"It's not up to me, Granger," he says harshly, the blankness on his face breaking into defensive anger, and a hint of hurt. "It's not – if it were up to me you wouldn't have to do anything you didn't fucking well want to. But it's not. If the Dark Lord tells me to bring you to a revel and – and use th-those..." Malfoy stutters to a halt, and rubs a hand over his brow, head bowed and shoulders slumped, other hand using the desk as a prop. He is pallid and his eyes are sick, his mouth is all twisted and shaped with anger and revulsion. "Then I will, if it is the only way to keep us both alive. Whether you like it or not." He pauses after saying that – freezes a moment – and then swears harsh and angry under his breath and turns away sharply, muttering something that Hermione can't make out as she stares at him, arms hugging herself tight. His shoulders flex and hunch, his back to her, and his hands sweep up through his hair in frantic little motions.