Draco fidgeted with irritation, lifting his upper lip to reveal a bit of teeth. He was irritated with Snape's insinuation that he hadn't what it took to be a Death Eater—the others had said so as well. But at the same time, Draco didn't want that sort of life—still, it felt like a jab at his competence. His lack of bravery.

Draco picked up the cup, but didn't drink; he didn't know how weak Snape has become since fleeing (he looks a bit badly off), but surely he wouldn't resort to petty poison to off a haggard, tired teenaged boy. Draco knew he was being paranoid, but with the politics of everything, the trauma of the war wearing on him heavily, he couldn't help but be that way.

"Nothing like that has yet come to my attention; likely that if it's true, my mother would try to keep me out of it." Draco's father, however, was another story, which is why Draco fails to mention. "If anyone's put me up to this, it's Potter," he spat.

Then, Draco decided to sip his tea, but he continued glowering across the table at Snape.

"At first I thought that he was giving me the run-around, but I could feel it—I knew he wasn't."