"If you want," he said, trying for indifference and just sounding young and uncertain and dreadfully lonely. Hermione would never have thought Draco Malfoy, a prig of the first order, was capable of seeming so normal. Of behaving and feeling just like any other teenage boy in his situation would; lonely and scared, friendless and traumatised. Not that he’d ever admit to that, she knew. Hermione nodded, the matter settled, and looked around for something to sit on. In the end she just plonked down on the floor with legs folded up under her, pulling her jersey sleeves down over her hands and tucking them in her lap as a draught nipped at her and made her shiver.