"I know," she whispers, but she doesn't sound very certain to her own ears, even though she is pretty sure she is. But it's been a long...week? She doesn't even know how much time has passed; it has been days of trying to care for the women who she shares the cell with, who are slowly dying around her; feeding them and giving them water, and trying to comfort them. Hiding from the guards. Existing on a glass or two of water a day, and one bowl of thin stew. The stench from the rotting pile of corpses constantly filling the air. Being afraid that Malfoy was never going to come back... Hermione isn't sure of anything anymore. She wants to both shrink from Malfoy and cling to him at once, and she settles for standing frozen in his grasp, his arm around her waist and his hand hooked around her thigh. Every point of contact is both too much and not enough. He is threat and comfort, and she just wants to go home. She licks her lips. "You didn't come back. For so – so long. I thought..."