Ginny picks up the jug.
Hermione gulps, watching the puddle spread, and then lets out a strangled little sob, and then it's all over. No tears come, her face is mostly dry, but it's like a dragon sat on her chest, all tight and red hot and compressed. She puts hands over her mouth, clutches at her face, digs her nails into her palms to try and relax.
Her breathing hitches, and wounded little sounds come out of the back of Hermione's throat, one after another. Somewhere from far away, Ginny is mumbling about how it's just milk, and she's already cleaned it up, don't worry, everything is fine now, but Hermione really can't hear it. She presses her fingertips together, and squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to think of nothing, to focus on nothing, but it doesn't work.
Ginny holds the jug in her palms, and feels inadequate to Hermione's loss.