There are no clothes to be found when Hermione automatically turns to put them on, and a little sob chokes out of her throat. Malfoy is sitting on the edge of his bed when she emerges, still in just his trousers – he needs to wash too, she supposes dully – his head sunk in his hands, fingers dragging at fistfuls of his own hair. He looks up when she clears her throat, and his hair is sticking up every which way, and there are tear tracks down his cheeks that he doesn't even try to hide. Her heart suddenly aches. He looks so young and so hurt, the stony mask he puts on in front of the other Death Eaters nowhere to be seen and self-loathing digging under his skin.