"Go on then," she whispers, her throat thick and clogged with emotion she can't decipher, and watches him as he goes to each of the three women remaining. Malfoy speaks to them softly, crouched at their sides, soothing their bewildered fear when they see him and expect pain. His hair falls over his face, shining pale by the dull torchlight that burns down the hallway, and his hand reaches out to them, offering small, brief comfort in tentative touches to shoulder, or hand. Then he holds the bottle to their lips, and makes sure that they each drink deep, before helping them lie down again on the cold floor. He goes slowly to each woman, patiently repeating the process with each one, and Hermione watches, taking in every detail with tired but fascinated eyes. He squeezes one's hand, and presses his hand to another's cheek, and she can hear his whispers, soft and kind. And when he comes to sit back down by Hermione, his features are strained and engraved with a sickened sort of sadness.