            The silence stretched thin, and Hermione felt a wash of embarrassment that she was the only one eating, that she was even sitting with a Death Eater in plain view of—well, only a handful of burned-out Ministry workers, but still. What if someone told on her? Was it even against the unspoken rules? Her cheeks flushed hotter, and she set her fork down with a quiet clink. The rain drummed harder against the fake windows, too rhythmic to be real. Before she could speak—before she could think of what to say—Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat. Her eyes shot up to his. "I assume you have a purpose for choosing this seat?" he drawled, with a lazy wave of his fork towards her.