"Look what I've got," Hermione announced, producing a large square box from her trunk with a flourish. Draco groaned, but he was smiling despite himself. He'd been doing that so often in the past few days – smiling, that was – that he'd accused Hermione of deviously slipping a potion in his food. Which incidentally was still restricted to a steady diet of fucking broth. Broth for breakfast, broth for lunch, broth for dinner... Draco was surprised it wasn't leaking out his bloody ears. Hermione and Sylvan insisted it was healthful and necessary, and Draco insisted that it was barely palatable muck, and that furthermore he was not an infant, and could manage to chew perfectly well, thank you very fucking much. They had given him identical condescending looks, and Hermione had patted him on the hand.