"I know. Believe me, Granger, I know. But I didn't expect to get that luxury for long – and as expected, I haven't." Malfoy dips his quill into an inkpot and resumes his scratchings over the parchment. There is none of the vulnerability she had seen over the past few days visible in him now; he is cold and hard, all bleak determination. His wounded shoulders are hunched, like a barricade against the world, and she can see pain in the way he's keeping very still. Hermione twists her hands together uncertainly and shuffles nearer to him, dread growing inside her, dark and slimy.