"It's just a servant," Malfoy mutters as the woman rushes past, but that doesn't ease Hermione's panicked breathing. She reaches out and clutches onto Malfoy's hand tightly, purposely digging her ragged nails into his palm hard enough to bruise, and he winces but doesn't say a word about it. "We're nearly there," is all he says, quiet and hoarse, as she follows close behind and beside him, her hand clinging in his. She doesn't answer, and they go the rest of the way through the corridors in a taut, strained silence, hands snugged hot and sweaty together, his shirt warm and wet with blood around her shoulders.