"Mademoiselle," he muttered in return, automatically flipping to the French he'd been taught as a child, accented with clearly English influence. His own voice was only ruined partially from coughing; he'd found an entire quart of water in his backpack, slung tight across his shoulders. In his delusions, he saw that outstretched hand as a potential threat, the loaf of bread a potential weapon. Draco moved quickly when he realised she was reaching out to him, glad his Quidditch training hadn't failed him yet, sliding behind her in a few smooth steps: one arm moved around her torso, keeping her arms from fighting back - he didn't trust her, obviously - his other hand moving to press the edge of the blade to her throat.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked, voice a dropped hiss.