"She didn't want to be, Hermione," Draco managed at last, mouth working as he tried to hold back his emotion, clinging tight to the firewhiskey bottle – he wasn't going to waste another one, no matter how much he wanted to fling something and watch it smash to smithereens. He couldn't say the words outright to her, and Merlin, if she didn't understand didn't want to be then he was going to go spare, and utterly lose it on her. He stared out into the back garden; dulled, all greens and greys with the occasional splotch of colour that looked faded under the dismal sky. The air was cool, and the firewhiskey was hot in his stomach. He heard Hermione make a horrified sound of understanding. And then a hand tugged at the bottle and Draco let it go, watching with bitter humour as Hermione brought the firewhiskey to her lips and spluttered as it burnt its way down.