"It doesn't concern you, Granger. Why do you care?" he asks her through lips that seem numb, the words dispassionate but nearly slurred at the edges, and his grey eyes are as shiny and flat as sickles. "What is it to you?" And there is some emotion – the slightest hint of disdain for her. It's like a slap to the face. Hermione falls back from him, forgetting her greasy hands on the bed-covers as she shoves herself to her feet, her pulse a thundering stampede, and her chest constricting hard, angry and hurt seizing her roughly.