            "Lucius, I’m sorry," Hermione whispered into the quiet, her fingertip stilling against the concrete. She remembered Lucius carving it into arm so vividly, she could  smell the sharp, metallic scent of his blood seeping from his rune. Could see the blood trickling down to his Dark Mark, his pale skin broken and red—it had remained that way for so long, when she had refused to fully heal the wound afterwards.