Panic thuds in his chest. Draco's grip tightens on his quill, and he schools his face into a bored expression before he looks up at her. Her honey eyes narrow at him, and he wonders if she can smell the evidence on him, if she can glean his secret from the set of his shoulders or the flush of his cheeks. If she's really so clever, can she sense his guilt? He's a thief and a glutton, and he regrets none of it. "Why should I know where your scarf is?"