As he talks, her eyes are on the exposed part of his wrist and arm, expression growing grim. A father that would do that to their son is not a father, in her opinion, and she finds it hard to fathom that any person would be able to do that to a family member. She has seen a great deal of cruelty in the year before waking up on-ship, and she knows the scope of human savagery, the level to which Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters had been brought, but a man hurting his own son--she wouldn't imagine this, even from Lucius Malfoy himself.

Gently, she touches a cigarette burn--it looks like a wand burn, to her--her finger tracing it carefully, her thumb landing on a line with remnants of what look, to her, like sewing stitches, a thought that horrifies her. Knowing nothing of Muggle medicine, she doesn't know about stitches and their use for holding large cuts together, so she assumes that the stitches were another way for his father to hurt him, her eyes clouding with an odd type of anger, accompanied by a misty, glassy shine the belies the tears of frustration and sorrow she is withholding, eyebrows knitting together.

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly, her heart heavy enough that she feels its weight in her stomach.