"Hi. I brought food," he says tentatively, holding up the tray as he pries off his boots and leaves them in a jumble by the door. He's in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the fine knit woollen sweater he'd worn that morning gone, a trace of blood on the collar of his white shirt hinting at why he might have ditched the sweater. Hermione gulps, feeling a little sick. Blood could be notoriously difficult to get out of wool with scourgifies – it took a proper Muggle-style wash.