arms, the fine-boned clavicle and chest covered in a dusting of pale hair she had never seen before. Never touched. She allowed herself only a few brushes, fingers gliding down his sternum, over the drumming of his heart.