Hermione seems startled when Herian approached her, jarred out of her thoughts and also surprised that someone she'd barely spoken to had been the first to try and comfort her. But the others are clearly occupied with something much more important, and until she can fight back the urge to be sick all over the floor, she won't be much use to anybody. So she accepts the offered handkerchief with a nod of thanks that looks more akin to a tremor, holding it close to her but not covering her mouth and nose with it just yet.

Unlike Kirk, Hermione doesn't piece together the question about the red liquid. She'd heard of red lyrium, had been told about its connection to those creatures she'd seen with the Red Templars far too frequently, but it still doesn't come together for her. This is a child. No one would do such a thing to a child, surely. There's simply no feasible benefit to it.

But for once, she bites her tongue and doesn't ask questions. Now isn't the time for it. There are enough people here surrounding the poor thing, confusing him, frightening him, and as much as Hermione would like to try and comfort him, any attempt would probably have the opposite effect. She almost wishes there was a rift to close nearby; at least then she'd feel a bit more useful.