"Keep it," he said gently, when she hesitated. It was only a handkerchief; he wasn't worried about its return.
Draco leaned forward, elbows on the table, idly turning his glass as it slid in the damp condensation on the wood tabletop. "There are no clear answers, which is why it is all the more important that you do not have to do this alone. You three are hardly miracle workers. You were lucky, and in many ways, all of us who survived that time were lucky. At any moment, things could have changed. You could have been left like the Longbottoms." His tone was flat; he was all too aware that Bellatrix could have done so. Bellatrix had certainly told him enough times exactly what she could do to Hermione, and why she kept the girl alive. Jaw tight, Draco shook off those memories. It was the past, and it was not the war they fought now. Bellatrix was gone, and he doubted anyone could be as mad as her.