Damned Spot
Blood was everywhere. It clung to her, the sheets, to His clothes. The coppery smell of it hung in the air making her want to gag on the very smell of it. He had returned in the worst shape He had ever been in. Voldemort had found a hint of remorse inside of him at the death of the Woman. She looked like you.
He had been whipped, stabbed, Crucio'd, several of his finger were broken, along with ribs, and the list kept growing with each diagnostic spell she cast. Hermione was amazed that He had even managed to apparate here without splinching Himself. It had taken her a good portion of the day to completely heal Him. Now He slept on the spoiled, blood-soaked sheets.
She looked like you.
Hermione looked down at her hands. His blood caked them, clung to them, stained them. Promise me.
They always looked red to her after that. He told her they were as pale as usual. As white as the driven snow. She never mentioned it again and did her very best to ignore the sight of the red splotches that never seemed to come off no matter how hard she scrubbed.