"H-how long?" she croaks, her hand creeping out and latching onto his wrist. He is warm and real, not a product of her imagination but really, truly here, and she keeps a tight hold of him, fingers scrabbling for an even tighter grip as though she's afraid he'll vanish if she lets go. His brows crease together with concern that is at odds with how her mind's eye still thinks Malfoy should appear – he looks old and tired and filled with painful sympathy, and not at all like the boy she had known, once. He twists his wrist gently free of her death grip, and she makes an involuntary sound of loss before he sinks properly onto his knees and shuffles closer to her, grasping her hand in his so that their fingers interlink. It's heavenly, to feel someone else – someone safe – touch her, and she basks in the comfort of human touch.