A/N: A little vignette. I'm afraid it's not that good. It doesn't even make any sense. Whatever. I don't own Harry Potty and Co.
"I'll only ask you one more time, Miss Granger: How did this happen?"
Chocolate brown eyes glared back at him, bubbling with soft annoyance. "I told you: it was an accident. I dropped my hand mirror in the sink and the pieces dug into my skin; that's all."
He lay a fiery gaze to her bandaged wrists. The skin all around the bandages was red and irritated. Through the white gauze, a small, telltale hint of pink was showing through.
Hermione looked down at it as well, realizing immediately what he was getting at. She sighed.
"Please," she said, sounding tired. "If I had been doing what you think I was, I would have come up with a more likely story. Surely you would know that. I mean, you don't call me 'insufferable know-it-all' for nothing, do you?"
Nostrils flared in something that could have been anger, but was kept stiff and silent. He searched her words for the lie, the one that he was so sure he would find. She didn't break his gaze, a Gryffindor through and through, her young face of open and arrogant innocence. How impertinent.
Yet he found that, for all his snide witticism, he had nothing more to say to her.
"Very well, Miss Granger. You may leave."
Loafer's pivoted, smart shine of no-nonsense, know-it-all shoes making for the quickest escape. A few short strides and she was at the door.
From behind her, he called quietly.
"And keep your clumsiness to a minimum. I do not allow leeway for such . . . accidents."