He is silent for a long moment, rake-thin in the white cotton tee shirt that is washed in the dying light, just like his face, and the fire set in his eye, and Hermione forces herself to gulp down some of her firewhiskey rather than keep pleading ever more frantically. It burns down her throat and kindles a fire in the pit of her stomach, and sets her eyes to watering. She blinks hard, staring at him through a haze of waviness, waiting. There is no point in pleading any further – Malfoy is stubborn, like her, and either he will come with her, or he won't, but begging won't help. Or so she tries to tell herself. She doesn't want him to die for her, or even to be hurt for her. Not again.