"You – you could come with me," she offers stupidly, lilting, hopeful tone like a child's, and he makes a soft noise that could be a huff of laughter, bitter, but not aimed to hurt her, and it doesn't. It just makes her sadder. She stares at him in profile, all lit up green now. Slytherin. His face is sharp and sad, and there is a set to his jaw – a bunching of the muscles there, a measured swallow – that speaks of a grim determination that Hermione has seen in Harry and Ron. That they claim to have seen in her. A sense of duty in the face of unspeakable awfulness. He shuts his eyes for the count of ten, because she counts in her drunken fuddle – and when he opens them again he still doesn't look at her.