"Your precious Potter sanctioned this," he says then, thickly, sounding as sickened as her, strain etched in fine lines and dark shadows around his grey eyes, the bit of fringe falling over his forehead marked by a faint streak of dark blood, another smear on his cheekbone. "This blood is on his hands too. So if you're disgusted by me, then...then you're...he..." Malfoy can't even finish, swallowing hard and breathing short and fast, his eyes darting so intent over her face, as if he is peeling back the layers of her and digging into her brain. Hermione looks away from his needy, wounded eyes, her own slipping back down to his hands, which he holds stiffly at his sides. He looks like a doctor who's been forced into an emergency, last-ditch surgery attempt, and failed.