"...W-will he...?" she asks in a tiny little voice, thinking of what could be to come, and terrified despite her best attempts to be brave. Malfoy knows what she means. He carefully reaches down, clearly telegraphing his intentions, and tries to wriggle up her jeans with a shrug at her question. He seems brittle right now, as if he will snap if someone bends him too far. There is no give; he is a knife blade and she does not know if that is what they need right now. But as before, Malfoy is her only hope. And for the second time, he has risked his life to save her. She buttons her jeans with fumbling, clumsy fingers, and then turns her swollen face into his chest, clutching at his shirt and breathing into him. He smells like somewhere warm and good, somewhere not here.