In the much-needed silence, Draco removes the washcloth, and brushes back the wet curls off her forehead. With a clean cloth, he softly wipes down her face, brushing away the beads of sweat that hang suspended above her lip, that trickle down her neck. He does the same for her arms, passing the cloth over flowering bruises and fresh scrapes. Her arms weigh next to nothing when he lifts them to wipe their underside—like he’s handling bones.