So Hermione takes the wand. Takes it and directs Malfoy silently to sit down on the bed, and with supplies in hand folds herself up behind him on her knees, fingers working at his bandage fastenings nimbly. She changes his bandages with sure, efficient movements that speak of too much practice. His skin is scabbing and wounded under her gentle fingers, little moans of pain bursting stifled from his lips as she carefully soaks and peels the bandages away. When she has finally finished unwinding his torso, she places her hand on the ball of his shoulder and squeezes softly, automatic and easy. "All done unwrapping," she says lightly, surveying the damage and internally flinching from the gruesome brutality of it. His back will never be the same again without extensive treatment from professional specialist Healers; the once smooth, pale expanse of skin is now terribly marred. A quilt of ugly scabbing is developing over the deep, vivid weals that had gone down to the spare fat and muscle beneath his flesh. She wonders whether Malfoy cares about the massive amount of scarring. She would care, but Malfoy hasn't mentioned the aesthetic damage, hasn't asked once how it looks.