"You haven't fixed the mirror," Hermione whispers, staring down into her lap as she turns the wand over and over in her hands. It's a stupid excuse and she knows it; she is far too thin, it's obvious even to her. The clothes Malfoy has given her hang off her now, and her bones poke out sharp against her ashen, papery skin. But she's just...not hungry. The sympathy on his face hurts. It's too tender, too kind, too sad. Draco Malfoy isn't supposed to care about her wellbeing. It only makes her angry right now.