"If you don't eat, you'll die," he snaps then, and Hermione peeks up at him, nervous and alert; he is flushed with his anger and haggard from exhaustion, his fists bunching at his sides. Her eyes linger on his fists with instinctive hints of fear stirring and curling sick in her belly; he hasn't laid a finger on her except to deal with her injuries since it happened, but a primal part of her must remember. She flinches when he moves too quickly around her, and when he displays anything but calm her heart becomes a stampede in her chest, and fear-sweat chills her skin. Malfoy follows the line of her vision, and he makes a sharp, apologetic sound and his hands fly open. Splaying large and long-fingered, skinny, the knuckles on his right hand bruised and patterned with little nicks and cuts from when he had broken the bathroom mirror and never healed himself.