And Malfoy stands there with his eyes boring into hers, and he waits, and he waits for her to speak, and Hermione says nothing. There is nothing that she can say. Nothing that will erase the horror and make it okay, because it isn't, and it never will be. Hermione does not believe in the greater good. She closes her mouth, her eyes snapping from his to stare unfocused past his left ear. She sees enough, though. Malfoy's bloodied fists clench, and droplets splot viscous and dark on the floor, and his mouth twists and his face twitches. He limps away stiff and furious, and the bathroom door slams behind him hard enough to rattle all the pictures on the walls.