"I don't," Draco grated out, squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he saw bursts of light on his eyelids, feeling the tendons in his arm shift under Hermione's hand as he tensed involuntarily. Everything felt too sharp, too cutting; everything she was saying was too fucking accurate, and Draco didn't want to feel those things. He was a Slytherin. Cunning, sensible, ruthless – not some noble, blunt, open Gryffindor like she was.