Hermione’s giddy relief is contagious, and that brief pall over Astrid’s mood soon clears as she automatically turns at that touch on her arm, a smile echoing back. The grab is companionable, comfortable; maybe a very large part of Astrid misses that time in her life when she could easily seize a friend’s hand or collapse into giggles half-leaning on them, because she reaches out and pats Hermione’s upper arm in turn. Welcoming it. Trying to banish that sheepishness.

“I’m shit at that sort of thing,” she admits, turning to start the walk back to the safehouse, her hand slipping down to tug the girl along, “but you thought quick on your feet. Definitely shows I needed someone with me, ‘cos my first idea would’ve been just going in and smashing a tankard on his head and dragging him out unconscious. Which probably works but isn’t discreet, like—”