"I’m sorry," he said awkwardly, and Hermione didn’t answer, just stretched out her arms and examined the scars there, and the look on her face...Draco couldn’t bear it. He wondered if there was any way he could have spared her, back then – if maybe there could have been a way to convince Aunt Bella not to cut Hermione, but to just use the Cruciatus on her. Fuck, what an incredibly bleak thought. Just the Cruciatus, like that was a good thing. It didn’t make Draco feel any better to know that he would have only gotten himself hurt if he’d tried to dissuade Aunt Bella from marking the mudblood with one of her precious knives. It didn’t help Hermione. It didn’t take that deep sadness out of her eyes.