She knows a few things about scars herself. The ones left behind from Dolohov's curse are hidden by the nightshift she's wearing, but she has not worn her long sleeves here. On her forearm, on the inside, if he were to glance her way at all, he may spot it.

The scar is there, written clearly with a cursed dagger. Mudblood. She's sure Bellatrix would've added another choice word or two if she'd had more time for torture.

Hermione doesn't like to look at it, just like she doesn't much like to look at herself lately, but it's one thing to be upset about her own body and another to tolerate a dear friend to live under the impression that his scars are shameful.

"You've nothing to feel ashamed of," she murmurs, and with a little blush and fluster, changes the subject: "Do these feel like they have healing properties to you?"