Sometime later, two bottles of firewhiskey sat unopened on the rickety table in Draco’s small, screened off corner of the cellar, the third bottle open and nearly half-empty. Draco was holding a half-full glass of the firewhiskey, elbows on the table as he tried to tune out the talk between Karkaroff and his escorts; at least they weren’t talking in English. It made it easier to ignore them when he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Draco took a sip from the glass, wheezing as the cheap liquor scorched raw down his throat.