"That's mine," Draco said stupidly and stepped quickly forward and snatched it from her, sat down heavily on the bed – he thought he might need to be sitting – and took a drink – he thought he might need that too. The firewhiskey was, like its name, liquid heat searing down his throat and filling him with a strange, knife-edge thrill; his nerves were strung thin and wire taut, and the liquor was an old familiar friend that he shouldn't be associating with anymore, but by Merlin was it good. No sooner had he lowered the bottle from his lips than Pansy grabbed it back with thin, pale fingers, looking a caricature of her old, snooty self.