Everything hurts, for a moment. Everyone hurts, and Hermione hugs herself tight and tries not to cry. She fails. She sits down on the damp bed by Malfoy's hip and lets the sobs shake her shoulders and the tears trace runnels down her cheeks and drip off her jaw. She clutches the firewhiskey bottle pointlessly in one hand and shakes with the force of her grief and hurt. For Malfoy, and for Ron and Harry and the others who she knows must think her dead or worse, and for the dead women in the dungeon, and the people Malfoy has hurt and killed, and – and for herself.