Hermione opened her eyes and stared at the old injuries, her fingers scant inches from his stomach. The story these scars told was of a situation essentially the same as hers, except it hadn’t been an old enemy standing there and refusing to help. It had been his parents. Like she was in a trance, Hermione’s fingertips barely touched the ridged scars, traced over them ever so lightly. The ridged swirls were uneven, thin, and the scar tissue felt strange under her feather touch. Draco mumbled and shifted his maimed arm so that it half-covered the scars, and Hermione snatched her hand back just in time, fingers curling up into her palm, heart thudding frantically in her chest.